resy itself. They smell like goats; and
one trembles to come within the droppings of their cloak, lest he should
carry away a few little _souvenirs_, which the "holy man" might be glad
to part with. A fat, stalwart, bacchant, boorish race they are, giving
signs of anything but fasting and flagellation; and I know of nothing
that would so dissipate the romance which invests monks and nuns in the
eyes of some, like bringing a ship-load of them over to this country,
and letting their admirers see and smell them.

Even the ordinary priest appears but little superior to the monk in the
qualities we have named. Dirty in person, slovenly in dress, and wearing
all over a careless, fearless, bullying air, he looks very little the
gentleman, and, if possible, less the clergyman. But in Rome he can
afford to despise appearances. Is he not a priest, and is not Rome his
own? Accordingly, he plants his foot firmly, as if he felt, like Antaeus,
that he touches his native earth; he sweeps the crowd around with a
full, scornful, defiant eye; and should Roman dare to measure glances
with him, that brow of brass would frown him into the dust. In Rome the
"priest's face" attains its completest development. That face has not
its like among all the faces of the world. It is the same in all
countries, and can be known under every disguise,--a soldier's uniform
or a porter's blouse. At Maynooth you may see it in all stages of
growth; but at Rome it is perfected; and when perfected, there is an
entire blotting out of all the kindly emotions and human sympathies, and
there meets the eye something that is at once below and above the face
of man. If we could imagine the scorn, pride, and bold bad daring of one
of Milton's fallen angels, grafted on a groundwork of animal appetites,
we should have a picture something like the priest's face.

The priests will not be offended should the beggars come next in our
notice of the Eternal City. The beggars of Rome are almost an
institution of themselves; and, though not chartered, like the friars,
their numbers and their ancient standing have established their rights.
What is it that strikes you on first entering the "Holy City?" Is it its
noble monuments,--its fine palaces,--its august temples? No; it is its
flocks of beggars. You cannot halt a moment, but a little colony gathers
round you. Every church has its beggar, and sometimes a whole dozen. If
you wish to ascertain the hours of any ceremony in a chu