I suppose it will be sent up and filed away among the criminal archives of Rome, and will always be regarded as a mysterious infernal machine which would have blown up like a mine and scattered the good Pope all around, but for a miraculous providential interference.

And I suppose that all the time I am in Rome the police will dog me about from place to place because they think I am a dangerous character.
It is fearfully hot in Civita Vecchia.

The streets are made very narrow and the houses built very solid and heavy and high, as a protection against the heat.

This is the first Italian town I have seen which does not appear to have a patron saint.

I suppose no saint but the one that went up in the chariot of fire could stand the climate.
There is nothing here to see.