ITALY

ITALYFor Italy, my Italy, mere words are faint!No writer's pencil can convey thy heaven's blue,Thy languorous bay.Thou art thine own interpreter.I dream and wake and find no words for her—For Italy's soft-storied charmsI throw the English words away.Her gondolas drip through the night—I stretch my arms toward Napoli,And "Monte Bella" softly say.Harriet Axtell Johnstone.SORRENTO:Howsplendid it seems to be free again! And yet I do believe it does one good—having been out of the habit of studying—to take a few months every year or so and to give close application to some subject.I was glad when the time came to end traveling and to begin study; and now I am glad that I can cease my studies and again begin sight-seeing.Ruth, as you know, found it necessary to return to America before rejoining me. She sailed from New York the 18th and I met her at Ponta Delgada. Ponta Delgada is the chief city of the island of SanMiguel, which, in turn, is the principal island of the Azores, and it is prominent for having the most beautiful gardens in the world.Among the passengers who boarded the ship with me at Ponta Delgada was a delightful Portuguese family—the mother, son and his wife—who came with us to Italy. They are cultured people, and speak English perfectly, though the mother and wife had never before been off the island.We left the Azores on the 27th of April, passing Gibraltar on May Day. Gibraltar is not so frowning as I had imagined, for the graceful rock smiled down on us as if in greeting.All that has been written about the blue Mediterranean is true. It is blue as nothing else is. The sky, those days, was greenish pink, and you know what a delight to the eye is the blending of these colors. But the one bright memory that stands out clearest when I think of the Mediterranean is the sunset. I remember one night in particular. The good captain told me to hasten from dinner. I drew my chair close to the rail, and out beyond the horizon I saw a city of fire. The beautifulmansions, and cathedrals, and castles, with turrets and towers, were all ablaze. Through the streets people in fiery red draperies were flying from the flames. Sometimes an old man with flowing beard appeared in the midst of them, and with outstretched hands, would seem to call aloud. The flames turned to a greenish gold, the smoke rolled away, and far beyond appeared a Moorish village, the temples carved of alabaster. Suddenly, through the lace-like pillars, came the faintest tint of pink, growing dimmer and dimmer, until only the outlines could be discerned. A great billowy sea of foam rolled over the village, and divided on either side of a world of golden fire, and, as I gazed, it dropped into the black water.A voice said, "Come, dear, the captain wants you to see the moon come up out of the sea." It was my blessed Ruth."Did you see that burning city and Moorish village?" I asked, as soon as I had returned to earth. "Yes, dear," she replied, and there were tears in her eyes, too.This morning we were called at five o'clock to see the sun rise over Vesuvius. The same ball of golden fire which wentdown into the sea that night crowned for a brief moment the wonderful Mount.The Bay of Naples is unlike anything else on earth. On one side are the castles, or villas, or pleasure resorts, whichever it be that comes to your gaze as you glide past; on the other, the turquoise-blue water; and far in the distance, like a camel with two humps, rising out of the sea, is Capri. The air is filled with music, and the scene is one of the wildest confusion. Every sort of craft that sails the seas, every sort of flag, every sort of sound, causes you to wonder if you will ever get through that throng. The ship is stopped, the steps are let down the side, and the doctor and the purser with the mail come on board.While we were busy with our letters from home, one of the party with whom we were to go through the Blue Grotto had bargained with a boatman to take us to the ship that goes to Capri.OLD STEPS AND SEA WALL, CAPRIThe mode of going ashore here at Naples is different from that of any other port where I have landed. Hundreds of stout row-boats come from the various hotels, just as the omnibuses meet the trains in the smaller cities at home.The Blue Grotto must be visited on a clear, calm day, and some old travelers advised us, if the day was fine, to go directly from the ship before landing. The captain allowed us to leave our luggage on board, as the ship will stay in Naples for several days to unload freight. There were six of us, then, transferred to the German LloydS. S. Nixe.As we sailed away, Vesuvius and Sorrento were to the left, the city of Naples behind us, and the outlines of Capri ahead. We went directly to the Grotto, or rather as near as the large boat goes. Here, again, we took to the row-boats, two in each.The Grotto itself is a cavern in the side of the huge rocks of Capri. It is necessary to lie flat in the boat to get through the tiny opening. I could readily see why the authorities do not permit visitors on stormy days, for the sea was rough even on this quiet morning. The interior of the cave is high, and the effect of the reflection of the sun on the blue waters is indescribable. Everything under water takes on a silvery hue, and the echo is weird.On board the ship once more, we sailed away from this real fairies' abode to the town of Capri, arriving at high noon, andas the town is on the side of a mountain, we climbed up a good part of its side to get a lunch. It was my first Italian meal, and it was delicious. Of course there was macaroni in the Italian style, with beef-stock and tomatoes, and fried fresh sardines.The dessert was a fruit, something like our California plum, which I tasted for the first time at the Azores,—thenespera.After the repast we hired a carriage for Anacapri. The road, hewn out of solid rock, lies along the mountainside, giving us a magnificent view of the bay, with Vesuvius always in sight.ISOLA DI CAPRIWe caught theNixeon her return trip to Sorrento. Here, again, the little boats meet us, each bearing the name of its hotel on a silken banner. The boatman shouts out the name of the one he represents until a passenger calls, in turn, his choice. We were going to the Cocumella, and I wish you might have heard the boatman call, in his soft, musical voice, "Co—ceh—m-e-l-l-a! Co—ceh—m-e-l-l-a!" The steward helped us into the boat, and we were rowed to an opening in the cliff. The town lies on the top of perpendicular rocks, and we struggled up five hundred stepscut in a tunnel through the mountain, coming out at the top into the lovely garden of this hotel.The Cocumella was once a monastery, and its situation is ideal. Here is a place where I should be willing to spend the remainder of my days.NAPLES:Ruthis such a brick! She is not afraid of her shadow, and she likes to be alone some time each day. That remark was called forth by the number of tourists one meets who are worn to the bone by companions who are afraid to room alone or to look out of the window alone—to eat, sleep, walk, talk, or pray alone—and who must have some one close by them every moment of the time.Last night, on our walk about Sorrento, we called at the house of Mr. Marion Crawford.This morning in two carriages, for there were eight of us, we went for the drive from Sorrento to Amalfi. The road, cut out of the rock, with a balustrade of stone to protect the traveler from the precipice, is regarded as one of the finest pieces of engineering in existence. Sometimes aviaduct, perhaps five hundred feet high, will span a chasm. The road winds up and around the mountain, and the view, with the Bay of Naples at its feet, is sublimely picturesque. The almost perpendicular sides of the mountain, on the different levels, are terraced and planted with olive, lemon, or other fruit trees.The drive was ended at Vietri about five, and we returned to Naples by train, having our first glimpse of Pompeii and our first ride on an Italian railway.It rained in torrents all day, but, nothing daunted, we started for the Customs. That sounds very commonplace and innocent, but it spells a mad, wild sort of a time. In the first place, we had to beg, borrow, and finally to steal afacchino(porter), and induce him to get a boatman to fetch our luggage from the ship, fully a mile out in the bay. We paid him first to show there were no hard feelings, again to get a tarpaulin to cover the luggage, and again and again for—I know not what.AMALFIThen we sat down and waited—stood up and waited—purchased all the postcards in the little café and wrote to every one we knew—waited some more, and,finally—yes, they came. There was another transferring of coins—always from my hand into that of thefacchino—then the Customs with its fees, and the cabman with his, and all the time I had to take their word for the