One day is so like another that to see one is to have seen all.

The length of the Corso there saunters listlessly an idle, cloak-wrapt, hands-in-pocket-wearing, cigar-smoking, shivering crowd, composed of French soldiers and the rif-raff of Rome, the proportion being one of the former to every two or three of the latter.

The balconies, which grow like mushrooms on the fronts of every house, in all out-of-the-way places and positions, are every now and then adorned with red hangings.

These balconies and the windows are scantily filled with shabbily-dressed persons, who look on the scene below as spectators, not as actors.

At rare intervals a carriage passes.