"It in a rude and a neglected spot. At one end rises a rock crowned with houses; on one side are a few mean edifices, mingled with masses of tottering ruins; on the other a hill formed altogether of crumbled atoms of bricks, mortar, and precious marbles. In the midst are a few rough columns blackened by time and exposure. The soil is deep, and in places there are pits where excavations have been made. Rubbish lies around; bits of straw, and grass, and hay, and decayed leather, and broken bottles, and old bones. A few dirty shepherds pass along, driving lean and miserable sheep. Further up is a cluster of wine-carts, with still more curious horses and drivers.
"What is this place?--what those ruins, these fallen monuments, these hoary arches, these ivy-covered walls? What? This is--
"'The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood;
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled,
From the first hour of Empire in the bud
To that when further worlds to conquer failed;
The Forum where the immortal accents glow,
And still the eloquent air breathes, burns with Cicero!'
"Yet if you go up to one of those people and ask this Question, he will answer you and tell you the only name, he knows--The Cow Market!'"
"Is that all?" inquired Buttons, as Dick laid down his paper.