change, for I had not mastered thelira.Before leaving Naples we visited Pompeii. I was disappointed at first with these wonderful ruins. There is much that one must imagine. One must take the word of the guides for everything, and they have a little way of "space-filling" which has lost its charm for me. But Pompeii grew on me each moment of my stay. We were taken in a sedan chair carried on the shoulders of two strong peasants. The general appearance is that of a town which has been swept by a tornado, unroofing the houses and leaving only the walls standing. It is on these walls that one finds the exquisite bits of coloring which has given us the Pompeian tints.The charm of Naples lies in the wonderful scenery surrounding it, and in its street scenes, with the noise and clatter of its street vendors. Life in the poorerquarters is like that in no other city, being free and open to public gaze. All the duties of the household are performed in the street.ROME:Thefirst thing to learn in Rome is the pronunciation of the name of the street and the number of yourpension, in order that you may be able to get home. Our pronunciation isset-tahn-tah dew-ey vee-ah sis-teen-ah, and the manner with which we hop into a cab and say it to thecocchierestamps us as old Italians.Our home here is at the top of theScala di Spagna(Spanish steps), right in the heart of the new town. We walk down the steps every morning as we start out to the American Express office to get our letters, but we come up the "lift"—for tencentimes.STREET SCENE, NAPLESIt is absolutely necessary to be driven about Rome accompanied by a guide, whether one's stay is to be of long or short duration. In no other manner can one comprehensively grasp this vast array of ancient and modern art, nor the colossal expanse of architecture, both standing andin ruins. After having been shown the important places, it is well to return alone, and at leisure ponder over those things which most appeal to the heart as well as to the senses.I have had a careful explanation of the significance of that much-used word—"basilica." Originally it was a portico separated from some public building, not unlike the peristyle at our Columbian Exposition, save that it need not, of necessity, be near any body of water; in fact, it rarely was in the old Roman days. The basilicas of the old forums were really walks under cover. In later days these porticos were inclosed and made into churches. The name "basilica" still clung to them, and now the oblong space forming the main body between the pillars in any church edifice, without regard to the style of architecture, is so called.I have read somewhere, in the reveries of a bachelor (not Ik Marvel's), that "style is born IN a woman and ON a man." I wonder how he knew—perhaps he had been in Rome.The style of the greater number offoreigntourists of the female persuasion must be "in," as there is little visible to the naked eye. But the style of these Italian soldiers is "on," indeed, and they are on dress parade the livelong day. I have used all my superlatives, but really in no city on earth does one see such gloriously, exquisitely dressed little men as are the soldiers of Italy, and especially of Rome. The Bersaglieri form the élite corps, and wear a large round hat, with a multitude of cock's plumes, tipped far on one side of the head. This tribute to the swagger appearance of the soldiers is also applicable to the young priests, monks and students, and even to the butlers and footmen.On a fête day we went to St. Peter's, and were repaid by meeting our Portuguese friends, who took us to drive through the beautiful parks and grounds of the Villa Borghese, returning to luncheon with us at ourpension. This home of ours is a very attractive place, but it tries my patience to be forced to go through a ten-course dinner each night, when I am anxious to get out. The words "change" and "haste" are unknown here, and it is only endurablebecause the dinner is so exquisitely prepared and served.We have some interesting and clever people at our table—a family from Boston, two girls from Washington, a brother and sister from Philadelphia, who have lived here for years, and a beautiful Canadian. The last named sits next me, and oursotto voceconversations have brought out the fact that her heart is full of love for all things. She is Canadian only by birth, and among the array of smartly dressed Americans in thepension, she leads.I do not wish to be put on record as one who judges a woman solely by her clothes; but oh, the American woman here is incomparable. I agree with Lilian Bell, that the women of no other race can compare with her in dress, or taste, or carriage. She is bewitching! She is a type! I believe I once told you that we had no type. I take it back. We have, and so glorious a one that I am proud to claim kinship with her.You will be shocked, I am sure, when I tell you that I do not agree with Mr. Howells, nor yet with my beloved Hawthorne, for I love modern Rome. To besure, Hawthorne wrote of Rome in 1858, and Mr. Howells in 1864, and it may be the shops were not so altogether enticing in those early days, or it may be because they were not women that the shops had no charm for them; but if they had known Castellani, the goldsmith on the Piazzi di Trevi, who executes designs from the old Grecian, Etruscan and Byzantine models, or Roccheggiani's exquisite mosaics and cameo carvings, it is probable their opinions would be modified.Michelangelo's "Moses" is not in the big St. Peter's of the Vatican, but in St. Peter's of Vincoli. This was a surprise to me, for I had supposed to the contrary. I had asked many times, to no avail, why Michelangelo put horns on his "Moses," until a learnèd monk told me that, in an early translation of the Scriptures, the word "horns" was incorrectly given for "skin." Notwithstanding the disproportion of its outlines, the gigantic statue is, to me, the most wonderful thing ever cut from a block of marble.We have anascensorin ourpension. The bigconciergeputs me in, locks thedoor, unlocks the catch, and lets it go. When it gets to my floor it is supposed to stop, and in the same breath to have its door unfastened, and all I have to do is to walkout. Sometimes, however, it stops midway between floors, and then I wish I had walkedup. I find Roman and Spanish steps just as fatiguing to climb as any others, and patronize theascensorswith vigor.We went by appointment one day to the Rospigliosi Palazzo to return the visit of our Portuguese friends, Signor and Signora A., and were taken into another part of the palace to see Guido Reni's "Aurora." The picture is painted on the ceiling, and there is an arrangement of mirrors by which one can view it without having to tire the neck with looking up so constantly. It is the greatest painting that has been done in the last two hundred years. In the evening we all went to hear "Gioconda" at theTeâtro Adriano. The Italian audience seemed, by the uproarious applause that greeted each aria, to appreciate the music, but talked continually through it all.We have revisited many of the places which most interested us during our three days' drive with thecicerone, and have whiled away many delightful mornings in the shops. We rest a little in the early part of each afternoon, and then, almost invariably, we drive on the Corso and to the Pincian Gardens, where the band plays from five until an hour afterAve Maria. Here one sees the smart Romans, and in fact people of nearly every race on earth, in their best attire, on pleasure bent.It is needless to tell you that we take a carriagesans numero, for the private parks of the best palazzos allow only carriages without numbers to enter.The scene on the Pincio is just what it was in Hawthorne's day. Read his description of it in the "Italian Note Book," and you will see it more clearly than I can make you understand. It is a continualfête champêtre.One day, while we were obliged to stop on account of a jam in the ring of carriages that move slowly round and round the circle where the band plays, Ruth stepped from the vehicle to get nearer the beautiful fountain of Moses to make a little sketch of it. I sat alone listening to the gloriousItalian band. And while my thoughts were thousands of miles away, and very near the one to whom this message goes first, some one spoke to me in French, and asked if I would have the goodness to go to his madame. It was the serving-man of our fellow-voyager, she of the same initials as my own. I looked in the direction he indicated, and there, not ten carriages back, she was, so hemmed in that it was impossible to drive alongside.As I left my seat and walked over to her, she met me with the radiant face and smiling greeting of an old friend. She is beautiful, with that inimitable something about her that attracts one, and I wondered if I should