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ARIADNE. 77waters, and here and there maybe a solitary sail,catching thelight and shininghke a silver shieldamidst the reedy shallows.Then, after Trasimene come the wild boldgorges of the Sabine mountains;wooded scarps,bold headlands,greatbreadths of stunted brushwood,with brooks that tumble through it; rocksthat glow in the sun with the deep colours of allthe marbles that earth makes;deep ravines,inwhich the new-born Tiber runs at will; andabove these the broad blue sky, aud late in theclay the burning gold of a stormy sunset shiningout of pearlymists that wreath the lower hills;then the wide level greenplains,misty and full ofshadows in the twilight, white villages hungalofton mountain edgeshke the nests of eagles;thena pause in the green fields,where once the buriedvestals wereleft alone in the bowels of the earth,with the single loaf and the pitcher of water, toface the endless night ofeternity;then "Roma,"says some voice as quietly as though the motherof mankind were only a wayside hamlet wherethe mules should stop and drink.Aye, there is no highway like it, wander the