onist in Russia used to
be neat patches of an entirely orderly pattern, looking like islands in
the wild waste of Slav disorder. It might almost be said that Germany
made war to make the Russian _muzhik_ wash his face, and the Russians
made war so that people could go about with dirty faces if they wanted
to.

The question has not received a final answer. Greece is fighting for
an empire over Turks. Ireland is fighting the British Empire to obtain
the right to do what she wants in the world. The business penumbra of
the United States has begun to cover Mexico. Five or six constituents
of old Russian have cut free. But France has become imperial and would
impose a superior will on several nations.

Our curious clay sparrows stand on the wall. Wilson's sparrows, it is
reputed, fly; ours won't. As we made them, so they stand looking at
us, waiting apparently. If some one does not sprinkle holy water on
them soon they will either go to bits or have to be kneaded into the
common lump once more.

LETTERS OF TRAVEL

XIV. FROM ROME

All roads lead to Rome. It would doubtless be tedious at this point to
describe the obstacles on the road, and, when Rome has been achieved,
the all-night hunt for a room in a hotel, an adventure which now
commonly befalls the traveller to Rome. But it is a wonderful
impression which you receive of this mighty city in the silent watchful
hours, when all are sleeping, and the living are nearer to the famous
dead. The scenery seems laid for some great historical drama--but it
is in truth only laid for you and the poor fellow shouldering your bag,
and for a restless knocking at closed doors, trying to awaken
slumberous porters who, like the man at Macbeth's castle, swear they
will "devil-porter it no longer." You settle down at last for a few
hours sleep on a couple of chairs in a waiting-room, but are prevented
by a loquacious gentleman who calls himself a "_chasseur des hotels_,"
and says that when a man has sought all night and found nothing, he is
generally ready for a proposition. The _chasseur_ conducts you to a
room in a house in a back street, a chill, red-tiled room, let by a
buxom Roman, whose little girl of twelve is in the capacity of general
servant and makes the bed and empties the slops and serves the coffee
without one self-conscious smile. Rome indeed, and room enough! When
you are lodged it does not matter much how you are lodged.

Rome, the capital of ca