ground. Were the artists, like the plebeians in olden times, to quit Rome and place her under a ban, it would be all over with the last relics of the populus Romanus. Where entire streets exist which are filled with statuary and artists' studios, and large marble blocks are the signboards of sculptors, a considerable portion of the population must stand in the service of the Muses, and if you ask after any celebrated studio you are much more likely to obtain a satisfactory answer than if you ask after an eminent dignitary. While strangers remain here only a few weeks or months, the artists become settled for a lengthened period, and put the city under contribution for picturesque materials. Among the most indispensable materiel of art we must reckon the models, forming a state within a state, which is constantly being recruited from the neighbourhood and the mountains. To the models Rome is indebted for the last specimens of the national costume. As early as eight A.M. feigned and pensioned robbers from the Abruzzi, shepherds and country lads, hurry to the studios, in order to assume some picturesque pose; the artistic vocation of the maidens may be recognised by their specially careful toilet; the folded cloth that covers the head has just come from the wash-tub; the buttons and tags on the apron are newly furbished, and the neck is adorned with a talisman or medallion. In this way Marietta is fully equipped for the day's journey, but, for the sake of selfrespect, custom insists that an "aunt" should accompany her. The aunt, a model from the days of the ancien régime, is, through lengthened practice, thoroughly conversant with artistic matters: she is aware what drapery is needed for the representation of virtue, and what folds are best adapted for the Madonna; she knows the coiffure of the Magdalene as thoroughly as she does the handkerchief of St. Veronica. Under this cautious guidance Marietta begins her artistic career each morning, and she may be seen hurrying at an early hour over the Spanish-place towards the Via Margutta, where the artists' quarter begins. The first hour, while the toilet is the freshest, is devoted to a representation of the happy country girl, who awaits the beloved with a beating heart, and seems to be watching for him. Marietta enters the studio, and the artist salutes the ladies in the kindest manner; the aunt receives the seat of honour on the wormeaten chair, which rivals her in age and wrinkles, and is generally set aside for Mecænases. Marietta, in the mean while, has stepped behind the green curtain at one end of the room; she takes a look at the mirror, and in a few minutes-for beauty is always easily satisfiedreturns to the scene of her triumphs.

Such is a first-class model in Rome, but they are few and far between. The others stand but on a slender footing above the beggars, who form a very large class of Roman society. In fact, many of them are better off than well to do peasants in other countries; the beggar is not obliged to breathe the stifling air of the factories, and carry on a monotonous task from morning till night; he need feel no anxiety about clothing and lodgings; the ever open doors of the churches give him a sleeping-place by day, and a favourable sky renders his nightly bivouac easy. Through the protection which the government affords to begging, it is not regarded as a disgrace, or so dishonouring as poverty. The word "povero" consoles the criminal, the murderer, the thief, when he is seized by the sbirri, and, in the eyes of the population, he is more a victim than a culprit. He is even re

garded as a hero, who does not fear the danger of death and the scaffold.

The beggar, on the other hand, in the feeling that he belongs to a recognised class of society, is satisfied with the prosaic civil honour. The beggar, regarding himself as quite equal to the man he addresses, is consequently not nearly so importunate as he has been described by travellers; but their numbers create a feeling of repugnance. If you do not feel disposed to give him a trifle, a couple of consolatory words suffice to get rid of him at once; if, for instance, you recommend him to the protection of Heaven with the words, "La Madonna vi proveda," he goes off-sadly, we grant-but not saying a word more. Beggar-pride, in the true sense of the term, is still to be found in Italy. With the same haughtiness with which Belisarius may have uttered his "date obolum," the Roman beggar bursts forth into his "una carita, signore, sono povero," and pockets the gift with the kindest remarks. If he wear at his button-hole a small brass plate received from the police, which points him out to be a privileged beggar, his honour does not allow him to enter into lengthened discussions over the collection of his impost, but a simple sign of refusal causes him at once to retire. The blind, lame, aged, and crippled receive such badges, but the diseases are often simulated; they are, according to the old witticism, "beggars who have fallen from the ladder of laziness and broken an arm."

By a sudden leap we will pass from beggars to theatres, of which Rome possesses six, though they are closed the greater part of the year. The performances begin after Christmas, lasting till Ash-Wednesday; commence again after Easter, and cease with the setting in of the hot weather. As the state does nothing for the theatres, they generally have a poor existence. None of the clergy visit the theatres; but the nobility and rich bourgeoisie, who like to be patrons of the stage, hire a box for the entire season. This box is at the same time a reception-room for the friends of the family and recommended strangers, who are expected to appear in the "abito da società." As a new troupe is annually engaged, the relations between public and actors are extremely loose, and frequently the names of the latter are not even known. The opening of the Apollo Theatre, or Opera House, is consequently an important event, and the first evening is decisive for the entire season. The police director, who is the highest authority in matters theatrical, appears in official costume, and sends into all the first and second class boxes a "rinfrescho" at the expense of the city. This official refreshment is composed of ice and preserves, which men-servants, dressed in black and with candelabra in one hand, hand round the boxes between the first and second acts.

