e city's port, the "Ripetta" or quay of Rome. In
the stream there are a dozen vessels, something between barges and
coasting smacks, the largest possibly of fifty tons' burden, which have
brought marble from Carrara for the sculptors' studios. There is a
Gravesend-looking steamer too, lying off the quay, but she belongs to the
French government, and is employed to carry troops to and from Civita
Vecchia. This is all, and at this point all traffic on the Tiber ceases.
Though the river is navigable for a long distance above Rome, yet beyond
the bridge, now in sight, not a boat is to be seen except at rare
intervals. It is the Tiber surely, and not the Thames, which should be
called the "silent highway."

A few steps more and the walls on either side are replaced by houses, and
the city has begun. The houses do not improve on a closer acquaintance;
one and all look as if commenced on too grand a scale, they had ruined
their builders before their completion, had been left standing empty for
years, and were now occupied by tenants too poor to keep them from decay.
There are holes in the wall where the scaffolding was fixed, large
blotches where the plaster has peeled away; stones and cornices which
have been left unused lie in the mud before the doors. From the window-
sills and from ropes fastened across the streets flutter half-washed rags
and strange apparel. The height of the houses makes the narrow streets
gloomy even at midday. At night, save in a few main thoroughfares, there
is no light of any kind; but then, after dark at Rome, nobody cares much
about walking in out-of-the-way places. The streets are paved with the
most angular and slippery of stones, placed herringbone fashion, with ups
and downs in every direction. Foot-pavement there is none; and the
ricketty carriages drawn by the tottering horses come swaying round the
endless corners with an utter disregard for the limbs and lives of the
foot-folk. You are out of luck if you come to Rome on a "Festa" day, for
then all the shops are shut, and the town looks drearier than ever.
However, even here the chances are two to one, or somewhat more, in
favour of the day of your arrival being a working-day. When the shops
are open there is at any rate life enough of one kind or other. In most
parts the shops have no window-fronts. Glass, indeed, there is little of
anywhere, and the very name of plate-glass is unknown. The dark, gloomy
shops varying in size