a will. But I was myself too much disconcerted by the recent
failure to find in my thoughts any promise of better things. My friends
said, "The Italians are not fit for self-government." I may ask fifty
years later, "Who is?"

The progress of ideas is not indeed always visible to superficial
observers. I was engaged one day in making a small purchase at a shop,
when the proprietor leaned across the counter and asked, almost in a
whisper, for the loan of a Bible. He had heard of the book, he said, and
wished very much to see a copy of it. Our _charge d'affaires_, Mr. Cass,
mentioned to me the fact that an entire edition of Deodati's Italian
translation of the New Testament had recently been seized and burned by
order of the papal government.

But to return to matters purely personal. As the Christmas of 1850 drew
near, my sister L., ever intent on hospitality, determined to have a
party and a Christmas tree at Villa Negroni. This last was then a
novelty unheard of in Rome. I was to dine with her, and had offered to
furnish the music for an informal dance.

On Christmas Eve I went with a party of friends to the church of Santa
Maria Maggiore, where the Pope, according to the custom of those days,
was to appear in state, bearing in his arms the cradle supposed to be
that of the infant Jesus, which was usually kept at St. Peter's. We were
a little late in starting, and were soon obliged to retire from the
highway, as the whole papal _cortege_ came sweeping by,--the state
coaches of crimson and gold, and the _Guardia Nobile_ with their
glittering helmets, white cloaks, and high boots. Their course was
illuminated by pans of burning oil, supported by iron staves, the spiked
ends of which were stuck in the ground. When the rapid procession had
passed on we hastened to overtake it, but arrived too late to witness
either the arrival of the Pope or his progress to the high altar with
the cradle in his arms.

On Christmas Day I attended high mass at St. Peter's. Although the
weather was of the pleasantest, an aguish chill disturbed my enjoyment
of the service. This discomfort so increased in the course of the day
that, as I sat at dinner, I could with difficulty carry a morsel from my
plate to my lips.

"This is a chill," said my sister. "You ought to go to bed at once."

I insisted upon remaining to play for the promised dance, and argued
that the fever would presently succeed the chill, and that I should then
be warm enou