The proletarians in the pit and gallery receive nothing, and the plebeians regard with envy this last privilege of the patricians, which places Menenius Agrippa's fable about the belly and the members in a peculiar modern light. The visitor to the pit, who pays four pauls, or about eighteenpence, and a few bajocchi for a leather cushion, to take off the hardness of the wooden benches, must content himself with a sight of the beauties in the dress circle, who seek to cool their ardour with ice; and such a sight would have been a perfect torture for Lord Byron, who could not endure to see a lady eat. Since Mario has been a count, and

Piccolomini a countess, the Italian artistes are no longer contented with a mental nobility, but do their best to obtain a handsome family tree. When we bear in mind that, at the close of the last century, all the characters were entrusted to males, and now see marchionesses and countesses on the stage, it is plain that ladies have attained a considerable amount of independence. Still the golden age of fair woman is gradually departing in Italy; they must also labour in the sweat of their brow; they are ceasing to be the fair sex, and the stage will be called upon to form the transition from art to the more prosaic toil.

The Romans are inexorable towards false singing: like their ancestors, who had unhappy barbarians torn to pieces by wild beasts in their circus, they can martyrise a singer, even if he should repent and be converted. While the sons of the she-wolf usually look with indulgence on all other crimes, and regard even a murderer as an erring brother, every fault on the stage is even worse than a crime. On the other hand, the enthusiasm is equally intoxicating, and all means-clapping, beating, and crying-are called into service. The theatrical police of Rome has not yet attained such perfection as to place a constable by the side of each actor to coerce the pit into tranquillity, and praise and blame may be expressed here at will.

In the Teatro Apollo, which is the most elegant of all, though, according to our notions, simply decorated and dirty, the masked balls, or, more correctly, the costumed balls, take place during the carnival. Since the revolution every person who enters may be compelled to remove his mask, and hence much of the fun is lost. The close of the ball at two o'clock produces an interesting scene: a company of soldiers are drawn up at the back of the stage, and sweep the entire company out like a broad broom.

There are four other theatres in Rome, among which we may mention the Metastasio, as the scene of Ristori's earliest triumphs. One of the most popular characters at the lower theatres is Frederick the Great, who frequently appears like a deus ex machina, menaces with his tobacco-box, and by this mere threat puts to flight the representatives of the evil principle. The Romans of to-day have not forgotten that Frederick the Great conquered the Austriaci in several battles, and, in spite of the Germanic Confederation, every Prussiano is regarded as a decided foe to all imperial-royal schemes. Old Fritz has almost become a myth, containing everything good, and noble, and generous. The theatre, indeed, is the only place where the Roman obtains a shade of mental excitement, however much the censorship may distil this mental source. The theatre represents here the press, the school, popular literature, and public life. Here there is another world besides that of the priests, and here the Roman sucks in that love of liberty which so peculiarly distinguishes him.

Another peculiarity of the Romans is the lottery, of which About told us so much, and which Lessing regards as demoralising, the more so because the game of hazard receives the blessing of the Church, and through the presence of a prelate in full attire appears like a religious ceremony. While all other traders are compelled to close their shops on Sunday, the lottery-dealers stand above the law, and the doors leading to the Temple of Fortune are more widely open than those of the

churches. Superstition naturally goes hand in hand with gambling, and if arithmetic is the source of all things, as Pythagoras says, the modern Romans are Pythagoreans to a man. It is said that once when the Quirinal caught fire, the "prenditorii per il loto" were so besieged that there was no other way of preventing a tumult than closing them. Everybody wanted the number which indicates fire at the Pope's, and each wished to be the happy man. An artist friend of our author told him that he once had the misfortune to fall down stairs, and knocked out two of his teeth. His generally most attentive landlady, before she aided the sufferer, asked how many teeth he had lost, counted up the number of stairs, multiplied teeth, stairs, and date together, and at once sent off to the nearest lottery-office to procure the lucky number. In a word, the lottery is the only thing in which the Roman people still sympathise with the government.

Of course no description of Rome would be perfect without a full, true, and particular account of the carnival, but we may safely pass over Lessing's account, and confine our attention to a less known festival, given by the German Artist Union under the title of the Cervaro Festival. It is no trifle to draw the Romans, who are so attached to their dolce far niente, from their four walls or their cafés, but they cannot remain away from the German carnival. Since the quarries of Cervaro, on the Albano road, have been leased by a speculative Roman, who allows no revelry on his ground, the artists have been compelled to seek other hills and ravines, and, after a lengthened deliberation, the engineers selected a spot near the Ponte Salara, where extensive meadows permitted knightly sports, while an amphitheatre of hills was well adapted for the spectators.

