“I COME from Rome,” said the Moon. “In the midst of the city, upon one of the seven hills, lie the ruins of the imperial palace. The wild fig¹ tree grows in the clefts² of the wall, and covers the nakedness thereof with its broad grey-green leaves; trampling³ among heaps of rubbish, the ass⁴ treads upon green laurels⁵, and rejoices over the rank thistles. From this spot, whence the eagles of Rome once flew abroad, whence they ‘came, saw, and conquered,’ our door leads into a little mean house, built of clay between two pillars; the wild vine hangs like a mourning garland over the crooked⁶ window. An old woman and her little granddaughter live there: they rule now in the palace of the Caesars, and show to strangers the remains⁷ of its past glories. Of the splendid throne-hall only a naked wall yet stands, and a black cypress⁸ throws its dark shadow on the spot where the throne once stood. The dust lies several feet deep on the broken pavement; and the little maiden⁹, now the daughter of the imperial palace, often sits there on her stool when the evening bells ring. The keyhole of the door close by she calls her turret¹⁰ window; through this she can see half Rome, as far as the mighty¹¹ cupola of St. Peter’s.

“On this evening, as usual, stillness reigned¹² around; and in the full beam of my light came the little granddaughter. On her head she carried an earthen pitcher¹³ of antique shape filled with water. Her feet were bare, her short frock and her white sleeves were torn. I kissed her pretty round shoulders, her dark eyes, and black shining hair. She mounted the stairs; they were steep, having been made up of rough blocks of broken marble and the capital of a fallen pillar. The coloured lizards¹⁴ slipped away, startled, from before her feet, but she was not frightened at them. Already she lifted her hand to pull the door-bell—a hare’s foot fastened to a string formed the bell-handle of the imperial palace. She paused for a moment—of what might she be thinking? Perhaps of the beautiful Christ-child, dressed in gold and silver, which was down below in the chapel¹⁵, where the silver candlesticks gleamed so bright, and where her little friends sung the hymns¹⁶ in which she also could join? I know not. Presently she moved again—she stumbled: the earthen vessel¹⁷ fell from her head, and broke on the marble steps. She burst into tears. The beautiful daughter of the imperial palace wept over the worthless broken pitcher; with her bare feet she stood there weeping; and dared not pull the string, the bell-rope of the imperial palace!”