s of the threads and the characteristics of the
operation can be observed on the surface of social life, Such is
the case in these days at Rome, and it is not necessary to watch the
actions of governments or listen to the discussions of legislative
chambers in order to assure one's self of the fact. One cannot walk
the streets without having the phenomena which are the outward and
visible signs of it thrust in a thousand ways on the observation
of our senses. The other day I read a whole chapter of contemporary
history compressed into the appearance of a pair of wheels engaged in
their ordinary daily duty in the streets. It was in that central and
crowded part of the city which is between the church of the Gesu and
the Farnese palace, a labyrinth of tortuous streets and lanes,
not often visited by foreigners unless when bent on some special
expedition of sight-seeing. There are no sidewalks for foot-passengers
in these streets. They are narrow, very tortuous and very crowded.
Foot-passengers and vehicles of all sorts find their way along as best
they may in one confused mass. It was there I saw the historic pair
of wheels in question. They were attached to the barrow of a
coster-monger, who was retailing a stock of onions, carrots and
"cavolo Romano" which he had just purchased at the neighboring market
of the "Campo de' Fiori." His wares, I fear, had been selected from
the refuse of the market, and he and his barrow were in a state of
dilapidated shabbiness that matched his stock in trade. But not so the
wheels on which his barrow was supported. They were wheels of the most
gorgeous description. The spokes and the circumference were painted
of the most brilliant scarlet, and the entire nave was gilded so as
to have the appearance of a solid mass of gold. It is impossible to
imagine anything more _bizarre_ than the effect of these magnificent
wheels doing the work of carrying such an equipage. Nevertheless,
the apparition seemed to attract very little attention in the crowded
street. The grand scarlet and gilded wheels flamed along among the
crowd of shabby men and shabby vehicles with their load of onions and
cabbages, and scarcely anybody turned his head to stare at them. I
suppose the denizens of the district were used to the apparition of
them. To me they looked as if they had been the originals from
which Guido Reni painted those of the car in which he has placed the
celebrated Aurora of his world-famous fresco. The