the box of the priest who awaits them at the top, then walk off with easy consciences.

One man who was going up as I entered had done too much sitting down. There were two large holes in the rear of his breeches. The position he occupied-on hands and knees— stretched that garment, and rendered glaringly apparent the two windows in the rear. This comical sight, added to the colicky groans with which he punctuated his kisses, was too much for my gravity. I smiled and would have laughed outright had not a pious priest frozen me with an indignant look. I rushed away lest my risible propensities should prove too much, and I should shock pious souls by peals of laughter.

There is a very cosey and tidy little restaurant on the Piazza of the Pantheon. It was my custom when anywhere in that vicinity to dine there, and pass half an hour or so after dinner gazing at the Pantheon and deciphering its inscriptions. In the little street to the rear of the Pantheon, where it is joined by the Thermæ of Agrippa, lives a jolly, fat-faced Italian, a hat presser or ironer. He was born in the room where he presses hats, has lived there ever since, and will probably die there.

"Yes, signore," he said, after I had stopped before his shop every day for a week or more, to gaze at the venerable walls of that Roman building-" yes, signore, it seems strange to me. People come from every land. They stop before my shop. They stare, they talk, they write in little books. Sometimes two or three years go by, then I see the same people again. They look and stare just the same. Ah, I know them—I remember you when you come back, maybe ten years from now. I see so many-they waste so much time. The wall is old? Santa Maria! it is old, very old-what then? I not understand -seem to me American, Inglese, wrong here," and the mystified Italian tapped his forehead and resumed his ironing.

There was one American whom my friend the hat-presser should have seen. I met him in the vestibule of the Pantheon, and attempted to awaken in him some enthusiasm over those

massive bronze doors-those doors which have withstood the ravages of Time and Man, and remain to-day as solid and sound as the day they were first swung on their hinges nineteen centuries ago.

"Pshaw," said the American, "they ain't much-ain't anything to compare with the doors of the Capitol at Washington."

The Capitol at Washington was his criterion for all that was grand or beautiful in the way of architecture. When he saw

St. Peter's he smiled contemptuously.

"Brag about that dome?" he said, "why, it can't hold a candle to the dome at Washington."

One of the celebrities of Rome is "Il Santo Bambino". the Holy Child. It is kept in the church of St. Maria in Aracoeli, on the Capitoline Hill, and may be visited only by conforming to a number of peculiar ceremonies. After conducting me into a mysterious-looking chapel, the monk got on his knees and unburdened himself of a long Latin prayer. Then proceeding to the altar, he took out a large iron key, turned it in the lock, the iron door over the altar flew open. Pressing a spring caused a box to slowly roll out from the recess behind the iron doors. In this box, swathed in the costliest satins and silks, covered with diamonds and rubies and pearls, lay Il Santo Bambino-a wooden doll made of cedar from Mount Lebanon. It is many centuries old, and is believed by all good Catholics to possess the power of healing the sick. When it is carried through the streets of Rome on its way to the houses of the sick, passers-by kneel on its approach, and mutter prayers for the success of its mission.

Meeting a New England lady in St. Peter's one day, I mentioned the Holy Bambino, and told her she should not fail to sce it.

"What!" exclaimed the lady from New England, "Holy Child? I will not countenance such superstition by going to see it."

She added that she thought it a sin to come to see St.

Peter's. She had committed that sin, but wished now she hadn't; at any rate, she would not commit another sin by going to see the Holy Bambino.

"Why, then, are you in Rome, madame?"

"Certainly not to visit the Catholic churches and other works of superstition," she replied. "I am spending the winter here to study the old ruins, the Forum, the Colosseum-" "But are you not aware that these also are the results of superstition ?"

"Yes," was the answer; "but, you know, Pagans had no light. There is not that excuse for Christians."

I met this New England lady a few days afterwards in the Vatican. Did she think that grand edifice the result of "no light?" or was she growing charitable to darkness?

