It was a fortnight later that we paid our visit to Frascati, not proudly
motoring now, but traversing the Campagna on the roof of a populous
tram-car, which in its lofty narrowness was of the likeness of an
old-fashionable lake propeller. The morning was, like most other
mornings in Rome, of an amiability which the afternoons often failed of;
but none of us passengers for Frascati doubted its promise as we
gathered at the tram-station and tried for tickets at the little booth
in a wall sparely containing the official who bade us get them in the
car. We all did this, whatever our nation--American, English, German, or
Italian--and then we mounted to the hurricane-deck of our propeller and
entered into a generous rivalry for the best seats. We had a roof over
our heads, and there were curtains which we might have drawn if we could
have borne to lose a single glimpse of the landscape, or if we would not
rather have suffered the chill which our swift progress evoked from the
morning's warmth after we left the shelter of the city streets.
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