not suffer much from their exposure on the streets and squares.
Some years ago the police endeavored to introduce a reform. The beggars were provided with shelter and food, but, at the same time kept within bounds. But they would not endure the confinement. One old woman threw herself out of the window and was killed by the fall. After this no attempt was made to circumscribe the freedom of the beggars. And they are not pertinacious, and do not persecute you as at Pisa. Each one has his own post and seat, and he calls upon the passers by. (For the peace of my own conscience, I give a bajocco daily.) At noon the gates of the Capuchin convents are opened, and bread and soup are dealt out—which they, on their part, have begged—to the hungry, who gather round their steps. The soup may be meagre enough, but still it is something. The poor human sparrows are accustomed to be satisfied with the crumbs of life. The sun, the air, freedom, that delicious far niente, give them enough to make them enjoy life. A miserable life, it is true, but————
I will now speak of the strangers in Rome.
Whilst these, during the day, throng the museums, visit churches and promenades, social life opens for them, in the evening, its saloons, and people talk there pleasantly over their tea, confectionary, and ices; or the theatres also invite them by music—sometimes very good—or by tragedies of Alfieri, or comedies by Goldoni. Even Jenny and I, have our rich share in this festal life. In the evening, however, I prefer remaining at home, sitting by the fire in our drawing-