St. Peter's, on Sunday mornings, is filled with priests and peasants. The priests officiate first at one altar, then, followed by a gay and picturesque crowd, they proceed to another altar in another part of the vast edifice, and swing their censers and chant again their solemn masses. The eleven confessional boxes, for as many different languages, are all occupied by father confessors. A long, slim rod sticks out of the door of each confessional. The penitent kneels in front of the box, the priest taps him on the head with his rod, and he arises with a light heart and clear conscience to kiss St. Peter's toe near by. Kisses have worn the toe smooth; enough, however, still remains for many future generations to enjoy the pious pleasure of pressing their lips on its shiny surface.

Among the most ancient statues in the Vatican are the two sitting figures, "Possidippus " and " Menander," by the sculptor Cephisodotus, son of Praxiteles (B. C. 364). Almost as old is the celebrated "Laocoön," chiselled in the time of Alexander the Great, and which once occupied a position in the palace of the Emperor Titus. The

"Tomb of the Scipios contains no ashes now,"

but the tomb still exists. The inscription, as legible almost as

if made yesterday instead of two hundred and sixty years before Christ, relates that Scipio was a brave and a wise man (fortis vir sapiensque); that he was virtuous, was a consul, a censor, an ædile.*

In the Capitoline Muscum is the bronze wolf which Cicero mentions as having been struck by lightning B.C. 65. Near by, in a cage, are kept, and have been kept for ages, two live wolves -"lineal descendants" of the wolves that suckled Romulus and Remus. One of the principal theatres in Rome-the Amfiteatro Umberto—is constructed in what was once the tomb of Augustus Cæsar. The enormous mausoleum which Hadrian had erected to hold his ashes is now a soldiers' barrack. The one emperor's tomb converted into a barrack, the other into an opera-house!

These are a few of the things of ancient Rome. They are fully described in the guide-books, but as all travellers write about them, I ring in a few merely not to be out of the fashion.

*The full inscription runs thus: "Cornelius Lucius, Scipio-BarbatusCnainod-Patre-Proc-natus-Fortis vir sapiensque-Quojus Forma VirtuteiParisuma-Fuit-Consul-Censor-Aidilis Quei (j) Fuit-Apud vos-TaurasiaCisauna-Samnio Cepit subicit-Omne Loucana Opsidesque Abdoucit."

CHAPTER VII.

ON THE TRAMP.-SCENES IN THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA.-IN SEARCH OF A WIFE.-AMONG THE PEASANTS AND PEOPLE.

THERE were not many people astir the morning I left Rome. The hour was early, a drenching rain was falling. When I reached the Piazza del Populo I paused to take my last look at the Eternal City. The hills of the Pincio were on my right, the domes of three churches were to the left; beyond, a little without the gate, were the beautiful gardens of the Villa Borghese. The sight of a stranger standing in that hard rain at the base of the Egyptian obelisk, now staring down the Corso, now gazing at the Pincio, the ancient garden of Lucullus, the scene of Messalina's orgies-this sight excited the surprise of the passers-by, who stopped and eyed me curiously.

Summoning my blandest manner and purest Italian, I said, "Pardon, signore, but can you tell me what city this is?" The man stared at me in amazement.

"This-this-signore-why, this is Rome."

"Si, signore, si, si, si. Surely you do not pass through Rome without stopping?"

"Rome?" I repeated. "Ah yes, I have heard of Rome. Fine town. But I am going to Florence. How far have I to walk to Florence ?"

This was the finishing stroke. Thinking me an escaped lunatic, they retired to a safer distance from the heavy club I held in my hand. There they stood and stared and talked.

The rain was not so bad. An ample rubber coat protected my body; the broad-brimmed sombrero which I had had made to order in Rome served admirably to protect my head. Only my feet got wet-soaked, and after ten miles I took off my heavy, soggy shoes and went barefoot. This proved a happy