O Minardi! O Tenerani! O Massimo d'Azeglio! you who were present, but now dead, cannot see the amende which I make. However, you knew me later, and were aware of my repentance. But as for you, excellent Clementina—who are alive, and will read, I hope, these pages—if then you smiled with compassion, because you are so good you will to-day smile with approbation and praise.

I LOSE MY WAY.

And now, gentle reader, would you like to see how headstrong and proud I had become? One evening—Christmas Eve—I proposed to go to the midnight Mass at St Peter's. I set out at ten o'clock from the Via Condotti, where I had passed the evening with some of my English friends whom I had known in Florence. Mrs ——, to whom I had disclosed my purpose, said, "Take care! you are not much acquainted with Roman streets; you had better take a carriage to go there. If you do not, you may easily lose your way in the streets of Rome. They are very confusing by day; imagine what they are at night!" If this lady had not given me such a warning, it is probable that I should have done as she suggested; but because she had given it I despised it, and determined to go by myself to St Peter's.

MY PRIDE PUNISHED.

I walked until two o'clock without even being able to find the bridge of St Angelo. I got bewildered in all those streets and lanes which are comprised between San Luigi dei Francesi, Piazza Navona, San Andrea della Valle, San Carlo a Catinari, Teatro Argentina, Il Gesu, and San Ignazio e la Minerva; and after having walked for two hours, I found myself at the point I had started from. Then, more obstinate than ever, though overcome by weariness and mortified pride, I persisted in going up and down all sorts of streets unknown to me, and often very filthy, and again coming across the same piazze, the same fountains, until at last I found myself at the foot of the Campidoglio steps. The people whom I met in the streets here and there returning from the Mass could have shown me the way, not to go to St Peter's, but how to return to my hotel, had I been less headstrong, and had I inquired for the Piazza Colonna or Piazza di Pietra, where I lodged. But no; it appeared to me to be a humiliation. I wished to find the hotel by myself; and I did find it finally, but in what a condition I leave those to judge who know Rome, and the sharp pavements of its streets, but, above all, tired out, and more than this, humiliated and without supper. It was two o'clock. The Hotel Cesari was shut, and I had to wait until they opened it for me. I asked for supper; they replied that they had nothing, and that if they had it they could not give me anything, because they were prohibited by law from supplying any food on that night. I should have been glad of any little thing, but could get nothing. My pride was singularly punished that night, and I went to bed hungry. At first I strove in vain to go to sleep, then I dreamt all night of eating, and awoke in the morning rather late. I could not realise that I could get up and have a good breakfast. I went over again in thought the weariness of the night, the hunger, the annoyance, and I felt weak. But finally I said to myself, I will eat now, and another time I shall be wiser. Now to breakfast! After going out of the hotel, I turned to the right to go into the Osteria dell'Archetto. It was closed; the caffè next door was closed. I ran into the Piazza Colonna, and found all shut up—caffès, pastry-cooks, everything closed. I asked, angrily and with a bewilderment easy to comprehend, what was the reason of this, and was told that during the time of the religious ceremonies no one could sell anything to eat. I was stupefied, and walked along slowly, not knowing where to go. Until after twelve o'clock neither the trattorie nor the caffès would be opened. I would not go back to the hotel, as I feared a refusal such as I had the night before. I began to feel very faint; for nearly twenty hours I had eaten nothing. I saw the people gaily walking about, smiling, smoking, and looking well-fed and of good colour, and I felt angry and envious. They had eaten leisurely and at home, or in the caffè or trattoria before ten o'clock, the hour prescribed. I had slept until that hour, and dreamt of eating, and when I went out intending to get something to eat, it was too late. Fortunately, one of my friends, the engraver Travalloni, saw me, and coming to meet me, said, "What is the matter? Why do you look so scared?" I told him my story, and he laughed, and taking me by the arm, said—"Come with me." After a few turns he entered a doorway half closed, and pushed me up a dark staircase, where there were the savoury odours of cooking, all the more grateful to me because my appetite was so great. The staircase opened upon an ante-room, also dark. We closed the door and knocked at a smaller door. It was opened, and I found myself in a spacious hall, well ventilated and full of people, who were sitting eating and drinking cheerfully at table.

NOTHING TO EAT.

"What is this?" I asked. "Can I get anything to eat here?"

"Yes," he said; "give your orders."

The waiter, with a napkin over his shoulder, was standing before us. I was like a full flask which, being upturned, can with difficulty empty itself. There was such a variety of odours in the room, and such a quantity of things to eat, that I could not get out a word; and my friend, seeing my embarrassment, hastened to say to me—

A BREAKFAST.