ever know what her given name is. I knew for a certainty that I should never ask. She is not old, but gives one the impression that she has lived long enough to have "gathered the fruits of experience where once blossomed the flowers of youthful enthusiasm."The bells forAve Mariahad rung. The musicians were picking up their music. The Pincian Hill was deserted. Ruth sat alone in her carriage as this woman's hand grasped mine in reluctant parting."Good night," I said."Good night!"You recall my telling you of Mrs. F. on the ship—she whom I met on the Pincian Hill—and her invalid son? Well, he was not her son. He is her—husband.It will be no breach of confidence to tell you the story, for I have her permission—withholding her name, of course.It seems that the husband, in his youth, was rather "rapid"; and, in a most idiotic will, the father left him a large fortune, provided that before his twenty-fifth year he had been married to a woman at least ten years his senior. It was stipulated that the woman was not to know the conditions of the will until after the marriage, so that she might be some one of worth and character, capable of caring for the money.No wonder it sobered the poor young man. He swore that he would never marry, and that those who were ready to grasp the fortune, should he fail to "keep the bond," might have it, and be—happy.THE PINCIAN HILL, ROMEOne vacation time found him at the home of a classmate in one of the eastern college towns, where he met and fell in love with this woman whom I have describedto you. He had no idea she was older than himself until he had made her a proposal of marriage. She, of course, refused what she conceived to be a foolish boy's fancy. He sent for his mother, and together they set themselves to win the lady of his choice, after the mother had "looked her up"—and down—as mothers of precious boys are wont to do.In the meantime the young man was taken very ill, in his delirium calling for his love, who finally, at the physician's urgent request, went to him, and, with his mother, cared for him.It was the day before his twenty-fifth birthday. The mother was frantic at the thought that her son was to lose his fortune. He cared little for the money, save that it would enable him to shower favors upon this love of his. He begged her to marry him that night to save him from some great trouble—if she ever regretted it for one moment she should be free—that he could not in honor tell her why it was so necessary that the marriage be solemnized at once. She had grown fond of him, yet naturally hesitated to do either him or herself injustice. Finally his helplessness and his mother's agony provedtoo much for her, and just before the midnight they were married at his bedside.Who can account for the vagaries of a woman's fancy? The foolish conditions which she made a part of this contract were: that they should live abroad where they were not known, and that she should be known as his mother.His own mother, otherwise a strong, sensible woman, agreed to everything, so great was her anxiety about her son.In another week they had started for Europe, and I have accounted to you the strange manner in which their names appeared on the ship's register. It served as a safeguard against inquisitive people, and every one took it for granted that they were mother and son—and she a widow.Immediately they landed they met an old friend of hers, and thus began a series of explanations, for her friend knew she had no son.Fortunately this woman was a brave, true friend, and her advice was so heroic that the bride was speechless before such fearlessness.She said to her: "You must stop all this foolishness at once. There is absolutely no excuse for such deceit. One falsehoodpaves the way for hundreds of others. It has already cost you the loss of your peace of mind and it is the cause of your husband's continued illness. How can you expect him to be strong, while living a lie?"This last statement was pretty hard to accept, but it proved that her liking for her young husband had grown into love, for her one desire was to see him well and strong.Her pride, however, stood in her way and she must have advice. Everything else the friend said was true, for already her day had become a hideous nightmare with this constant fear of meeting some one whom she knew. And this is why she sent her footman for me the day of the concert in the Pincian Gardens.She explained that she had heard Ruth and me discussing points in ontology on the ship, and wanted to ask me if what her friend said was true. She told me the story just as I have told it to you, not naming herself. I divined at once it was her own, but did not let her feel that I had perceived it, and for answer I said:"How I should love to meet that friend! Most assuredly she is right. Falsehoodand deceit bring nothing but suffering. Send word to that poor foolish woman at once that you too are opposed to her living a lie any longer."It was listening to this tale that made me forget the crowd, the perfume of the flowers, and even the exquisite music of the King's band.How glad I am that I saw dear old England first, for it seems very young when compared to Rome. Everything here is twenty centuries or more old, therefore you may imagine that, by comparison, things only a few hundred years old are yet in their infancy.Apropos of age, while at Oxford a student told us, with much solemnity, that Magdalen College "was built in 1490, before you were discovered." The doctor said, "Well, what of it?" I was shocked at the good doctor, and was much impressed by the great age; but I understand the doctor's sarcasm now, for he had recently returned from Rome.The "oldest church in Rome," however, reminds one of "the favorite pupil of Liszt." I am meeting with them still.The most magnificent place in Rome,after the Vatican, is the Villa Borghese (bor-gay-zay), not only on account of the beautiful park which contains numerous ornamental structures, little temples, ruins, fountains and statues, but also on account of the collection of antiques in its casino, or gallery. It is here that Canova's marble statue of Pauline Borghese is exhibited—to me the most beautiful marble in Rome. Here, too, is Titian's first great work, "Sacred and Profane Love." I fancy that Titian saw life from many view-points.Imagine one going from the sublime to the ridiculous—from the gorgeous Borghese Villa to a Rag Fair. A Rag Fair is an open-air sale of everything that can be thought of, from a garter clasp to a diadem. We went for old brass candlesticks of the seven-pronged, sacred variety, afterwards continuing on to St. Peter's, where we were repaid for mounting an incline of 1,332 feet up through the dome by the view of all Rome, the Vatican gardens and the tops of the "seven hills."Mrs. F. joins us often now. She went with us again Thursday to the churchSan Paola alle Tre Fontane(St. Paul ofthe Three Fountains). It is kept by Trappist monks, a silent order. They never speak to each other, but make up for it when visitors come. We had a dear "brother" show us the objects of interest, and he presented each with a wee drinking glass to measure out the Eucalyptus wine which they make there.The three fountains are flowing clear as crystal, and whether or not the head of St. Paul jumped three times on these spots, as tradition has it, it matters little; but the simple faith of the sweet-faced sisters who knelt and drank from each spring and arose freed from some claim was touching, and far from provoking the mirth that some people feel toward these devout pilgrims.En routehome we stopped at the English cemetery and plucked a flower from the grave of Keats and of Shelley and of Constance Fenimore Woolson.STANZA DELLA SEGNATURA, VATICAN PALACE, ROMEWe saw Hilda's Tower, too, that day. I had occasion to thank Hawthorne for "The Marble Faun" and "Italian Note Book," otherwise I should not have been able to relate the story of Hilda and her tower. In truth, all Italy would have remained as a closed book to me had it notbeen for my three "H's," as Ruth calls them—Hawthorne, Howells and Hutton. The latter says, in his "Literary Landmarks of Rome," that the "Italian Note Book" is still the best guide to Rome that has ever been written, and that one should read it before coming, again while here, and yet once more after returning home.I shall say the same about the Landmarks, for without them much of the charm I have found here would have been lost.Yesterday we bade St. Peter's good-bye on our way to Sant'Onofrio. Here, again, a bright youngfrèreshowed us over the church made most interesting from its association with Tasso. There are some excellent paintings in the lunettes under the colonnade of the cloisters.It is a great pleasure to show Mrs. F. anything, as her appreciation is keen. She knew little of the literary landmarks which