which stand the quiet, orderly, innocent homes of the present race of
commonplace men and women. Her vast Colosseum is only an immense quarry.
Her proud mausoleum of the Julian Cæsars is an unimportant circus.

We drive or walk on the Corso, along which the Cæsars triumphantly led
processions of captives; through which, centuries later, numberless
papal pageants made proud entries of the city; where the maddest
jollities of carnival seasons have raged: and we see nothing more
important than modern carriages filled with gayly dressed women, and
shops brilliant with modern jewellery and pretty colored fabrics; and we
purchase gloves, handkerchiefs, and photographs close to some spot over
which, perchance, Queen Zenobia passed laden with the golden chains that
fettered her as she graced the triumph of Emperor Aurelian; or
Cleopatra, when she came conqueror of the proud heart of Julius Cæsar.

We linger on the Pincio, listening to the sweet music of the Roman band,
while our eyes wander out over the myriad roofs and domes to where great
St. Peter's meets the western horizon; and we forget utterly those dark
centuries during which this lovely hill was given over to Nero's fearful
ghost, until a Pope, with his own hands, cut down the grand trees that
crowned its summit, thus exorcising the demon birds which the people
believed to linger in them and still to work the wicked emperor's will.

We take afternoon tea at the English Mrs. Watson's, beside the foot of
the _Scala di Spagna_, close to whose top tradition tells us that
shameless Messalina, Claudius's empress, was mercilessly slain.

And so it is throughout the city. Tradition, legend, and romance have
peopled every place we visit. Wars, massacres, and horrible suffering
have left a stain at every step. Love and faith and glorious