When our author witnessed the sports, the lord of misrule arrived in a large harvest waggon, drawn by four splendid oxen, from whose horns long coloured ribbons fluttered. His majesty was attired in a long, gold, embroidered coronation mantle, with a diadem on his head, and was, on the occasion when Lessing witnessed the fun, a celebrated water-colour artist, to whom the most hot-blooded and impatient persons had sat for hours, in order, like Narcissus, to see their reflexion in water-colour. The artistic monarch expressed in gestures rather than in words his pleasure at seeing the great and little ones of his kingdom, without distinction of sex, here assembled; and, judging from the proverb that language is silver and silence gold, there was a large quantity of the latter metal in his speech. All members of the union who have clubbed towards the expenses of the festival are decorated with the order of the " copper Bajoccho," which is worn from a blue ribbon. Such an order, being worth one halfpenny, can hardly be over-estimated, save in taking a quantity. Still King Louis of Bavaria, who frequently visited the Cervaro, was happy to wear the order, and pointed with pride to the blue ribbon, of which only a few crowned heads could boast.

After a small collation in a ruin, which the kitchen-master of the Cervaro knighthood served up, and which was a true instance of living from hand to mouth, the procession slowly set out, amid the braying of trumpets, clouds of dust, and the waving of the banners, which were adorned with the likeness of St. Luke. The president went in front, in his oxen waggon, drinking one glass after the other, and liberally

dispensing his blessing. His ministers and generals in fancy dressamong them being a Chinese as minister of public education - followed the potentate on horseback. Gendarmes from every nation, not excluding a Circassian, maintained order among the majority, but the undisciplined minority left the road, crossing hedges and ditches, to arrive sooner at the place where the Cervaro knighthood would hold their tournament.

Even the Campagna does not look so very melancholy on this day. The gay crowd give the green meadows a new life, and the old ruins which usually stare at us with hollow eyes, seem rejuvenated. When merry bands march amid graves and ruins, you easily forget the cemetery of history through which you are walking; a churchyard, when no longer at peace, becomes a playground. No arrières pensées could spring into life here, and no knight reflects how thankful he ought to feel to Theodosius, who, more than a thousand years ago, introduced the first copper coins, the ancestors of the bajoccho in Rome. And how many meadow flowers are mercilessly trodden down! But anemones and auriculas seem to resemble Cerberus; the more heads that fall, the more grow again. At length we see the end of our pilgrimage, in the shape of a smooth, peaceful valley, surrounded by green hills. A few friendly gendarmes, who know how to conciliate, act as police; those two hostile powers direct us and our ladies to a spot on the hill, whence we can survey at our ease the commencing sports. The entire natural amphitheatre is soon covered by a dense crowd, and the king gives the signal to begin. The first thing is a carousal, in which ladies and gentlemen take part, in picturesque costumes, from that of the Indian chief down to the medieval knight. The number of rings carried off at a gallop decides the victory; and a bold American lady, who had no golden wedding-ring on her finger, carried off the majority of steel ones. The trumpeters struck up, and the president handed her the laurel wreath.

After foot-races, donkey-races, &c., Bacchus gave the signal with his thyrsus that the hour for general refection had arrived. Though the Italians allege that fennel and bread suffice them, the German likes more compact food, and a tremendous demolition of ham and sausages took place. Toasts were honoured, and as the sun slowly sank on the Campagna the merry party broke up. Such is the German carnival, the next successor to the Roman. The latter lasts nine days, the German only one, and while the former takes place on the Corso, in the heart of the city, the other seeks the meadows. The Roman carnival is the festival of winter, the German that of spring.

The faithful Leporello laments that "he knows no rest by night or day," and the stranger in Rome is too often reminded of his complaint. Achilles was only vulnerable in the heel, but it is not everybody who enjoys such privileges. The shorter the period the stranger remains on the hospitable banks of the Tiber, the more he complains of the daring band of little demons that pursue him like an evil conscience night and day; if he stays for months, his body is at length steeled, his skin is tanned by repeated wounds into compact leather, and he can laugh at the puny assaults of his enemies. How did Chateaubriand complain about these minor miseries, pious and noble man though he was? In his "Mémoires d'Outre-tombe" he delivers a jeremiad about the dirty streets of the Eternal City, and the bloodsuckers of every description, which did not even spare the sacred head of a minister plenipotentiary. "When I was Napoleon's envoy at Rome, I had the upper floor of the Palazzo Lancelotti given me to live in. But when I entered it, such a