she passed each day, and I pointed out to her the house where Keats lived, on the left as one goes down the Spanish steps, the house of Shelley on the right, with the lodgings occupied by Byron almost directly opposite.On our return from Sant'Onofrio, she inquired of the coachman if the horses were fit, and upon his answering that they were good for several hours, she turned and in a low voice asked me to remain with her as long as possible. I understood. From a list of streets and numbers which I had with me, we selected such as we wished to visit.On the Via di Bocca di Leona we found the home of the Brownings; close by, the house that sheltered Thackeray in Rome; and not far away, the place where Adelaide Sartoris lived. In rapid succession, then, we made "little journeys" to the Italian homes of Louisa Alcott, Helen Hunt Jackson, George Eliot, and the house where Mrs. Jameson held Sundaysoiréesin a wee two-by-four room. Mr. Hutton and I did good work, for after all other sights had failed to interest, our (?) literary landmarks succeeded in saving the day.ORVIETO:Afterthe rather strenuous day, the account of which closed my last letter, we settled up our affairs in Rome, heard for the last time the Pope's angel choir, sent off our luggage, purchased our tickets,with innumerable stop-overs, and, hardest of all, bade good-bye to our friends.Just before we were leaving, Mrs. F.'s footman brought to the door of our compartment in the traveling-carriage an armful of roses and a letter. The flowers brightened all the hot dusty day, but the letter—oh, that letter will brighten all the years that may come to me, and I have tucked the precious words away in the warmest corner of my heart, to be taken out on the rainy days of life, and fondled like some of childhood's memories.I did not see her again after she left me at the door that evening, nor had she spoken one word to indicate that she knew that I knew. She paid me the highest tribute of friendship—silence.Among other things in the letter, she said:"The Catholic Church has not a monopoly of 'ears that hear yet hear not, eyes that see and are blind,' for I find in you one who is built fine-grained enough not to mistake silence for stupidity, nor to consider the absence of an interrogation mark as lack of sympathy. The very evident fact that your beautiful companion knows nothing of my sorrow stamps youas a splendid friend, and I want you for such.... Your going has taken away my strongest staff. You have been bravely permitting me to lean on you, too hard I fear, these last days, but you understand, and, understanding, forget."I should come to you in person to bid you good-speed, but I should break down and perhaps not be able to let you go, so I am sending instead this message. I have determined to be brave, to end this deceit, to go away from Rome; to begin aright in some other place; to live the truth."I left the eternal city with a light and happy heart, for my new heart's sister (new if we count by that false estimate—time) is free. I still do not know what her given name is, as all her notes have been signed with her initials, and her surname does not resemble mine in the least.No wonder Mrs. Ward sent her weakest heroine here to hide. If you ever lose me, and suspect that I am in hiding, hunt for me in Orvieto. I had heard nothing of the place until I read "Eleanor," but now, if I were a guide-book, I'd put five asterisks before it and six in front of its cathedral. You will understand how I feelabout it when I tell you that most of the guide-books never use more than two stars to indicate the superlative. Loomis, in his wildest flights, sometimes uses three, so I think five would about fit my estimation of the Orvieto of today.The town is on the top of a mountain, up the almost perpendicular sides of which it is reached by afunicolare.SIENA, ITALIE—Signora Elvina Saccaro's, Pension Tognazzi, via Sallutio Bandini 19.I wishI might live here, on this street and in thispension, and have it all on my visiting-cards, and write it in my best style at the top of my letters. If it were engraved on my visiting-cards, and you should wish to come to see me, you would simply have to say to the cabman, "See-nyee-o-rah—Al-vee-nyee-ah—Sah-chah-ro—Pe'n-see-yo'—Tog-natz-zee—Vee-ah—Sal-lut-chio—Bahn-dee-nee—Dee-chee-ah-no-vay," but the entire address doesn't include the beautiful cloisters into which my windows open, for the place is an old monastery.The first I ever knew of Siena was from one of Lilian Whiting's books. She spoke of Symonds' history and Mrs. Butler's"Biography of Katherine of Siena," and straightway I devoured them both. How little I thought then that I should walk the same streets and kneel at the same altar at which that saint knelt. I like her the best of all the saints "I have met," for she loved to be alone and build castles.Siena is a rival of Rome and Florence in mediæval art and architecture. The churches are wonderfully beautiful, and filled with the choicest works of ancient and modern artists. The marble pavement and the carved white marble pulpit in the cathedral cannot be equaled.FLORENCE:Threeweeks in the art center of the world and not one letter written! The note-book, however, is getting so fat that it begs to be put on paper and sent away to you. My bank account is correspondingly lean, made so partly by the purchase of prettycarte-postaleswhich carry the telegraphic messages across the sea, just to show that I'm thinking and that a letter is coming some fine day.If myporte-monnaiewere not sotrès maigre, I'd buy many copies of Howell's "Tuscan Cities," Hutton's "Literary Landmarksof Florence," Ruskin's "Mornings in Florence," Mrs. Oliphant's "Makers of Florence," and Mrs. Browning's "The Casa Guidi Windows," and send to each of you with this inscription: "These are my sentiments."It was with a sense of lazy delight that we wandered about Siena, watching the peasant women in their picturesque head coverings, inhaling the atmosphere of mediæval art and the restfulness that comes with it. In the same leisurely manner, armed with numerous Leghorn straws, we turned our faces northward, and found pleasant rooms awaiting us here.Our windows look out on the Arno, and to the right I see thePonte Vecchio; to the left, abella vistawhich ends at Fiesole.The new Florence is broad and white and glistening; the old is narrow, dark and massively rich.The Arno, like the Tiber, is a yellowish green. Its eight bridges are unique, ancient and historic.The Lungarno, down which we walk each morning, is odd and fascinating. It has on the Arno side a marble balustrade; on the other, little shops displaying jewelsand precious stones which would tempt the soul of a female angel Gabriel. The display of turquoise, of which stone Florence is the home, is ravishing, yet sometimes—once, I think—we really went by without entering. The day we did not go in, however, we went by appointment to one of the shops on the Tornabuoni, where were arrayed some gorgeous ancient chains and rings of scarabs, the cartouch of which proved them to belong to some Egyptian potentate.The Piazza della Signoria forms the center of Florence. It is surrounded by the Palazzo Vecchio, the Uffizi, and the Loggia dei Lanzi. In the center is the fountain of Neptune. It was in this piazza that Savonarola was burned.In the buildings just named, each a masterpiece of architectural beauty, are found many of thechefs-d'œuvreof the world. Florence overflows with so much that is ornate, it was difficult to make selections. Like poor Helen—"Were the whole world mine, Florence being bated,I'd give it all to be to her translated."PIAZZA DELLA SIGNORIA, FLORENCESometimes I think if I could have but one of these gems of architecture, I'dchoose the Duomo, with its graceful façade and its campanile; but when I cross the street to the Baptistery of San Giovanni, and gaze at its bronze doors, I change my mind, and give it first place.Now it is Santa Croce, with its wondrous wealth of marbles, where Ruskin—and I—spent many happy hours; but soon Santa Maria Novella has outshone them all, until the loveliness of the Medicean Chapel wins my heart anew.Alas, so weak am I, that all the cathedrals sink into obscurity when the Uffizi Palazzo, with its Tribune, is seen. It holds the one perfect woman—the Uffizi Venus. The Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens; the Bargello, with its unique staircase and court; the Riccardi—in truth, all the wealth of incomparable grandeur of artistic Florence have their places in my affections.The wealth, beauty and royalty of Florence are seen on the fashionable driveway. The Cascine is to Florence what the Pincio is to Rome. There, in the late afternoon, society drives back and forth along the bank of the Arno, listening to the music of a military band.It is of little consequence how the artistgives