ROME.

“long disquietMerged in rest.”

Angelo is bending down, with his lips touching her folded hands and his countenance knotted with grief and the heavy sense of loss. Ah! no future would ever be to him like the past! I felt his loss like my own; and the tears sprang quick and blinding. This was the only picture of them all I brought away with me. At the Museum, the Pompeian frescoes, the Farnese Hercules Bull, made the deepest impression. One of the frescoes, a Nereid on the back of a sea panther, I tried to get a photograph of, but failed. You know Donneker’s Ariadne? I think he must have got the idea from this, andas I have it in ivory—the most perfect little gem—I wanted this too. I saw a very curious and interesting spectacle in one of the churches, St. Dominico, in the sacristy: the coffin of the Marchese di Pescara, Vittoria Colonna’s husband. It was one of a number, ten of which contained the remains of kings and queens, placed around the walls just below the ceiling. They had faded scarlet covers. On his was an inscription by Aristo; above it, his portrait; at one end, his banner; and attached to the side, his sword. Everything concerning that noble woman is of the deepest interest to me; so I made a pilgrimage to see the portrait and coffin of the lover-husband she has embalmed in her verses.

The rain continuing, we “broke up camp,” and went to Pompeii. It poured for a day and a half there; and then the sun burst forth and I spent all Sunday in that exhumed city. Impossible to convey the slightest idea of the fascination of it. Come and try it for yourself. At night Vesuvius added the strange and rather terror-inspiring charm of its glowing crater, slow-flowing lava and brilliant column of smoke rising far aloft. It kept me going to my window all night. I’ll tell you about it some day. Next to La Cava,a beautiful town in a vale surrounded by chains of the most picturesque mountain peaks. There it rained and snowed again—snowed heavily on the mountain tops. All the vale was dressed in the “living green” of mid-spring. The snow in it was a March flurry. From there we had a lovely drive—a Cornichean drive—around the headlands of the sea to Amalfi. Read Longfellow’s poem “Amalfi.” I clambered to the Convent (now a hotel) for the view and lunch. Both were incomparable. Read the poem copied in the Guest-book and shown with great pride, and left as Eve left Paradise, “with reluctant steps and slow.” Next day, Paestum! Oh! those inexpressible ruins! What an elementworshiphas been in the life of our race. I never realized this more deeply than in those majestic old temples. I gatheredacanthusfrom crevices in the crumbling columns and stones of the floors. Next day Castellamare and Sorrento, with another ideal drive between them. At the latter, I went to the finest orange grove in that district, and gathered oranges from the trees for myself. Ah! that was fruit fit for the gods. Naples again and rain. I waited two more days for Capri in vain. Spent them at the Museum, where I fell in love again—and this time with youth and beauty, a bronze statuette of Narcissus listening to Echo. If I gave myself leave howIcouldraveaboutit. I got every photograph I could find and mean to have a copy if I can find one. It was found in Pompeii. What lovers of beauty peopled that ill-fated city.

I have been here since Saturday. Sunday was Palm Sunday at St. Peter’s. I went. The grand edifice did not disappoint. The ceremonies and music did. Shall I send you a leaf of the consecrated palm? Monday was spent in getting settled. Tuesday, the Albani Villa. To-day, the Sistine Chapel and Raphael’s Transfiguration at the Vatican; and Guido’s Aurora at the Rospigliosi Palace.

Have I ever told you how I wished with a passionate intensity to spend a full winter in Rome? and now I am having the fulfillment. Almost I can believe Goethe, “Time brings the fulfillment of what is passionately longed for when we are young.” Those are not his words perhaps, but they convey his idea. When I first read them twenty or twenty-five years ago, I did not agree with him. Curious that the flight of time which has made me reject faith in the principle of compensation, should make me a believer in that.

“Whoever,” says Chateaubriand, “has nothing else left in life should come to Rome to live; there he will find for society a land which will nourish his reflections, walks which will always tell him something new.” Read again what Hawthorne says in “The Marble Faun,” that after one has lived in Rome and talked it and left it, he is astonished to find his “heartstrings have mysteriously attached themselves to” it “and are drawing him thitherward again, as if it were more familiar—more intimately his home than even the spot where he was born.” Do you know I feel every word of this! If you want to have a touch of this Roman fever read, stopping to make pictures to your mind’s eye as you read “The Marble Faun,” Hans Andersen’s “Improvisatore,” Storey’s “Robe di Roma,” and Ouida’s “Ariadne.” This last you must give me your opinion of. I have been to all the places she names; almost to all each names. The weather is mild, generally sunshine to make one think the worship of that luminary not the worst the world has ever known.

Spring flowers are thick everywhere. Yesterday brought such a cleverletter from Miss D——. I think I must quote a bit or two to give you “a taste of her quality.”

