palace, a labyrinth of tortuous streets and lanes, not often visited by foreigners unless when bent on some special expedition of sight-seeing.  There are no sidewalks for foot-passengers in these streets.  They are narrow, very tortuous and very crowded.  Foot-passengers and vehicles of all sorts find their way along as best they may in one confused mass.  It was there I saw the historic pair of wheels in question.  They were attached to the barrow of a coster-monger, who was retailing a stock of onions, carrots and “cavolo Romano” which he had just purchased at the neighboring market of the “Campo de’ Fiori.”  His wares, I fear, had been selected from the refuse of the market, and he and his barrow were in a state of dilapidated shabbiness that matched his stock in trade.  But not so the wheels on which his barrow was supported.  They were wheels of the most gorgeous description.  The spokes and the circumference were painted of the most brilliant scarlet, and the entire nave was gilded so as to have the appearance of a solid mass of gold.  It is impossible to imagine anything more bizarre than the effect of these magnificent wheels doing the work of carrying such an equipage.  Nevertheless, the apparition seemed to attract very little attention in the crowded street.  The grand scarlet and gilded wheels flamed along among the crowd of shabby men and shabby vehicles with their load of onions and cabbages, and scarcely anybody turned his head to stare at them.  I suppose the denizens of the district were used to the apparition of them.  To me they looked as if they had been the originals from which Guido Reni painted those of the car in which he has placed the celebrated Aurora of his world-famous fresco.  They were solidly and heavily built wheels—­very barbarous an English carriage-builder would have considered them in their heavy and clumsy magnificence—­but they were very gorgeous.  What could be the meaning of their appearance in public under such circumstances?  I was walking with an Italian friend at the time, who saw my state of amazement at so strange a phenomenon, and explained it all by a single remark.

“Yes,” said he, “there go a pair of His Eminence’s wheels.  They are sharing the fortunes of their late master in a manner that is at once dramatic and historical.”

The wheels from a cardinal’s carriage!  Of course they were.  How was it possible that such wheels should be mistaken for any other in the world?  A few years ago, when pope and cardinals had not yet suffered the horrible eclipse which has overtaken them, one of the most notable features of the Roman streets and suburban roads used to consist of the carriages of the members of the Sacred College taking their diurnal drive.  It was not etiquette for a cardinal to walk in the streets, or indeed anywhere else, without his carriage following him.  There was no mistaking these barbarously gorgeous vehicles.  They were all exactly like each other, and unlike