expression to his dream—whether by pencil, pen, brush, chisel or voice, in marble, painting, song or story—Florence is the home of them all.And Fiesole, ah, Fiesole by moonlight! I have walked up the Fiesolian Hill, and taken the little electric tram, but last night I took you with me in a carriage. The others did not know you were there, so you and I "cuddled down" on the back seat. You held my hand and said never a word, but by that same blessed silence I knew you were drinking in the beauty of it all.STAIRWAY BARGELLO PALACE, FLORENCEAs the strong horses pulled up the mountainside, you and I looked back at Florence. She lay off in the distant shadows, with the Arno at her feet—the Arno, no longer a yellow, muddy stream, but a glistening, silvery ribbon, with the moonbeams dancing merrily on its phantom-like bridges. The towers and turrets were transformed into marble lace; the statues to golden cupids; the chimney-tops formed bas-reliefs; and the whole, a misty shadow-picture. Even Florence was improved by the witchery of "that old man in the moon." The silvery unrealness of it cast a spell over us, making—... The longing heart yearn forSome one to love, and to beBeloved of some one.That's why I took you with me.When the top was reached we looked only at the fairyland in the distance. It is difficult to idealize an ordinary little village, even if it be Tuscan, and this one has nothing to recommend it but a cathedral and some picturesque beggars.Returning another way, we passed Boccaccio's villa, and in fancy saw his merry party of lords and ladies seated in the arbors looking out toward Belle Firenze over the now golden River Arno.Thus it was I left you in Florence. I could not find you when Ruth called out, "Are you going back with the cab, honey?"VENICE:If Florencewas left behind in a memory of purple mist, the highroad between it and Bologna would awaken the most poetic. The word "highroad" is a little creation of my own in this connection, but I feel sure you will believe it to be "high" when I tell you that Florence lies at the foot of the Apennines and Bologna at the summit; and that the railway is, by somemiracle of engineering, built up through and around these mountains. We threaded forty-five tunnels, swung around numberless viaducts, crawled over heart-stilling trestleworks connecting one peak with another, and finally came out on top, much dirty and more tired.We arrived in Venice at 12 o'clock, midnight, at the full of the moon. It cannot be compared with my Florentine dream, for while they are both exquisitely lovely, they are different. There is nothing on earth quite like Venice by moonlight.All things lose perspective at close range, or in the glare of the sun's rays, and Venice shares this disenchantment. It matters little what or how much one has read of Venice—to realize its charm, its color scheme and its uniqueness it must be experienced. For Venice is not a thing, it is an experience.We owned a gondola,—for a week. We lived in it, and I, sometimes, slept in it while we were being wafted from one place to another.THE GRAND CANAL, VENICEThere is the usual—oh, no! there is nothingusualin Venice—cathedral, as in all cities, but St. Mark's stands out first and forever as The Church of all churches.My first glimpse of this pile of precious stones was unexpected and most dramatic to me.There were no letters that morning, and I was just walking—I did not care where or on what. What's beauty and loveliness compared to One letter? An arcade blocked the way, and not knowing—not caring—where it led, I passed in and through it. Chancing to look up, I found myself in the light of day, and straight before me, ablaze with the sunlight full on its façade, was a structure of lavish Oriental magnificence."What is that?" I cried aloud."San Marco!" answered a number of soft, musical voices in unison; and there stood by my side a little crowd of Italians, their dark eyes sparkling and white teeth showing, evidently pleased at my adoration."San M-ahr-co, San M-ahr-co!" they drawled in delight. For once their pleasure was real; they did not break the spell upon me by holding out the hand for apourboire.St. Mark's is Moorish in design, and has a coloring both gorgeous and subdued. The richness of jewels and costly stones does not seem out of place here as in manyRoman churches. Nothing could be too precious, too sumptuous, too rare, for this temple magnificent.The piazza of St. Mark's is a square paved with trachyte and marble. It has the church on one side, and on the other sides, old white marble palaces, in the arcades of which are now found shops of world-wide renown. The piazzetta leads one, between the Doge's palace and Libreria Vecchia, to the Grand Canal.Every evening a military band plays in the square, and it is like a vast, open-air drawing-room with a huge masquerade ball in full tilt.We climbed the Campanile and saw, besides a beautiful sunset, the Alps, the Adriatic, and in the dim distance the Istrian Mountain rising out of the sea.With but a day to give to Venice, or with a year at your disposal, there is only one thing to do—dream! Whether you rest in a gondola on the Lagune, drifting past the Bridge of Sighs, the Rialto, the Ghetto, or the Lido, listening to the gondolier calling out the names of the palaces as the boat glides by, or whether you stroll idly through the miles of churches and galleries containing the paintings, or sit inwondering awe before the vast area of mosaics in St. Mark's—it matters little—dream!In truth, one cannot well avoid it, amid the "subtle, variable, inexpressible coloring of transparent alabaster, of polished Oriental marbles and of lusterless gold," as Ruskin puts it.AU BORD DU LAC COMO:Heavens! Just think ofmewriting "Como" at the top of my letters! I have pinched myself to see if I am really here. The unreality of it all recalls what Mr. Howells said after reading Ruskin: "Just after reading his description of St. Mark's, I, who had seen it every day for three years, began to doubt its existence." So I am beginning to doubt my own existence.The morning we left Venice I was nearly arrested by a man in a cocked hat, all on account of two other men in sailor hats. In short, I overstepped the etiquette of the gondolier most woefully. Our train left at the fetching hour of six, so I made an appointment with our trustworthy Pietro to come for us in time. I think I have told you that the word "haste" is an unknownquantity here, and when Pietro was not at the door ten minutes before the time to start, I had the clerk call another gondola. As we were about to step into the boat, Pietro was seen drifting idly toward our hotel.He wasn't very indolent when he saw what was going on, and those two "sunsets" (I think that is my own, for in a sunset, do you not see the day-go?) danced several kinds of jigs up and down and sidewise before me. Several others came to their assistance, among them the aforesaid cocked-hatted individual.I told the clerk to tell them that I wished to conform to the rules, and to settle it their way. A summer breeze could not have been calmer than all became in the twinkling of an eye, but the cause of the calm was apparent when I settled the bill. Their understanding of "settling it their own way" was to pay each of them, including the cocked-hat, but that was better than languishing in a dungeon for ever so little a time,n'est-ce-pas, mon cher?Since then Milan has been visited—Milan, with its mammoth marble cathedral, done in Irish-point pattern and with apapier-mâchéinterior—but beautifulwithal. Several days were spent at Menaggio on this lovely lake; another at Villa Carlotta, where Canova's original and divinely beautiful marble, "Cupid and Psyche," stands in all its purity; many more, sailing up and down these enchanting waters, made green by the reflection of the forest on the mountains surrounding, and by the grounds of the wealthy Milanese, whose summer villas line its banks.Vineyards are scattered along the mountainside in terraces, and the brilliant green of the chestnut and walnut trees is blended with the dull grayish green of the olive and laurel.Lake Lugano and Lake Maggiore are beautiful sheets of water, but they lack the romantic atmosphere of Como. I can recall no other description so pleasing to the heart as well as to the fancy as the eulogy to these lakes in Mrs. Ward's "Lady Rose's Daughter."DOMODOSSOLA:RuralItaly, to be appreciated, must be seen by tram, by boat, by steam, by old-fashioned diligence, and on foot. Its lakes and mountains, its valleys and vineyards,have been a source of continual surprise to me, and it is with a feeling of keenest regret that our last place in Italy is reached. I feel with Browning as I say farewell to—"Italy, my Italy!* * * * *Open my heart and you will seeGraven inside of it, 'Italy'."LAKE MAGGIORE, ISOLA BELLA, ITALY

