ns of the Life and Death of St. Cecilia. She
and St. Agnes are my favorite saints. I love to think of those angel
visits which her husband knew by the fragrance of roses and lilies
left behind in the apartment. I love to think of his visit to the
Catacombs, and all that followed. In one of the pictures St. Cecilia,
as she stretches out her arms toward the suffering multitude, seems
as if an immortal fount of purest love sprung from her heart. It gives
very strongly the idea of an inexhaustible love,--the only love that
is much worth thinking about.

Leaving the church, I passed along toward the Piazza del Popolo.
"Yellow Tiber rose," but not high enough to cause "distress," as he
does when in a swelling mood. I heard the drums beating, and, entering
the Piazza, I found the troops of the line already assembled, and
the Civic Guard marching in by platoons, each battalion saluted as it
entered by trumpets and a fine strain from the band of the Carbineers.

I climbed the Pincian to see better. There is no place so fine for
anything of this kind as the Piazza del Popolo, it is so full of
light, so fair and grand, the obelisk and fountain make so fine a
centre to all kinds of groups.

The object of the present meeting was for the Civic Guard and troops
of the line to give pledges of sympathy preparatory to going to the
Quirinal to demand a change of ministry and of measures. The flag of
the Union was placed in front of the obelisk; all present saluted it;
some officials made addresses; the trumpets sounded, and all moved
toward the Quirinal.

Nothing could be gentler than the disposition of those composing the
crowd. They were resolved to be played with no longer, but no
threat was uttered or thought. They believed that the court would be
convinced by the fate of Rossi that the retrograde movement it had
attempted was impracticable. They knew the retrograde party were
panic-struck, and hoped to use the occasion to free the Pope from its
meshes. All felt that Pius IX. had fallen irrevocably from his high
place as the friend of progress and father of Italy; but still he was
personally beloved, and still his name, so often shouted in hope and
joy, had not quite lost its _prestige_.

I returned to the house, which is very near the Quirinal. On one
side I could see the palace and gardens of the Pope, on the other the
Piazza Barberini and street of the Four Fountains. Presently I saw the
carriage of Prince Barberini drive hur