On the contrary, he adds three
more chapters. His fine tact warned him that the tumult and thunder of
the final ruin must not be the last sounds to strike the ear. A
resolution of the discord was needed; a soft chorale should follow the
din and lead to a mellow _adagio_ close. And this he does with supreme
skill. With ill-suppressed disgust, he turns from New to Old Home.
"Constantinople no longer appertains to the Roman historian--nor shall
I enumerate the civil and religious edifices that were profaned or
erected by its Turkish masters." Amid the decayed temples and
mutilated beauty of the Eternal City, he moves down to a melodious and
pathetic conclusion--piously visits the remaining fragments of ancient
splendour and art, deplores and describes the ravages wrought by time,
and still more by man, and recurring once again to the scene of his
first inspiration, bids farewell to the Roman empire among the ruins
of the Capitol.
We have hitherto spoken in terms of warm, though perhaps not excessive
eulogy of this great work. But praise would lack the force of
moderation and equipoise, if allusion were not made to some of its
defects.
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