For Italy, my Italy, mere words are faint!No writer's pencil can convey thy heaven's blue,Thy languorous bay.Thou art thine own interpreter.I dream and wake and find no words for her—For Italy's soft-storied charmsI throw the English words away.Her gondolas drip through the night—I stretch my arms toward Napoli,And "Monte Bella" softly say.Harriet Axtell Johnstone.

For Italy, my Italy, mere words are faint!

No writer's pencil can convey thy heaven's blue,

Thy languorous bay.

Thou art thine own interpreter.

I dream and wake and find no words for her—

For Italy's soft-storied charms

I throw the English words away.

Her gondolas drip through the night—

I stretch my arms toward Napoli,

And "Monte Bella" softly say.

Harriet Axtell Johnstone.

Howsplendid it seems to be free again! And yet I do believe it does one good—having been out of the habit of studying—to take a few months every year or so and to give close application to some subject.

I was glad when the time came to end traveling and to begin study; and now I am glad that I can cease my studies and again begin sight-seeing.

Ruth, as you know, found it necessary to return to America before rejoining me. She sailed from New York the 18th and I met her at Ponta Delgada. Ponta Delgada is the chief city of the island of SanMiguel, which, in turn, is the principal island of the Azores, and it is prominent for having the most beautiful gardens in the world.

Among the passengers who boarded the ship with me at Ponta Delgada was a delightful Portuguese family—the mother, son and his wife—who came with us to Italy. They are cultured people, and speak English perfectly, though the mother and wife had never before been off the island.

We left the Azores on the 27th of April, passing Gibraltar on May Day. Gibraltar is not so frowning as I had imagined, for the graceful rock smiled down on us as if in greeting.

All that has been written about the blue Mediterranean is true. It is blue as nothing else is. The sky, those days, was greenish pink, and you know what a delight to the eye is the blending of these colors. But the one bright memory that stands out clearest when I think of the Mediterranean is the sunset. I remember one night in particular. The good captain told me to hasten from dinner. I drew my chair close to the rail, and out beyond the horizon I saw a city of fire. The beautifulmansions, and cathedrals, and castles, with turrets and towers, were all ablaze. Through the streets people in fiery red draperies were flying from the flames. Sometimes an old man with flowing beard appeared in the midst of them, and with outstretched hands, would seem to call aloud. The flames turned to a greenish gold, the smoke rolled away, and far beyond appeared a Moorish village, the temples carved of alabaster. Suddenly, through the lace-like pillars, came the faintest tint of pink, growing dimmer and dimmer, until only the outlines could be discerned. A great billowy sea of foam rolled over the village, and divided on either side of a world of golden fire, and, as I gazed, it dropped into the black water.

A voice said, "Come, dear, the captain wants you to see the moon come up out of the sea." It was my blessed Ruth.

"Did you see that burning city and Moorish village?" I asked, as soon as I had returned to earth. "Yes, dear," she replied, and there were tears in her eyes, too.

This morning we were called at five o'clock to see the sun rise over Vesuvius. The same ball of golden fire which wentdown into the sea that night crowned for a brief moment the wonderful Mount.

The Bay of Naples is unlike anything else on earth. On one side are the castles, or villas, or pleasure resorts, whichever it be that comes to your gaze as you glide past; on the other, the turquoise-blue water; and far in the distance, like a camel with two humps, rising out of the sea, is Capri. The air is filled with music, and the scene is one of the wildest confusion. Every sort of craft that sails the seas, every sort of flag, every sort of sound, causes you to wonder if you will ever get through that throng. The ship is stopped, the steps are let down the side, and the doctor and the purser with the mail come on board.

While we were busy with our letters from home, one of the party with whom we were to go through the Blue Grotto had bargained with a boatman to take us to the ship that goes to Capri.

OLD STEPS AND SEA WALL, CAPRI

The mode of going ashore here at Naples is different from that of any other port where I have landed. Hundreds of stout row-boats come from the various hotels, just as the omnibuses meet the trains in the smaller cities at home.

The Blue Grotto must be visited on a clear, calm day, and some old travelers advised us, if the day was fine, to go directly from the ship before landing. The captain allowed us to leave our luggage on board, as the ship will stay in Naples for several days to unload freight. There were six of us, then, transferred to the German LloydS. S. Nixe.

As we sailed away, Vesuvius and Sorrento were to the left, the city of Naples behind us, and the outlines of Capri ahead. We went directly to the Grotto, or rather as near as the large boat goes. Here, again, we took to the row-boats, two in each.

The Grotto itself is a cavern in the side of the huge rocks of Capri. It is necessary to lie flat in the boat to get through the tiny opening. I could readily see why the authorities do not permit visitors on stormy days, for the sea was rough even on this quiet morning. The interior of the cave is high, and the effect of the reflection of the sun on the blue waters is indescribable. Everything under water takes on a silvery hue, and the echo is weird.

On board the ship once more, we sailed away from this real fairies' abode to the town of Capri, arriving at high noon, andas the town is on the side of a mountain, we climbed up a good part of its side to get a lunch. It was my first Italian meal, and it was delicious. Of course there was macaroni in the Italian style, with beef-stock and tomatoes, and fried fresh sardines.

The dessert was a fruit, something like our California plum, which I tasted for the first time at the Azores,—thenespera.

After the repast we hired a carriage for Anacapri. The road, hewn out of solid rock, lies along the mountainside, giving us a magnificent view of the bay, with Vesuvius always in sight.

ISOLA DI CAPRI

We caught theNixeon her return trip to Sorrento. Here, again, the little boats meet us, each bearing the name of its hotel on a silken banner. The boatman shouts out the name of the one he represents until a passenger calls, in turn, his choice. We were going to the Cocumella, and I wish you might have heard the boatman call, in his soft, musical voice, "Co—ceh—m-e-l-l-a! Co—ceh—m-e-l-l-a!" The steward helped us into the boat, and we were rowed to an opening in the cliff. The town lies on the top of perpendicular rocks, and we struggled up five hundred stepscut in a tunnel through the mountain, coming out at the top into the lovely garden of this hotel.

