er adieu, piously keeping their
likeness in its memory and their money in its coffers.

The Revolution of 1793 somewhat disturbed this agreeable order of
things; but it was a mere storm between two fine summer days. Neither
the Roman aristocracy, nor its constant troop of guests, took this
brutal overthrow of their elegant pleasures in earnest. The exile of
the Pope, the French occupation, and many similar accidents, were
supported with a noble resignation, and forgotten with the readiness
of good taste. 1815 passed a sponge over some years of very foul
history. All the inscriptions which recalled the glory or the
beneficence of France were conscientiously erased. It was even
proposed to do away with the lighting of the streets, not only because
they threw too strong a light upon certain nocturnal matters, but
because they dated from the time of Miollis and De Tournon. Even now,
in 1859, the fleur-de-lis points out what is French property. A marble
table in the church of San Luigi dei Francesi promises indulgence to
those who will pray for the king of France. The French convent of the
Trinita dei Monti--that worthy claustral establishment which sold us
the picture of Daniel di Volterra and then took it back--possesses the
portraits of all the kings of France, from Pharamond to Charles X.
There you see Louis XVII. between Louis XVI. and Louis XVIII.; but in
this historical gallery there is no more mention of Napoleon or of
Louis-Philippe, than of Nana-Sahib or Marat.

A city so respectful to the past, so faithful to the worship of bygone
recollections, is the natural asylum of sovereigns fallen from their
thrones. It is to Rome that they come to foment their contusions, and
to heal the wounds of their pride. They live there agreeably,
surrounded by the few followers who have remained faithful to them. A
miniature court, assembled in their antechamber, crowns them in
private, hails them on rising with epithets of royalty, and pours
forth incense in their dressing-room. The Roman nobility, and
foreigners of distinction, live with them in an unequal intimacy,
humbling themselves in order that they may be raised; and sowing a
great deal of veneration to reap a very light crop of familiarity. The
Pope and his Cardinals, upon principle, are lavish of attentions which
they would perhaps refuse them on the throne. In short, the king who
has been the most battered and shaken by his fall, and the most
ill-used by his ungrateful