as such; yet are too delicate and too busy ever to intrude.  In the attic, dwells a priest, who insists on making my fire when Antonia is away.  To be sure, he pays himself for his trouble, by asking a great many questions.  The stories below are occupied by a frightful Russian princess with moustaches, and a footman who ties her bonnet for her; and a fat English lady, with a fine carriage, who gives all her money to the church, and has made for the house a terrace of flowers that would delight you.  Antonia has her flowers in a humble balcony, her birds, and an immense black cat; always addressed by both husband and wife as “Amoretto,” (little love!)

The house looks out on the Piazza Barberini, and I see both that palace and the Pope’s.  The scene to-day has been one of terrible interest.  The poor, weak Pope has fallen more and more under the dominion of the cardinals, till at last all truth was hidden from his eyes.  He had suffered the minister, Rossi, to go on, tightening the reins, and, because the people preserved a sullen silence, he thought they would bear it.  Yesterday, the Chamber of Deputies, illegally prorogued, was opened anew.  Rossi, after two or three most unpopular measures, had the imprudence to call the troops of the line to defend him, instead of the National Guard.  On the 14th, the Pope had invested him with the privileges of a Roman citizen:  (he had renounced his country when an exile, and returned to it as ambassador of Louis Philippe.) This position he enjoyed but one day.  Yesterday, as he descended from his carriage, to enter the Chamber, the crowd howled and hissed; then pushed him, and, as he turned his head in consequence, a sure hand stabbed him in the back.  He said no word, but died almost instantly in the arms of a cardinal.  The act was undoubtedly the result of the combination of many, from the dexterity with which it was accomplished, and the silence which ensued.  Those who had not abetted beforehand seemed entirely to approve when done.  The troops of the line, on whom he had relied, remained at their posts, and looked coolly on.  In the evening, they walked the streets with the people, singing, “Happy the hand which rids the world of a tyrant!” Had Rossi lived to enter the Chamber, he would have seen the most terrible and imposing mark of denunciation known in the history of nations,—­the whole house, without a single exception, seated on the benches of opposition.  The news of his death was received by the deputies with the same cold silence as by the people.  For me, I never thought to have heard of a violent death with satisfaction, but this act affected me as one of terrible justice.

To-day, all the troops and the people united and went to the Quirinal to demand a change of measures.  They found the Swiss Guard drawn out, and the Pope dared not show himself.  They attempted to force the door of his palace, to enter his presence, and the guard fired.  I saw a man borne by wounded.  The drum beat to call out the National Guard.  The carriage of Prince Barberini has returned with its frightened inmates and liveried retinue, and they have suddenly barred up the court-yard gate.  Antonia, seeing it, observes, “Thank Heaven, we are poor, we have nothing to fear!” This is the echo of a sentiment which will soon be universal in Europe.