I had sent some Xmas souvenirs to her and her sisters. Of the younger two—very young—she said: “You should have seen D—— and M—— when they told their friends, ‘My cousin in Paris sent me this,’ with the air of being thankful that they were not as other little girls that had no cousin in Paris.”

L. G. C.

Rome, March 19, 1883.

Image appearing here not available for display

WE spent a day at Amalfi. From La Cava, a pretty town in an extensive vale shut in with the most picturesque chains of mountains, we took an open carriage for the three hours’ drive. It soon struck the seacoast and wound all the rest of the way around its headlands, doubling its promontories, retreating into its bays and inlets and dropping almost to the water’s edge, and presently mounting upward into almost Alpine heights. The headlands and cliffs were frequently broken into every imaginable form of rock sculpture—columns, cones, pyramids, grottoes and castellated walls of defense and fantastic ruins. The sea beat the shore, here, a sheer precipice, and there a white sanded beach, then rolled away a tangled mass of the most exquisite and innumerable shades of blue, green, purple, black, gold and silver. The coast stretched around in a vast semi-circle of silver till it lost itself in the misty horizon. Little villages lay at our feet, ran up the hill-sides with their terraces oforange-groves, or clung to the cliffs far overhead like martins’ nests in winter. A long range of snow-capped mountains reared themselves above Salerno, and sent us an icy blast now and then. There had been quite a snow the day before. We rattled up to our “albergo” at eleven. This was at the foot of the hill; our destination was an old monastery of the Capucins, now a hotel, of which this was the porter’s lodge. The same proprietor conducts both. He met us with the welcome accorded to favored guests, and gave us a guide, and we were off at once.

The practical should not be neglected entirely for the picturesque, so, we “took in” on our way, a macaroni factory. We saw the flour, then the kneading, last the moulding. The kneading is quite peculiar, and a long and fatiguing part. There is a flat, round table with a beam that works on and around it, the dough being placed between. Six youths of eighteen or twenty were on the end and worked it up and down and back and forth. The whole had a joint resemblance to a grist-mill and the game of see-sawing. The boys were bare-legged and looked very clean and cool. When the dough is sufficiently kneaded, it istransferred to the mould. This is a cylindrical-shaped machine, filled with the small cylinders through which the dough is forced to convert it into the little tubes with which we are so familiar. The dough is placed on one end and the pressure applied, which forces it through. The several squads of workmen are very eager to show off at their best, their palms tingling, no doubt, in expectation of the accustomed fee.

Leaving this factory, we began climbing steps. The monastery is the hollow of a rock, which rises abruptly from the sea, has cloisters, a veranda, a “terrace-walk,” a kind of collonade, and from innumerable points the most charming views. Longfellow had been there ahead of me, for which I “returned thanks” on finding in the guest-book his poem “Amalfi.” As I read it my eyes went wandering over all therein so felicitously described. The salon was the refectory of the monks, and each window, glazed to the floor, opened on a veranda. I shut myself out on one, and, leaning on its solid stone balustrade, gave myself up to the dreamy fascination of the “enchanted land.” Do read the poem, and try to picture each feature with your mind’s eye. The description is perfect. After lingering till the very last moment, wefound our guide, and took another route to the albergo, where we had left our carriage.

Whether the descent to Avernus is easy or not depends upon the grade of descent. That was not many degrees removed from “sheer.” Believe me, it was not “easy.” It dropped us on the beach, and the “white-caps” gave us close chase here and there. Nothing to compare, though, to that of a battalion of little beggars who became so importunate, we had to turn our umbrellas into weapons of both defense and attack, whereupon they yelled and shouted with laughter. So we parted “merry foes,” if neither side could boast a triumph.

The earth never saw a more perfect morning than the following. That was to be our Paestum day. Our host, a number of countrymen and countrywomen, even the station porter who carried our lunch basket to a carriage on the train which was to take us part of the way—one and all exclaimed: “How fortunate you are! You could not have a more splendid day to see the ruins.” Fourteen miles by rail and then a carriage again for a drive of two and a half hours. The sea was “radiantly beautiful,” a wide expanse of flashing wavelets. Leaving it, the route crossedmarshy plains, occasionally dotted with small herds of buffaloes and other cattle. The mountains kept along with us, gradually diminishing in height until they sank into the low coast. After awhile the first glimpse of the temples. That was a sensation! It is said of these temples that they were built in the ancient Greek style, and are, with the exception of those at Athens, the finest existing monuments of the kind. The temple of Neptune is the largest and most beautiful of the three. Its magnitude, massiveness and grandeur, added to the purpose for which it was erected—the worship of a deity—make it the most imposing ruin I have seen. This last makes the wide difference between it and the Coliseum, for which, had it that consecration, there would be no words. I wandered round, through it, gathered wild acanthus from crevices in its columns and clefts in its floor; gazed at the near sea at one end, passing an arm round one of its mighty symmetrical columns, not encircling it, you may be sure, as the diameter is seven and a half feet; followed the slow grazing of sheep on those once-sacred grounds; sat down on the broken and half-buried steps inside, and looked up at

