itude
was only disturbed by a kneeling figure in black, motionless as a
statue behind the iron railing in front of the high altar, or by the
occasional presence of a nun, who moved across the transept with slow
and measured steps, her face hid by a long white veil which gave her a
spirit-like appearance. In the heart of one of the busiest parts of
the city, no mountain cloister could be more quiet and lonely. One
felt the soothing stillness, lifted above the world, while yet
retaining the closest connection with it. It is sweet to leave the
busy crowd of various nationalities below, intent only upon pleasure,
and, climbing up the lofty staircase, enter this secluded shrine, and
be alone with God.

In the Piazza di Spagna some shops are always open on Sundays,
especially those which minister to the wants and luxuries of
strangers. Rows of cabs are ranged in the centre, waiting to be hired,
and groups of flower-sellers stand near the shops, who thrust their
beautiful bouquets almost into the face of every passer-by. If Rome is
celebrated for its fountains, it is equally celebrated for its
flowers. Whether it is owing to the soil, or the climate, or the mode
of cultivation, or all combined, certain it is that nowhere else does
one see flowers of such brilliant colours, perfect forms, and
delicious fragrance; and the quantities as well as varieties of them
are perfectly wonderful. Delicate pink and straw-coloured tea-roses,
camellias, and jonquils mingled their high-born beauties with the more
homely charms of wild-flowers that grew under the shadow of the great
solemn stone-pines on the heights around, or twined their fresh
garlands over the sad ruins of the Campagna. In the hand of every
little boy and girl were bunches for sale of wild cyclamens, blue
anemones, and sweet-scented violets, surrounded by their own leaves,
and neatly tied up with thread. They had been gathered in the princely
grounds of the Doria Pamphili and Borghese villas in the neighbourhood
of Rome, which are freely opened to all, and where for many days in
February and March groups of men, women, and children may be seen
gathering vast quantities of those first-born children of the sun. The
violets, especially in these grounds, are abundant and luxuriant,
making every space of sward shadowed by the trees purple with their
loveliness, like a reflection of the violet sky that had broken in
through the lattice-work of boughs, and scenting all the air wit