offering boxes, for the support of the church or some unknown institution; they even go from house to house, imploring support and assistance in the name of the Virgin and all the saints, while their bloated, sensual countenances and capacious frames tell of anything but fasts and privations.  Once, as I was sitting among the ruins, I was suddenly startled by a loud, rattling sound; turning my head, I saw a figure clothed in white from head to foot, with only two small holes for the eyes.  He held in his hand a money-box, on which was a figure of the Virgin, which he held close to my lips, that I might kiss it.  This I declined doing, but dropped a baiocco into his box, when, making the sign of the cross, he silently disappeared.

Our present lodging (Trattoria del Sole) is a good specimen of an Italian inn for mechanics and common tradesmen.  Passing through the front room, which is an eating-place for the common people—­with a barrel of wine in the corner, and bladders of lard hanging among orange boughs in the window—­we enter a dark court-yard filled with heavy carts, and noisy with the neighing of horses and singing of grooms, for the stables occupy part of the house.  An open staircase, running all around this hollow square, leads to the second, third, and fourth stories,

On the second story is the dining-room for the better class of travelers, who receive the same provisions as those below for double the price, and the additional privilege of giving the waiter two baiocchi.  The sleeping apartments are in the fourth story, and are named according to the fancy of a former landlord, in mottos above each door.  Thus, on arriving here, the Triester, with his wife and child, more fortunate than our first parents, took refuge in “Paradise,” while we Americans were ushered into the “Chamber of Jove.”  We have occupied it ever since, and find a paul (ten cents) apiece cheap enough for a good bed and a window opening on the Pantheon.

Next to the Coliseum, the baths of Caracalla are the grandest remains of Rome.  The building is a thousand feet square, and its massive walls look as if built by a race of giants.  These Titan remains are covered with green shrubbery, and long, trailing vines sweep over the cornice, and wave down like tresses from architrave and arch.  In some of its grand halls the mosaic pavement is yet entire.  The excavations are still carried on; from the number of statues already found, this would seem to have been one of the most gorgeous edifices of the olden time.

I have been now several days loitering and sketching among the ruins, and I feel as if I could willingly wander for months beside these mournful relics, and draw inspiration from the lofty yet melancholy lore they teach.  There is a spirit haunting them, real and undoubted.  Every shattered column, every broken arch and mouldering wall, but calls up more vividly to mind the glory that has passed away.  Each lonely pillar stands as proudly as if it still helped to bear up the front of a glorious temple, and the air seems scarcely to have ceased vibrating with the clarions that heralded a conqueror’s triumph.