We hurry from Florence. And though I might linger over my pages, and make my story more full of information, and possibly of interest, I yet refrain from anything that may trench on the character of mere sketches, which alone I aim at. Frank forms one of a deputation to the Holy Father, and he was to reach Rome by a certain day. We arrived long enough before that date to establish ourselves in a house in the Ripetta, overlooking the yellow Tiber. Charon, mild, modern, and a Roman, ferries his boat just beneath our windows. The rope is fastened to a stake on our balcony, and makes a creaking noise as the boat crosses the river, to which we are so habituated that we think it musical. Charon wears a glazed hat, and affects a nautical air quite uncalled for, considering his limited navigation. For the moderate fee of one half‐penny he conveys his passengers to and fro across the classic river. Landed on the opposite shore, we pass along a narrow lane, on one side limited by a high wall, on the other by a green bank paved with violet‐leaves. Modern violet‐leaves, but doubtless descendants of those that fell beneath the coulter of Cincinnatus’ plough along these Quintian fields that early morn when the anxious senate went to call the half‐naked hero to another and less peaceful field, and bade him cross the Tiber (where we have done), and turn his plough‐share into a sword against those ever‐recurring Volsci and Æqui. Let the violets grow, O warrior ploughman! and in a few brief days thou shalt return to find the little purple flowers ready to hail thy triumph. Shall we see Racilia behind the tall vine‐poles, bearing the toga that is to cover the brawny shoulders of the noble laborer? Or have these familiar idyls of our early life lost their charm in the sterner and more assured memories of Christian Rome? The narrow, violet‐bordered lane leads into wide fields and to the fortifications of the Castle of Sant’ Angelo. We are outside the gates of the city. The white walls of Rome stand glittering in the sunshine to our left; to our right lies the green, undulating Campagna; and before us are the heights of Monte Mario, pine‐crowned. S. Michael, poised in mid‐air, sheathes his avenging sword above the huge round tower that was the tomb of Hadrian, and by turns the hiding‐place of the popes or the prison of their enemies. Darkly looming against the blue‐white sky, the bronze figure of Rome’s guardian angel for ever holds his weapon half‐way out of his scabbard, like the suspended threat of an avenging power.