with drawn swords, three on his right hand and three on his left. That
was all. The crowd passed in single file before the great closed gates
of the Julian Chapel.

At night he was borne reverently by loving hands to the deep crypt
below. But at another time, at night also, the dead man was taken up
and driven towards the gate to be buried without the walls. Then a great
crowd assembled in the darkness and fell upon the little band and stoned
the coffin of him who never harmed any man, and screamed out curses and
blasphemies till all the city was astir with riot. That was the last
funeral hymn.

Old Rome is gone. The narrow streets are broad thoroughfares, the Jews'
quarter is a flat and dusty building lot, the fountain of Ponte Sisto is
swept away, one by one the mighty pines of Villa Ludovisi have fallen
under axe and saw, and a cheap, thinly inhabited quarter is built upon
the site of the enchanted garden. The network of by-ways from the
Jesuits' church to the Sant' Angelo bridge is ploughed up and opened by
the huge Corso Vittorio Emmanuele. Buildings which strangers used to
search for in the shade, guide-book and map in hand, are suddenly
brought into the blaze of light that fills broad streets and sweeps
across great squares. The vast Cancelleria stands out nobly to the sun,
the curved front of the Massimo palace exposes its black colonnade to
sight upon the greatest thoroughfare of the new city, the ancient Arco
de' Cenci exhibits its squalor in unshadowed sunshine, the Portico of
Octavia once more looks upon the river.

He who was born and bred in the Rome of twenty years ago comes back
after a long absence to wander as a stranger in streets he never knew,
among houses unfamiliar to him, amidst a population whose speech sounds