a miserable hostelry, with the miserable diligences starting from it on alternate days, the only remains of its former posting activity.  There he arrived late in the evening, and broke his fast on a basin of bean soup, then rested on a bench, for he could not bring himself to enter the filthy bed which was alone to be obtained, and spent the following morning examining the ancient ruins, for the conveyance did not start until four o’clock in the afternoon.  When that hour came he made one of the travellers, all country folks, who were packed close as pigeons in a crate in the ramshackle, noisy, broken-down vehicle, which lumbered on its way behind its lean and suffering horses, through woods and hills and along mountain passes of a grandeur and a beauty on which the eyes of educated travellers rarely looked.

The journey by this conveyance occupied seven hours, and he was obliged to wait five more at that village station which was the nearest point at which he could meet the train which went from Terni to Rome.  Only parliamentary trains stop at such obscure places; and this one seemed to him slower even than the diligence had been.  It was crammed with country lads going to the conscription levy in the capital:  some of them drunk, some of them noisy and quarrelsome, some in tears, some silent and sullen, all of them sad company.  The dusty, stinking, sun-scorched waggons, open one to another, with the stench of hot unwashed flesh, and the clouds of dust driven through the unglazed windows, seemed to Don Silverio a hell of man’s own making, and in remembrance his empty quiet room, with its vine-hung window, at Ruscino, seemed by comparison a lost heaven.

To think that there were thousands of men who travelled thus, every day of every year, in every country, many of them from no obligation whatever, but from choice!

“What lunatics, what raving idiots we should look to Plato or to Socrates, could they see us!” he thought.  Was what is called progress anything else except increased insanity in human life?

He leaned back in his corner, and bore the dust in his eyes and his throat as best he might, and spoke a few kind words to the boys nearest to him, and felt as if every bone in his body was broken as the wooden and iron cage shook him from side to side.  The train stopped finally in that area of bricks and mortar and vulgarity and confusion where once stood the Baths of Diocletian.  It was late in the night when he heard the name of Rome.

No scholar can hear that name without emotion.  On him it smote with a keen personal pain, awakening innumerable memories, calling from their graves innumerable dreams.

He had left it a youth, filled with all the aspirations, the fire, the courage, the faith, of a lofty and spiritual temper.  He returned to it a man aged before his time, worn, weary, crushed, spiritless, with no future except death.