The Cocumella was once a monastery, and its situation is ideal. Here is a place where I should be willing to spend the remainder of my days.

Ruthis such a brick! She is not afraid of her shadow, and she likes to be alone some time each day. That remark was called forth by the number of tourists one meets who are worn to the bone by companions who are afraid to room alone or to look out of the window alone—to eat, sleep, walk, talk, or pray alone—and who must have some one close by them every moment of the time.

Last night, on our walk about Sorrento, we called at the house of Mr. Marion Crawford.

This morning in two carriages, for there were eight of us, we went for the drive from Sorrento to Amalfi. The road, cut out of the rock, with a balustrade of stone to protect the traveler from the precipice, is regarded as one of the finest pieces of engineering in existence. Sometimes aviaduct, perhaps five hundred feet high, will span a chasm. The road winds up and around the mountain, and the view, with the Bay of Naples at its feet, is sublimely picturesque. The almost perpendicular sides of the mountain, on the different levels, are terraced and planted with olive, lemon, or other fruit trees.

The drive was ended at Vietri about five, and we returned to Naples by train, having our first glimpse of Pompeii and our first ride on an Italian railway.

It rained in torrents all day, but, nothing daunted, we started for the Customs. That sounds very commonplace and innocent, but it spells a mad, wild sort of a time. In the first place, we had to beg, borrow, and finally to steal afacchino(porter), and induce him to get a boatman to fetch our luggage from the ship, fully a mile out in the bay. We paid him first to show there were no hard feelings, again to get a tarpaulin to cover the luggage, and again and again for—I know not what.

AMALFI

Then we sat down and waited—stood up and waited—purchased all the postcards in the little café and wrote to every one we knew—waited some more, and,finally—yes, they came. There was another transferring of coins—always from my hand into that of thefacchino—then the Customs with its fees, and the cabman with his, and all the time I had to take their word for the change, for I had not mastered thelira.

Before leaving Naples we visited Pompeii. I was disappointed at first with these wonderful ruins. There is much that one must imagine. One must take the word of the guides for everything, and they have a little way of "space-filling" which has lost its charm for me. But Pompeii grew on me each moment of my stay. We were taken in a sedan chair carried on the shoulders of two strong peasants. The general appearance is that of a town which has been swept by a tornado, unroofing the houses and leaving only the walls standing. It is on these walls that one finds the exquisite bits of coloring which has given us the Pompeian tints.

The charm of Naples lies in the wonderful scenery surrounding it, and in its street scenes, with the noise and clatter of its street vendors. Life in the poorerquarters is like that in no other city, being free and open to public gaze. All the duties of the household are performed in the street.

Thefirst thing to learn in Rome is the pronunciation of the name of the street and the number of yourpension, in order that you may be able to get home. Our pronunciation isset-tahn-tah dew-ey vee-ah sis-teen-ah, and the manner with which we hop into a cab and say it to thecocchierestamps us as old Italians.

Our home here is at the top of theScala di Spagna(Spanish steps), right in the heart of the new town. We walk down the steps every morning as we start out to the American Express office to get our letters, but we come up the "lift"—for tencentimes.

STREET SCENE, NAPLES

It is absolutely necessary to be driven about Rome accompanied by a guide, whether one's stay is to be of long or short duration. In no other manner can one comprehensively grasp this vast array of ancient and modern art, nor the colossal expanse of architecture, both standing andin ruins. After having been shown the important places, it is well to return alone, and at leisure ponder over those things which most appeal to the heart as well as to the senses.

I have had a careful explanation of the significance of that much-used word—"basilica." Originally it was a portico separated from some public building, not unlike the peristyle at our Columbian Exposition, save that it need not, of necessity, be near any body of water; in fact, it rarely was in the old Roman days. The basilicas of the old forums were really walks under cover. In later days these porticos were inclosed and made into churches. The name "basilica" still clung to them, and now the oblong space forming the main body between the pillars in any church edifice, without regard to the style of architecture, is so called.

I have read somewhere, in the reveries of a bachelor (not Ik Marvel's), that "style is born IN a woman and ON a man." I wonder how he knew—perhaps he had been in Rome.

The style of the greater number offoreigntourists of the female persuasion must be "in," as there is little visible to the naked eye. But the style of these Italian soldiers is "on," indeed, and they are on dress parade the livelong day. I have used all my superlatives, but really in no city on earth does one see such gloriously, exquisitely dressed little men as are the soldiers of Italy, and especially of Rome. The Bersaglieri form the élite corps, and wear a large round hat, with a multitude of cock's plumes, tipped far on one side of the head. This tribute to the swagger appearance of the soldiers is also applicable to the young priests, monks and students, and even to the butlers and footmen.

On a fête day we went to St. Peter's, and were repaid by meeting our Portuguese friends, who took us to drive through the beautiful parks and grounds of the Villa Borghese, returning to luncheon with us at ourpension. This home of ours is a very attractive place, but it tries my patience to be forced to go through a ten-course dinner each night, when I am anxious to get out. The words "change" and "haste" are unknown here, and it is only endurablebecause the dinner is so exquisitely prepared and served.

We have some interesting and clever people at our table—a family from Boston, two girls from Washington, a brother and sister from Philadelphia, who have lived here for years, and a beautiful Canadian. The last named sits next me, and oursotto voceconversations have brought out the fact that her heart is full of love for all things. She is Canadian only by birth, and among the array of smartly dressed Americans in thepension, she leads.

I do not wish to be put on record as one who judges a woman solely by her clothes; but oh, the American woman here is incomparable. I agree with Lilian Bell, that the women of no other race can compare with her in dress, or taste, or carriage. She is bewitching! She is a type! I believe I once told you that we had no type. I take it back. We have, and so glorious a one that I am proud to claim kinship with her.

You will be shocked, I am sure, when I tell you that I do not agree with Mr. Howells, nor yet with my beloved Hawthorne, for I love modern Rome. To besure, Hawthorne wrote of Rome in 1858, and Mr. Howells in 1864, and it may be the shops were not so altogether enticing in those early days, or it may be because they were not women that the shops had no charm for them; but if they had known Castellani, the goldsmith on the Piazzi di Trevi, who executes designs from the old Grecian, Etruscan and Byzantine models, or Roccheggiani's exquisite mosaics and cameo carvings, it is probable their opinions would be modified.

Michelangelo's "Moses" is not in the big St. Peter's of the Vatican, but in St. Peter's of Vincoli. This was a surprise to me, for I had supposed to the contrary. I had asked many times, to no avail, why Michelangelo put horns on his "Moses," until a learnèd monk told me that, in an early translation of the Scriptures, the word "horns" was incorrectly given for "skin." Notwithstanding the disproportion of its outlines, the gigantic statue is, to me, the most wonderful thing ever cut from a block of marble.

We have anascensorin ourpension. The bigconciergeputs me in, locks thedoor, unlocks the catch, and lets it go. When it gets to my floor it is supposed to stop, and in the same breath to have its door unfastened, and all I have to do is to walkout. Sometimes, however, it stops midway between floors, and then I wish I had walkedup. I find Roman and Spanish steps just as fatiguing to climb as any others, and patronize theascensorswith vigor.