Image not available for display: Pantheon, Rome.Pantheon, Rome.

the intense blue of Italy’s noon-day sky; went to different points around it to get every aspect of

“That noble wreck of ruinous perfection,”

and felt it impossible to sufficiently admire it. The Basilica near by is also of great magnitude, but less and not so majestic in its proportions. The third is the Temple of Ceres. It is comparatively small, but full of simple majesty. As I looked at these wonderful ruins, what most strangely moved me was an appreciation of the power and glory of man, and the recognition of what an element worship has been in the history of our race.

Another was my Sorrento day, which meant one of those ideal drives called “Cornichean,” because of the road’s projecting like a cornice from the headlands and precipitous hill-sides. In some places, the road is cut out of the solid rock; in others, it pierces it, forming beautiful arches, but always keeping the sea in view. This kept also Ischia, Capri and Vesuvius before the charmed gaze. No other point commands such fine and complete outlines of Vesuvius—its perfect gradual upward sweep and swell from the water’s edge to its cone, with the ever-rising column of smoke. Part of this drive takes itsway through orange and olive groves and mulberry trees, figs, pomegranates and aloes, mingled in delicious suggestiveness. The town itself is small, and situated amid these delightful groves, rather orchards, on rocks rising abruptly from the sea, with deep ravines on the other side. It was the birthplace of Tasso; and it is said, the house in which he was born and the rock on which it stood have been swallowed up by the sea, and that the ruins are still visible beneath its clear blue waters. Nearly the entire sea-front is occupied by hotels, situated in gardens, with steps descending to the sea; and bathing establishments commanding magnificent views. We visited its shops, celebrated for their inlaid and carved wooden work and silks.

My second trial of Naples was as unsatisfactory as the first. It rained in torrents, and then I “gave up in despair.” The trip from Naples back to Rome almost made me forget my grievance. It was full of historic interest and association. We passed “ancient Capua,” where Spartacus led in the war of the gladiators. Just this side of it is a district so productive it yields two crops of grain and one of hay in the same season. We had a splendid view of the celebrated monastery of Monte Casino, situatedon the top of a lofty hill. It is founded on the site of an ancient temple of Apollo, to which Dante alludes in his “Paradiso.” Thomas Aquinas was educated there. Varro’s villa was near, and it is to one of its abbots that the world is indebted for the preservation of his works. Its library is celebrated for its manuscripts, and some of them suggested to Dante his great works. In sight was Aquino, the birthplace of both Thomas Aquinas and Juvenal.

Rome. Here, in the “Eternal City.” Every day is one to be chronicled. The day after I came was Palm Sunday. I went to St. Peter’s to see both it and the ceremonies of the distribution of consecrated palms. I will not describe St. Peter’s. Had I not already seen Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s and all the other most celebrated English cathedrals, no doubt the impression would have been overwhelming. The ceremonies were very unimposing; the music was not extraordinary; high mass was performed in one of the chapels, which dwarfed it to a very commonplace performance; and the distribution of palms was done by children, poor, forlorn-looking friars and licensed peddlers, the consecration having been previously done by one of the cardinals.

While the services were being performed in the chapel, people were walking and rambling all over the rest of the vast temple, and unless quite close to it, might have been quite unaware that anything was going on within. As no seats were provided, I went out and joined the ramblers. Presently I came upon the bronze statue of St. Peter, the toes of which are being worn away by the kisses of the devout. I found a seat and sat down to look on. Every class and grade was represented, from prince and princess to pauper and villain, the former using their dainty perfumed handkerchiefs to wipe a spot before touching their lips to it; the latter, their ragged and tainted sleeves. One young priest wiped the side of the foot and kissed it, instead of the much-imposed-upon toes.

To the end of “Holy Week,” I devoted myself to seeing its various services. Each church has its special services. In that of St. Apollonari, the washing and kissing the feet of the disciples is done by a cardinal. I waited through a prolonged service of nearly four hours to witness it. There were thirteen youthful priests seated in a row on a bench raised two steps above the floor for the greater convenience of the rather too fat father. Each in successionthrust out a bare foot as he knelt, then washed, wiped, and, so far as I could see, gave an honest kiss. There was a crimson satin cushion for him to kneel on, which, however, the attending priests forgot to move along for him, so he had to use the bare floor. I was suspicious enough to think the omission was intentional. All his gorgeous vestments were removed while he was doing this, and he looked a very plain, humble creature indeed.

