sprung up, and the peasantry came with the plough, and sowed seed and reaped corn.
We spent half a day rambling over the Palatine—the Contadino, our guide, told us that every July and August, the mal’ aria reigned, and his sunken cheeks spoke of his having been a victim. He asked us if we had the mal’ aria in England.—“Che bel paese,” he said with a sigh on hearing our negative.
Often, as at Venice, we leave our home without any definite object, and wander about the deserted part of Rome—that which once was the centre of its magnificence. Thus we viewed the Church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, built by Michael Angelo, with materials, columns and marbles, remnants of the Baths of Diocletian; it is one of the most striking and majestic of the Roman churches. Thus we found ourselves at the foot of the Capitol, and an inscription led us to visit the Mamertine prisons, a spot held sacred since St. Peter and other Christian martyrs were confined there. It is indubitably the oldest relic of the ancient republic, and the monument of its cruel and arrogant disdain for human life and suffering, impresses one painfully. How much of that has there ever been all over the world—and now! I used to pride myself on English humanity; but the boast is quenched in
