SAINT JOHN DWARF.
One day a hermit father in God,
Planting in earth a pilgrim's rod,
For holy obedience did pray
Dwarf John to water it every day.
From the far river daily brought
Silent John his water-pot;
As 'twere a soul's task done for God,
For three long years he watered the rod.
When lo! the dry wood forth did shoot,
And bear of obedience flower and fruit!
Water thy barren heart with tears,
And the same shall happen in good three years.
HOW ROME LOOKED THREE CENTURIES AGO.[93]
Let us suppose a company of travellers through Italy—strangers from foreign climes, England, Germany, and France—reaching Rome at the period of the accession of Sixtus V. to the throne of St. Peter. Approaching the Eternal City by the road from the north, they find themselves before the Porta del Popolo.
Let us go in with them, and through their eyes see the Rome of that day.
On entering the gates, they pass into an open place of irregular shape. A large convent occupies nearly the entire eastern side, which, with the graceful campanile, or bell-tower, of Santa Maria del Popolo, and the high houses with wide portals between the Corso, the Ripetta, and the Babuino, are the only edifices visible. The obelisk is not yet placed there by Sixtus V., and the two little churches with their heavy cupolas, so well known to the modern tourist, and the other buildings now seen there—the work of Pius VII. and the architect Valadier—did not then exist. The Piazza del Popolo was then less symmetrical, but more picturesque. Wayfarers on horseback and on foot pass to and fro; muleteers arrive and depart, driving before them lines of mules and beasts of burden. In the centre of the place women are washing at a circular basin. Idlers follow and gaze at the strangers while they make their declaration to the bargel, or public authority, and submit their effects to the examination of the custom officials. These preliminaries through, our travellers may pass into the city by a street leading around the base of the Pincian Hill, by another going toward the Tiber, both of which have long ceased to exist, or by the well-known Corso. Some find their way to the then celebrated and already venerable hostelry,