In another was high mass and the showing of part of the cross to which Christ was bound to be scourged. This church is opened but the once in the year, and then only to ladies. No man can enter under pain of excommunication. The other part of the cross is in Jerusalem. I urged a very agreeable elderly English lady to go to see it. For reply, she looked at me with a twinkle in her shrewd eyes, and said: “I am not going to spend my time in any such tomfoolery as that.” What a homelike sound her unvarnished English had!

In yet another there was a grand ceremony of showing the heads of St. Peter and St. Paul—a ghastly spectacle at best. But the glory has departed from Catholicism in Rome.“Holy Week” is a very tame period now-a-days. One could be here and not hear of it. Indeed, it was with great difficulty that we could get any accurate information of its program. In only one church was there a jam. The pope never shows himself; his seclusion is said to be absolute. All of the grandest spectacles and ceremonies are omitted, so “Holy Week” is rapidly ceasing to be an attraction.

We had a delightful drive on the Via Appia, that old Roman road, built three hundred and twelve years before Christ, that even to-day, is called the “queen of roads.” This is the finest of the near excursions in the Campagna, the ruins of the aquaducts, mountains and villages, while the remains of ancient tombs on each side of the road are a unique and singularly fascinating feature. We took it in to visit the catacombs of St. Callistus; the tomb of Caecillia Metella; the grotto and grove of Egeria. Stopping at the Catacombs, we were provided with wax tapers and guides and plunged down a precipitous stairway, and in a moment would have been plunged in Plutonian darkness but for these little lights that only served “to make darkness more visible.” Next came threading our way through narrow, tortuous passages,

Image not available for display: Strada dei Sepolcri (Street of Tombs), Pompeii.Strada dei Sepolcri (Street of Tombs), Pompeii.

single file, coming occasionally to tombs of some extent, containing the bodies of popes, saints and “other people.” In several of these were paintings, the subjects of which were still quite easily made out. Some of the decorative inscriptions date as far back as the fourth century, and the frescoes to the seventh and eighth. In one chamber are two sarcophagi still containing the skeletons of the deceased, which are seen through a glass cover; one looking like a mummy, the other very much crumbled. The guide hurried us, so the visit was rather confusing, and I came out. The tomb of Caecillia Metella was a fascination to me I was scarcely prepared for, notwithstanding my remembrance of Childe Harold’s famous description. To reach the Grotto of Egeria, we had to take a walk through some fields, and descend a hill into a ravine through which a little brook, the Almo, flows in an artificial channel. The Grotto is not large, but very beautiful, draped with ivy over the entire arch of the opening. On the wall facing the entrance is a mutilated statue. The fountain bursts from the wall to the right of it about four or five feet from the floor. A peasant was filling his vessels from it and he gave us a drink. It was clear,cool and of pleasant flavor. Thence a further walk along the brook and the ascent of not a very high hill, led to a grove of thick and striking ilex trees. They are of great size and evergreen. I went under every tree to be sure I did not miss that at whose roots Numa learned his lessons of wisdom.

“Egeria, sweet creation,Whatsoever thy birth,Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.”

L. G. C.

Rome, April 4, 1883.

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YOU see you did right about the address, sending the letter to care of Paris banker. I have it, and it came “on time,” good time, not loitering by the way or flying off at a tangent. The one point I object to is the soft rebuke to me for not having specified an address. I had given you all that I expected to. It is too much of a risk to change my address with the changes of place of such a vagrant.Now, stick to H. & Co., etc., till I write you to do otherwise. You will be a sharp, yes, pre-destinated fault-finder if you can hook a grumble on that. I defy you. Thanks for your appreciation of the letter! I am sure I did not mean anything so extraordinary. You say so many pleasant things, I cannot ignore them, as is my wont. I hope you are like Lady Geraldine, who

“Said such good things natural,As if she always thought them.”

Anyhow, it is wonderfully exhilarating tofeel I have put out the Bermuda burner. Her scintillations were vastly oppressive.

I have recently been reveling in Guercino’s fresco of Aurora, widely different from Guido’s famous one, but I think I like it quite as much. Aurora herself is the central figure, a lovely, radiant creature embodying all the glimmer, glow and glamor of the dawn, seated in her car drawn by two splendid steeds, mottled with the dusk they were scattering and the light they were heralding. She was dropping flowers as she sped onward; a lovely cherub hovered in the air before stretching chaplets of exquisite flowers toward her; another, nestling in the cloudy folds of her drapery behind, looked over the edge of the car right into my eyes with his that seemed just as living. Do not tell on me; but I make rosebuds of my lips at him every time we catch each other’s eyes, and he seems to enjoy the pantomine. Just in front of the horses’ heads, the earliest hours, bewitching young maidens, are putting out the stars, each with extended forefinger and thumb, flashing lightly up to the pretty sparks. It looks the most fascinating “task to do.” You cannot help feeling a quiver in your own fingers to try it. Away ahead of all a bat is flying from the cominglight. You think in a flash of that beautiful song:

“Come into the garden, Maud,The black bat, Night, is fled.”

