Examine them carefully; they are of every possible condition; for now that travelling costs next to nothing, everybody is able to afford himself a sight of Rome.  Briefless barristers, physicians without practice, office-clerks, poor students, apprentices, and shop-boys drop down like hail on the Eternal City, for the sake of saying that they have taken the Communion in it.  The Holy Week brings every year a swarm of these locusts.  Their entire impedimenta consist of a carpet-bag and an umbrella, and of course they put up at a hotel.  In fact hotels have been built on purpose to receive them.  When everybody hired houses, there was no need of hotels.  The ‘Minerva’ is the type of the modern Roman caravansary.  Your bed is charged half-a-crown per night; you dine in a refectory with a traveller at each elbow.  The character of the travelling class which invades Rome about Easter is illustrated by the conversation which you hear going on around you at the table d’hote of the ‘Minerva.’  The following is a specimen:—­

One says triumphantly, “I have done two museums, three galleries, and four ruins, to-day.”

“I stuck to the churches,” says another, “I had floored seventeen by one o’clock.”

“The deuce you had!  You keep the game alive.”

“Yes, I want to have a whole day left for the suburbs.”

“Oh, burn the suburbs!  I’ve got no time to see them.”

If I have a day to spare, I must devote it to buying chaplets."[5]

“I suppose you’ve seen the Villa Borghese?”

“Oh yes, I consider that in the city, although it is in fact outside the walls.”

“How much did they charge you for going over it?”

“A paul.”

“I paid two—­I’ve been robbed.”

“As for that, they’re all robbers.”

“You’re right, but the sight of Rome is worth all it costs.”

Shades of the travellers of the olden time—­delicate, subtle, genial spirits—­what think you of conversations such as this?  Surely you must opine that your footmen knew Rome better, and talked more to the purpose about it.

Across the table I hear a citizen of London town narrating to a curious audience how he has to-day seen the two great lions of Rome,—­the Coliseum, and Cardinal Antonelli.  The conclusion he arrives at is, that the first is a very fine ruin, and the second a very clever man.

A provincial dowager of the devotee class, is worth listening to.  She has toiled through the entire ceremonies of the Holy Week.  She has knelt close to the Pope, and declares his mode of giving the Benediction the most sublime thing on earth.  The good lady has spared neither time nor money in order to carry home a choice collection of relics.  Among other objects of adoration she has a bone of St. Perpetua, and a real bit of the real Cross.  Not satisfied with these, she is bent on obtaining the Pope’s palm-branch, the very identical palm-branch which