the
slope between the Pincian and Quirinal hills, situated about
three-quarters of a mile from the church outside the Porta del Popolo.
This distance I had to traverse every Sunday morning; and I love
frequently to shut my eyes and picture the streets through which I
passed, and the old well-known look of the houses and monuments. There
is not a more delightful walk in the world than that; and I know not
where within such a narrow compass could be found so many objects of
the most thrilling interest. For three months, from the beginning of
February to the end of April, twice, and sometimes four times, every
Sunday, I passed that way, going to or returning from church, until I
became perfectly familiar with every object; and associations of my
own moods of mind and heart mingled with the grander associations
which every stone recalled, and are now inextricably bound up with
them. With one solitary exception, when the weather in its chill winds
and gloomy clouds reminded me of my native climate, all the Sundays
were beautiful, the sun shining down with genial warmth, and the sky
overhead exhibiting the deep violet hue which belongs especially to
Italy. The house in which I lived had on either side of the entrance a
picture-shop; and this was always closed, as well as most of the other
places of business along the route. The streets were remarkably quiet;
and all the circumstances were most favourable for a meditative walk
amid such magnificent memories. The inhabitants of Rome pay respect to
the Sunday so far as abstaining from labour is concerned; but they
make up for this by throwing open their museums and places of interest
on that day, which indeed is the only day in which they are free to
the public; and they take a large amount of recreation for doing a
small amount of penance in the interests of religion. Still there is
very little bustle or traffic in the streets, especially in the
morning; and one meets with no more disagreeable and incongruous
interruptions on the way to church in the Eternal City than he does at
home. At the head of the Capo le Case is a small church, beside an old
ruinous-looking wall of tufa, covered with shaggy pellitory and other
plants, which might well have been one of the ramparts of ancient
Rome. It is called San Guiseppe, and has a faded fresco painting on
the gable, representing the Flight of the Holy Family into Egypt,
supposed to be by Frederico Zuccari, whose own house--similarly
d