And now the quiver in my finger is gone:

I have put out that transcendant Star that made a “vexed Bermoothes” ofme!

And I hope Guercino’s manes will take no offense at this association of ideas!

Ah! this imperial Rome—this unapproachable queen of the earth—every day I am more and more overcome by “the toils of her beauty” and enchantments. The magic of yesterday is lost in that of to-day; and for that of to-morrow I shall be dumb, having no words to express it. I wonder how anyone can ever get free from her wonderful fetters forged of everything that adds charm to life. From the deep blue of its sky, the crystalline dazzle of its atmosphere, the unutterable fusion “of all the hues of all the earth,” and the varied outline of hill and vale and mount and wide-spread campagna—all this, just the mere outside, the physical Rome, to her treasures of myths, history, etc., everything you know, why attempt to enumerate? She is in everything—“Mistress of the World.” I, for one, am her willingest, lealest, lovingest subjector slave, as you will. It seems to me at times as if of all I have ever known there is nothing very worthy that has not some associations with her. Living within her walls brings out all that was written long ago on the memory, but grown from the lapse of time and the swift succession of experiences into an “invisible writing,” as it were. Yes, brings it out just as heat will bring that out. At every turn there is a great name, or some great monument of the mighty dead, and as you pause to look you ponder and remember what made the name great, who built the great monument, who indeed were the mighty dead! Sometimes you know so much it is a kind of intoxicating joy. Oh! yes; many times—most times of course, you know so little.

Do not think of being afraid or ashamed of admitting that. And then such a hunger and thirst as takes possession of you for knowledge, more knowledge, and yet more and more. The hunger and thirst of one perishing in the desert can but faintly shadow this forth. You think of that wonder-story of Eve, and the condemnation of her that has been a birth-right and grown with your orthodox growth, insensibly softens into sympathy. Presently you will findyourself admitting you too might have—yes, would have eaten that apple! For it meant—knowledge, more knowledge! I—I—am shocking you. Well, come thou also, and see if it be possible not to rave—

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Are you in the mood for a tramp? Come, let’s be off. There is an old church—S. Onofrio, on the slope of the Janiculus we ought to see. It is off to the west, no great distance from St. Peter’s. TheSalita(or ascent) is steep. It is a warm, relaxing day—do not go too fast; you will get into a perspiration if you do, and then you will have to take care of a breeze or a draught, and maybe catch cold, after all. Best not hurry. What is there up there, anyhow?Why—ever so many things you would not miss for—anything. The quaintest old structure dating from 1439—ahead of America! and built in honor of Honophrius, whose story is disgusting to me; but let that go. Here is what I like better. Tasso lived there—I do not know how long—and died there. The whole place is far more full of, and fragrant with, his memory than that of the saint. The chapel in which he is buried has an immense affair in theway of a monument. It is not considered a work of “high art,” so we shall not linger.

Here in a chapel beside his is the tomb of Mezzofanti, the linguist; a simple slab in the floor, with the name and dates. I like it. Somehow I am in such a fever to go on. I do not care much for the pictures, though some have great names. Here—through this corridor. It leads to the “cell” which Tasso occupied and in which he died. The custodian opens the door. I step in first, and involuntarily step back. Facing me is a full-length fresco portrait of the poet on the wall, so life-like, for the moment the illusion is complete. In the center of the room is his bust. It was taken from the cast of his face in death; it is in a glass case. On the wall behind is another glass case, in which is an autograph letter, much tattered and torn and yellow with age. There are also his gloves, belt, etc. Ranged against the wall and protected by a railing are some large, square, leather-covered chairs, in frames of oak or walnut, with gold-gilt ornamentation. On another side, also in a large glass cabinet, is the coffin in which he was first interred. The “cell” itself is a good-sized room, with three windows, two commanding fine, extensive views. There is agarden attached, with a riven oak, the remains of that under which Tasso used to sit. We must go and sit there too. The walk lies between large beds of growing vegetables. You see ahead your goal—a sharp little rise, from the side of which, half-way up, leans out remains of the tree. On one side is an old wall, rather a fragment; on the other, some steep, high steps, up which you know you will have to toil “for the view.” Almost in a breath you are doing it, and—ugh! at every step a swarm of glancing lizards! I cry: “Look out for the lizards!” A lady ahead of me, already at the top, seated on a part of the wall, says coolly, if encouragingly: “You know they are harmless. Why are you afraid?” I protest: “I am not afraid; but a lady carried one home with her yesterday in the folds of her skirts, and it was there ever so long, I know. I don’t wish the experience of a lizard for a vade mecum.” So I gather my skirts close and above my boot-tops, and do not miss the view indeed; but neither do I those legions in their brilliant uniform of green spotted with gold. And the view! St. Peter’s on the left, still farther west; the city to the east, with its innumerable domes and spires; and far beyond, the beautiful mountains, some of theirtops lost in the blue mist; and overhead, the broad arms of the oak, with their budding sprays. The warm air makes you feel a curious languor. You too sit down, feeling as if you were swooning into that noontide. Only a moment, though—those lizards!

