of a respectability which is a little higher than the tram and financially not quite equal to the cab.  Then, at that magic touch of the west wind the house-fly retires to his own peculiar Inferno, wherever that may be, the mosquito and the gnat pause in their work of darkness and blood to concert fresh and more bloodthirsty deeds, and even the joyous and wicked flea tires of the war dance and lays down his weary head to snatch a hard-earned nap.  July drags on, and terrible August treads the burning streets bleaching the very dust up on the pavement, scourging the broad campagna with fiery lashes of heat.  Then the white-hot sky reddens in the evening when it cools, as the white iron does when it is taken from the forge.  Then at last, all those who can escape from the condemned city flee for their lives to the hills, while those who must face the torment of the sun and the poison of the air turn pale in their sufferings, feebly curse their fate and then grow listless, weak and irresponsible as over-driven galley slaves, indifferent to everything, work, rest, blows, food, sleep and the hope of release.  The sky darkens suddenly.  There is a sort of horror in the stifling air.  People do not talk much, and if they do are apt to quarrel and sometimes to kill one another without warning.  The plash of the fountains has a dull sound like the pouring out of molten lead.  The horses’ hoofs strike visible sparks out of the grey stones in broad daylight.  Many houses are shut, and one fancies that there must be a dead man in each whom no one will bury.  A few great drops of rain make ink-stains on the pavement at noon, and there is an exasperating, half-sulphurous smell abroad.  Late in the afternoon they fall again.  An evil wind comes in hot blasts from all quarters at once—­then a low roar like an earthquake and presently a crash that jars upon the overwrought nerves—­great and plashing drops again, a sharp short flash—­then crash upon crash, deluge upon deluge, and the worst is over.  Summer has received its first mortal wound.  But its death is more fatal than its life.  The noontide heat is fierce and drinks up the moisture of the rain and the fetid dust with it.  The fever-wraith rises in the damp, cool night, far out in the campagna, and steals up to the walls of the city, and over them and under them and into the houses.  If there are any yet left in Rome who can by any possibility take themselves out of it, they are not long in going.  Till that moment, there has been only suffering to be borne; now, there is danger of something worse.  Now, indeed, the city becomes a desert inhabited by white-faced ghosts.  Now, if it be a year of cholera, the dead carts rattle through the streets all night on their way to the gate of Saint Lawrence, and the workmen count their numbers when they meet at dawn.  But the bad days are not many, if only there be rain enough, for a little is worse than none.  The nights lengthen and the September gales sweep away the poison-mists