The Holy Week brings every year a
swarm of these locusts. Their entire _impedimenta_ consist of a
carpet-bag and an umbrella, and of course they put up at a hotel. In
fact hotels have been built on purpose to receive them. When everybody
hired houses, there was no need of hotels. The 'Minerva' is the type
of the modern Roman caravansary. Your bed is charged half-a-crown per
night; you dine in a refectory with a traveller at each elbow. The
character of the travelling class which invades Rome about Easter is
illustrated by the conversation which you hear going on around you at
the _table d'hote_ of the 'Minerva.' The following is a specimen:--
One says triumphantly, "I have _done_ two museums, three galleries,
and four ruins, to-day."
"I stuck to the churches," says another, "I had floored seventeen by
one o'clock."
"The deuce you had! You keep the game alive."
"Yes, I want to have a whole day left for the suburbs."
"Oh, burn the suburbs! I've got no time to see them."
If I have a day to spare, I must devote it to _buying chaplets_."[5]
"I suppose you've seen the Villa Borghese?"
"Oh yes, I consider that in the city, although it is in fact outside
the walls."
"How much did they charge you for going over it?"
"A paul."
"I paid two--I've been robbed."
"As for that, they're all robbers."
"You're right, but the sight of Rome is worth all it costs."
Shades of the travellers of the olden time--delicate, subtle, genial
spirits--what think you of conversations such as this? Surely you must
opine that your footmen knew Rome better, and talked more to the
purpose about it.
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