It is time to go. You make the circuit of the gnarled roots; try to break off a bit of the riven edges, to find them as hard as adamant; look up and sigh to find the leaves quite beyond reach; then turn away for good and all. After a step or so, you find you are still clutching at your skirts! And as you reach the walk again, the other lady looks back and says meekly and deprecatingly, “I feel as if I had a thousand lizards on me.” One can forgive the answering peal of laughter; it is meriment only, not triumph. Then both gave wings to their feet! Canyoukeep up? I lay a wager you think you can!

Then anotherprowl. Do you not want to see that statue of Pompey, “at whose base Great Caesar fell?” I have thought of it and of “Great Caesar” many times. Indeed, it is one of the first thoughts when one sees the forum. The statue is in the Palazzo Spada; is in an immense ante-room. It needs to be, so

Image not available for display: Quirinal, Rome.Quirinal, Rome.

colossal is the statue. The workmanship is not considered very fine, but a strong interest must always attach to it on account of the association. The Palazzo is well situated, but it is near the Jew quarter called the Ghetto, and which is one of the characteristic sights. The street is narrow and tortuous, winding between houses six and seven stories high. The dwellers live literally out-doors, for even if inside the house, it is all wide open. The women are sitting, plying their various avocations, all seeming to be made up in some way of old, filthy clothes. The men are roving about just as busily. The children are at play so thick, there is some discretion required to enable one to thread his way without stepping on them. All are unkempt, unwashed, unattractive. Both smells and looks are revolting. Curiosity is soon satisfied. We hurry. Just ahead of us is the house of Rienzi, and near by a pretty little ruined temple called that of Vesta; these are on the bank of the Tiber, and just at the foot, as it were, of the Palatine. Further on is the Protestant cemetery, where are buried Keats and theheartof Shelley. I have been to both. Fresh flowers were lying on the slab over the latter, while the grave of Keats was a mass ofsweet violets. There is a neat hedge around it, and everything betokens kindly and constant care. Poor fellow! His name isnotwritten in water. Oh! but I must break off. There is no end to all I wish I could tell you. I sympathize with you in the loss of that lovely woman, Mrs. D——. Such a frail, tender life; the wonder is it has lasted so long. I had heard something of what you mention. Believe

“It is better to have loved and lostThan never to have loved at all.”

Yes, the added verse is an immortality. May I indeed be there to hear, and all our “beautiful beloved” who have gone before. You did not mention our dear one, Miss B——. Do you know anything about her? I have had no letter since I wrote to you, but so many of my letters do not reach me, I attach no blame to her, only I wish so much to hear. And will you make the race for governor? If so, I will put up special prayers for your election. Then if you are elected, you will invite us two to visit you in that castle made without hands. Won’t you, please. Thanking you for all your kindly expressions and injunctions.

L. G. C.

Rome, April 24, 1883.

IN Rome still, but this is my last week. Were I to write many books, I could not get in the half of these wonder days in this queen city of the world. Yes, crowned so long ago, she still wears her royal diadem, and will wear it even as the old lines have it:

“While Rome stands, the world stands!”

I have made the rounds of the churches, that of the galleries and museums, that of the villas and palaces, and finally that of the—shops. Take notice, that of the studios, is omitted; not because it was not made, but because it was confined to four. Such a four, though! One can hardly realize any were left out. Be sure they will come in for ample mention. Will it seem sacrilegious to admit several hours of one afternoon were devoted to the Lateran, and the rest to watching the queen and “lesser mortals” coming home from the races? Life is a very mixed sort of affair here—“Motley’s the wear,” indeed,and there’s nothing to be done but “Being in Rome to do as Romans do.” The only saving clause is I did not hurry through the church because of the carnival ahead.

