But to return to Rome, where I hear the Ave Maria just ringing.  By the way, nobody pauses, nobody thinks, nobody prays.

  “Ave Maria! ’t is the hour of prayer,
  Ave Maria! ’t is the hour of love,” &c.,

is but a figment of the poet’s fancy.

To return to Rome:  what a Rome! the fortieth day of rain, and damp, and abominable reeking odors, such as blessed cities swept by the sea-breeze—­bitter sometimes, yet indeed a friend—­never know.  It has been dark all day, though the lamp has only been lit half an hour.  The music of the day has been, first the atrocious arias, which last in the Corso till near noon, though certainly less in virulence on rainy days.  Then came the wicked organ-grinder, who, apart from the horror of the noise, grinds exactly the same obsolete abominations as at home or in England,—­the Copenhagen Waltz, “Home, sweet home,” and all that!  The cruel chance that both an English my-lady and a Councillor from one of the provinces live opposite, keeps him constantly before my window, hoping baiocchi.  Within, the three pet dogs of my landlady, bereft of their walk, unable to employ their miserable legs and eyes, exercise themselves by a continual barking, which is answered by all the dogs in the neighborhood.  An urchin returning from the laundress, delighted with the symphony, lays down his white bundle in the gutter, seats himself on the curb-stone, and attempts an imitation of the music of cats as a tribute to the concert.  The door-bell rings. Chi e? “Who is it?” cries the handmaid, with unweariable senselessness, as if any one would answer, Rogue, or Enemy, instead of the traditionary Amico, Friend.  Can it be, perchance, a letter, news of home, or some of the many friends who have neglected so long to write, or some ray of hope to break the clouds of the difficult Future?  Far from it.  Enter a man poisoning me at once with the smell of the worst possible cigars, not to be driven out, insisting I shall look upon frightful, ill-cut cameos, and worse-designed mosaics, made by some friend of his, who works in a chamber and will sell so cheap.  Man of ill-odors and meanest smile!  I am no Countess to be fooled by you.  For dogs they were not even—­dog-cheap.

A faint and misty gleam of sun greeted the day on which there was the feast to the Bambino, the most venerated doll of Rome.  This is the famous image of the infant Jesus, reputed to be made of wood from a tree of Palestine, and which, being taken away from its present abode,—­the church of Ara Coeli,—­returned by itself, making the bells ring as it sought admittance at the door.  It is this which is carried in extreme cases to the bedside of the sick.  It has received more splendid gifts than any other idol.  An orphan by my side, now struggling with difficulties, showed me on its breast a splendid jewel, which a doting grandmother thought more likely to benefit her soul