A few minutes before noon the crowd thickens there near the Collegio Romano till it is hard to make one’s way through it; the buzz of talk ceases, men get out their watches, and hold them in their hands while all eyes are turned upward as if expecting the advent of some celestial apparition. Silence reigns for a minute or two; then it is rent by the thunderous boom of the midday gun at Sant’ Angelo, and the next instant a babel of deafening sound has broken over the city. Every Church bell in Rome is ringing madly. The crowd cries “Mezzo Giorno!” with one voice, the black cone has run up on the flagstaff of the College observatory, and the watches have been returned to their owners’ pockets. There is a kind of stampede to homes and restaurants for the midday meal, unless it is checked by the appearance of a squadron of dragoons clattering down the street like mounted suns, their helmets and breastplates shining intolerably bright, their big black horses pretending to paw and chafe in tune with the military band that follows them and which is filling the air with the joyous strains of a popular march that tries to outdo the pealing of the bells. Beside and behind the band comes every ragamuffin in Rome, marching delightedly, head in air, mouth open, and roaring out the tune; hunger and rags are forgotten for the moment and every beggar boy feels like a victorious general attending his own triumph. Now the doors of the Collegio have opened to let out another great stream to join the throng—students of all classes and nationalities pour into the street. On certain days those of the Collegio di Propaganda Fide may be seen hurrying across the town to take their exercise in the suburbs. Here come Greeks and Copts, Bengalis and Chinese, crossing similar processions of fair-haired English and Germans, the latter picturesquely notable as they stride along, two by two, some forty of them perhaps, in the vivid scarlet cassock and hat which Gregory XVI imposed upon them to cure them of slipping unnoticed into a “birreria” for a glass of their national beverage, and which costume has caused the Romans to give them the nickname of “Gamberi”—Lobsters! They make a great contrast to the English-speaking students, Scotch, Irish, American, and English proper, who wear sombre black or dark purple; but the form of the uniform is always the same, a long cassock with St. Ignatius’ streamers reaching to the hem and flying from the shoulders at every touch of wind, every movement of the muscular young bodies. The whole is crowned by a wide, three-cornered hat, from under which the boyish faces look out roguishly enough on what the owners evidently consider a mighty pleasant world.