I began with the Piazza di San Giovanni and its great obelisk—“the largest in existence,” erected some fifteen hundred years ago by an Egyptian king in front of the Temple of the Sun, at Thebes. I felt that it had strayed “far away from its native heath.” This is one of eleven obelisks brought from far eastern climes to grace this imperial city. The conqueror has a right to his spoils, I suppose, or this might be called vandalism. In the Baptistery, I saw the font of green basalt in which tradition says Constantine was baptized; and in its several chapels, Mosaic frescoes dating as far back as the Fifth century. They were more curious than beautiful, the figures representing Christ, apostles and saints, being decidedly of a caricature order. But one—flowers and birds on a gold ground, and another—golden arabesques on a blue ground—were more successful, indeed beyond criticism. I lingered long at the foot of Santa Scala, “that flight of twenty-eight marble steps from the palace of Pilate at Jerusalem, which Christ is said to have ascendedonce,” and which are now set aside for the devout to ascend on their knees only. Many were doing it as I watched—men, women and children; old and young; rich and poor. To the looker-on it would seem rather an acrobatic feat, than an act of devotion.

At five o’clock, we took our station on the wayside, one of a “jam” of carriages to wait for the coming of the royal cortege! In the intervals of waiting, I amused myself pointing out the coroneted equipages; they clustered around, their occupants apparently quite as eager as we to see the spectacle. Presently the chatter was hushed; eye-glasses of all kinds were adjusted; everybody’s gaze was on the Porta San Giovanni; a flash of scarlet shot through its arch; the jockey who always precedes the queen’s carriage, itself with its four steeds, most richly caparisoned—the coachman and two footmen in the brilliant scarlet uniform of the queen; and inside, the beautiful, gracious, happy-looking Marguerite, a queen indeed, if looks and bearing count! She bowed so queenly, and smiled so womanly, right and left, I no longer wonder that her subjects worshipher. A number of gorgeous equipages followed; the pageant swept on, and the chill dusk hurried us home.

Another church was the quaint old building of St. Onofrio, on the Janiculus. It was reared to commemorate the piety of that saint, shown by a life of sixty years’ hermitage in the desert, reducing himself to the level of the brute creation. I confess my pilgrimage to his shrine was not from sympathy with any such idea of piety. Nor has it much in the way of art. Three frescoes by Domenichino, and one fresco, faded and injured by retouching, by Leonardo da Vinci, are all worth speaking of. But Tasso is buried there, and the cell he occupied is shown, full of souvenirs of him. It is a large room, with three windows, and commands some fine views. The souvenirs are a fresco portrait of him, life-size and most startlingly life-like; a bust in wax, autograph letters, chairs, etc. There is a garden attached, in which is an oak under which he used to sit. The view from that “coigne de vantage” is lovely. I seated myself where he might have sat to enjoy it. But—you have read about the pretty, glancing, green and gold lizards of Italy! Well, it seemed to me there was one at least to every blade of grass, to every twig, where anything could glide or dangle. A ladyhad carried one home with her the day before in the folds of her dress. I was not very ambitious to follow her example, so, perhaps very ingloriously, I decamped without delay.

There is a set of churches, three in number, called “The Three Churches of the Aventine,” from their being situated on that hill. Each has something of special interest, but I shall tell of only one, that of St. Sabrina. It contains Sassoferrato’s masterpiece, the “Madonna of the Rosary,” a really beautiful and interesting picture of this inexhaustible subject. The Madonna is giving a rosary to St. Dominicus, and the Christ-child another to St. Catherine; the latter with a childlike delight and benevolence in the giving, most admirably rendered. On the pillar in the nave is a good-sized black bowlder, with the legend attached that it was hurled by the devil at St. Dominicus when at prayer; such was his fury at this pious act. The flagstone on which the saint was kneeling was also shown. It has been removed from the floor and built into the wall. There is an orange tree in the garden, still vigorous and beautiful, planted by St. Dominicus. The good brothers make crosses and rosaries of its wood and sell them, thus “making an honest penny.” Webought some and took them to the pope to be consecrated!

This prowling about old churches, hunting up celebrated pictures, relics, legends, etc., comes to be a great fascination. As they are counted by hundreds, one can always have a place to go. The trouble is to make a selection. And—it is just as perplexing which to tell you about. There is one more, though, I do not like to leave out. It is small and not at all striking; stands beside the great Doria palace on the Corso, and right in the way, but comparatively few enter it. The name is St. Maria in Via Lata, and it is the church in which St. Paul and St. Luke taught.

