CHAPTER II.
ROME, February, 18--.
MY DEAR MAMMA:--Yes, it is Rome, mamma, and everybody is impressed.
The boys talk of emperors all the time; Edith is wild over Madonnas
and saints, and Mrs. Jerrold runs from Paul's house to Paul's walks and
Paul's drives and Paul's stand at the prisoner's bar, and reads the Acts
through five times a day, in the most religious and Romanistic spirit.
No one could make more fuss over a patron saint, I am sure. For my part,
I feel as if I were in the most terrible ghost story. The old Romans are
all around me. Underneath the street noises, I seem to hear cries, and
in the air I half see a constant flashing of swords and scars and blood,
and I can't even put my foot on the Roman pavement without wondering
which dead Caesar my saucy Burt boot No. 2 is walking over. I shouldn't
mind trampling old Caligula, but I don't like the thought on general
principles. I feel all out of place, so modern and fixed up and
flimsy. If I could get into old picturesque clothes and out of the
English-speaking quarter, I should not be so oppressed and might worship
Rome.
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