There are really two churches, one entered from the street and the other beneath it, reached by descending a flight of steps. The latter is the one where the apostles preached, and very small and humble and dark; the custodian carried lighted tapers to insure our seeing. There were some faded frescoes on the walls, a well, the water of which burst forth miraculously for the baptism of converts under their preaching; and there is a fragment of the ancient Servian wall in one end that is very curious, with its huge blocks of stone arranged both upright andhorizontally. In the upper church is preserved that remarkable picture of the head of Christ “begun by St. Luke and finished by an angel.” It is kept closely shut up in a cabinet over the alter, but a silver lira won an inspection. Faded, dingy, crude, all that can be said is that neither of the accredited artists could have worked from especial training or inspiration! From churches to studios—a natural transition. What galleries the former have been, and are, for the latter.

Strolling through the Via Margutta—“the artist’s quarter”—a large building arrested attention. On inquiring, we found, among many other studios in it, those of our Rodgers and Ives. Applying quite unceremoniously for admittance to the first, was accorded at once, and the son of Mr. Rodgers advanced and received us most courteously, and conducted us through several rooms, full of the completed works of his father, and a number of work-rooms full of busy workmen. Among the many admirable finished works, four particularly interested us: “The Lost Pleiad,” “Ruth,” “Somnambulist” and “The Blind Girl of Pompeii.” Never was the groping movement peculiar to the blind so touchingly rendered as in that slight, girlishfigure. She is pressing forward against a strong wind, which is shown by the way her hair and skirts are blown backward, grasping her staff, and feeling her way equally, as it were, with it, and the sightless orbs directed so intently before her. What a curious mastery of the “cold, insensate marble” that can make the heart ache so!

We were equally unceremonious and fortunate in our reception at the studio of Mr. Ives. He was just going out, but turned at once, and accompanied us with the utmost kindness and graciousness through his rooms. There, too, were many well-filled, and others where the workmen’s chisels were busy. It was interesting to pause and watch the tiny chips and threads of marble dust as made under their skillful touches, and mark the delicate finish given thereby to lip and brow, the more tender curve to the dainty shoulder, the more graceful sweep to the trailing drapery. I gazed longest on a “young Bacchus,” a drooping “Ariadne,” that half elf, half human “Undine,” and that nymph of wood, water and wisdom, “Egeria.” The last, especially, drew me to it again and again. It is a sitting statue inclining somewhat forward, gazing earnestly at theright foot extending before it, and from the toes of which streams of water are gushing. The left foot is drawn back and is resting on the tip of the toes. There is little drapery, but the little is exquisitely wrought. The features are of ethereal beauty; the hair is arranged in a simple Grecian knot. She is sitting on a stump entwined with ivy; around its roots the wild acanthus spreads its beautiful leaves. The lovely creature! I think it will haunt me forever.

The third studio was that of an Italian artist. Besides his pictures, the rooms were adorned with tapestries, rugs and bric-a-brac. There were some most ingenious exhibitions of taste. In one room the light fell on crayons on glass, most attractive pictures. Passing to another room behind this, the light shone through these, converting them into exquisite transparencies. It was a desire to light what would have been otherwise a dark room, without marring the walls of the others by introducing windows. There were some portraits on his walls, wonderful as paintings, and carrying conviction of their faithfulness as likenesses. One was a queenly woman, with that splendid texture of flesh so often described by the words,“you can almost see the bones through it,” because of its transparency, features “clean cut as a cameo,” a warm fine glow on the cheek; elsewhere that pinkish pearl hue of youth and health; and heavy masses and braids of the richest golden hair, with the very glint of the burnished metal on it. I felt like plucking out a strand or two that they might never be turned to silver, and thinking of Aurora Leigh, kept asking myself “how many ingots went to make that dazzling sheen?” So realistic was this “vision of beauty,” one could easily believe it would turn and answer, did you speak to it.

It was, however, the last studio of the four where I went oftenest and lingered longest, and always with increasing pleasure—that of Dwight Benton, formerly of Cincinnati, and who favors the “Commercial” now and then with a delightful letter. Doubtless you have read them. His studio consists of two spacious rooms, most admirably lighted and tastefully fitted up. It is a gallery in itself, with its walls covered with “studies,” and its many easels filled with wonder-works of his never idle brush! Of late years he paints landscapes exclusively, and it may be added “con amore.” Such enthusiasm is bound to tell—so there arescenes from Capri that do not seem to belong to canvass at all—that strip of beach is there to stroll on; those cliffs you will climb sooner or later; the chickens aroost in the little boat drawn up in the shadow of a corner of that quaint old house, will have to fly for it by and by, when you will want it for a sail; in a few moments you are going up the steps to follow that tall, stately-looking peasant woman just disappearing in that old house, for you are eager to explore it. You look further! On another easel is a stretch of the Campagna, seen beyond and through some near ruins. There are patches of sunlight on the grass, not paint, but the warm, intangible sunbeams that drop from the sky to the earth—that wonderful Campagna! It rolls away in shifting arabesques and mosaics of all the hues

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