We went by appointment one day to the Rospigliosi Palazzo to return the visit of our Portuguese friends, Signor and Signora A., and were taken into another part of the palace to see Guido Reni's "Aurora." The picture is painted on the ceiling, and there is an arrangement of mirrors by which one can view it without having to tire the neck with looking up so constantly. It is the greatest painting that has been done in the last two hundred years. In the evening we all went to hear "Gioconda" at theTeâtro Adriano. The Italian audience seemed, by the uproarious applause that greeted each aria, to appreciate the music, but talked continually through it all.

We have revisited many of the places which most interested us during our three days' drive with thecicerone, and have whiled away many delightful mornings in the shops. We rest a little in the early part of each afternoon, and then, almost invariably, we drive on the Corso and to the Pincian Gardens, where the band plays from five until an hour afterAve Maria. Here one sees the smart Romans, and in fact people of nearly every race on earth, in their best attire, on pleasure bent.

It is needless to tell you that we take a carriagesans numero, for the private parks of the best palazzos allow only carriages without numbers to enter.

The scene on the Pincio is just what it was in Hawthorne's day. Read his description of it in the "Italian Note Book," and you will see it more clearly than I can make you understand. It is a continualfête champêtre.

One day, while we were obliged to stop on account of a jam in the ring of carriages that move slowly round and round the circle where the band plays, Ruth stepped from the vehicle to get nearer the beautiful fountain of Moses to make a little sketch of it. I sat alone listening to the gloriousItalian band. And while my thoughts were thousands of miles away, and very near the one to whom this message goes first, some one spoke to me in French, and asked if I would have the goodness to go to his madame. It was the serving-man of our fellow-voyager, she of the same initials as my own. I looked in the direction he indicated, and there, not ten carriages back, she was, so hemmed in that it was impossible to drive alongside.

As I left my seat and walked over to her, she met me with the radiant face and smiling greeting of an old friend. She is beautiful, with that inimitable something about her that attracts one, and I wondered if I should ever know what her given name is. I knew for a certainty that I should never ask. She is not old, but gives one the impression that she has lived long enough to have "gathered the fruits of experience where once blossomed the flowers of youthful enthusiasm."

The bells forAve Mariahad rung. The musicians were picking up their music. The Pincian Hill was deserted. Ruth sat alone in her carriage as this woman's hand grasped mine in reluctant parting.

"Good night," I said.

"Good night!"

You recall my telling you of Mrs. F. on the ship—she whom I met on the Pincian Hill—and her invalid son? Well, he was not her son. He is her—husband.

It will be no breach of confidence to tell you the story, for I have her permission—withholding her name, of course.

It seems that the husband, in his youth, was rather "rapid"; and, in a most idiotic will, the father left him a large fortune, provided that before his twenty-fifth year he had been married to a woman at least ten years his senior. It was stipulated that the woman was not to know the conditions of the will until after the marriage, so that she might be some one of worth and character, capable of caring for the money.

No wonder it sobered the poor young man. He swore that he would never marry, and that those who were ready to grasp the fortune, should he fail to "keep the bond," might have it, and be—happy.

THE PINCIAN HILL, ROME

One vacation time found him at the home of a classmate in one of the eastern college towns, where he met and fell in love with this woman whom I have describedto you. He had no idea she was older than himself until he had made her a proposal of marriage. She, of course, refused what she conceived to be a foolish boy's fancy. He sent for his mother, and together they set themselves to win the lady of his choice, after the mother had "looked her up"—and down—as mothers of precious boys are wont to do.

In the meantime the young man was taken very ill, in his delirium calling for his love, who finally, at the physician's urgent request, went to him, and, with his mother, cared for him.

It was the day before his twenty-fifth birthday. The mother was frantic at the thought that her son was to lose his fortune. He cared little for the money, save that it would enable him to shower favors upon this love of his. He begged her to marry him that night to save him from some great trouble—if she ever regretted it for one moment she should be free—that he could not in honor tell her why it was so necessary that the marriage be solemnized at once. She had grown fond of him, yet naturally hesitated to do either him or herself injustice. Finally his helplessness and his mother's agony provedtoo much for her, and just before the midnight they were married at his bedside.

Who can account for the vagaries of a woman's fancy? The foolish conditions which she made a part of this contract were: that they should live abroad where they were not known, and that she should be known as his mother.

His own mother, otherwise a strong, sensible woman, agreed to everything, so great was her anxiety about her son.

In another week they had started for Europe, and I have accounted to you the strange manner in which their names appeared on the ship's register. It served as a safeguard against inquisitive people, and every one took it for granted that they were mother and son—and she a widow.

Immediately they landed they met an old friend of hers, and thus began a series of explanations, for her friend knew she had no son.

Fortunately this woman was a brave, true friend, and her advice was so heroic that the bride was speechless before such fearlessness.

She said to her: "You must stop all this foolishness at once. There is absolutely no excuse for such deceit. One falsehoodpaves the way for hundreds of others. It has already cost you the loss of your peace of mind and it is the cause of your husband's continued illness. How can you expect him to be strong, while living a lie?"

This last statement was pretty hard to accept, but it proved that her liking for her young husband had grown into love, for her one desire was to see him well and strong.

Her pride, however, stood in her way and she must have advice. Everything else the friend said was true, for already her day had become a hideous nightmare with this constant fear of meeting some one whom she knew. And this is why she sent her footman for me the day of the concert in the Pincian Gardens.

She explained that she had heard Ruth and me discussing points in ontology on the ship, and wanted to ask me if what her friend said was true. She told me the story just as I have told it to you, not naming herself. I divined at once it was her own, but did not let her feel that I had perceived it, and for answer I said:

"How I should love to meet that friend! Most assuredly she is right. Falsehoodand deceit bring nothing but suffering. Send word to that poor foolish woman at once that you too are opposed to her living a lie any longer."

It was listening to this tale that made me forget the crowd, the perfume of the flowers, and even the exquisite music of the King's band.

How glad I am that I saw dear old England first, for it seems very young when compared to Rome. Everything here is twenty centuries or more old, therefore you may imagine that, by comparison, things only a few hundred years old are yet in their infancy.

Apropos of age, while at Oxford a student told us, with much solemnity, that Magdalen College "was built in 1490, before you were discovered." The doctor said, "Well, what of it?" I was shocked at the good doctor, and was much impressed by the great age; but I understand the doctor's sarcasm now, for he had recently returned from Rome.

The "oldest church in Rome," however, reminds one of "the favorite pupil of Liszt." I am meeting with them still.

The most magnificent place in Rome,after the Vatican, is the Villa Borghese (bor-gay-zay), not only on account of the beautiful park which contains numerous ornamental structures, little temples, ruins, fountains and statues, but also on account of the collection of antiques in its casino, or gallery. It is here that Canova's marble statue of Pauline Borghese is exhibited—to me the most beautiful marble in Rome. Here, too, is Titian's first great work, "Sacred and Profane Love." I fancy that Titian saw life from many view-points.

Imagine one going from the sublime to the ridiculous—from the gorgeous Borghese Villa to a Rag Fair. A Rag Fair is an open-air sale of everything that can be thought of, from a garter clasp to a diadem. We went for old brass candlesticks of the seven-pronged, sacred variety, afterwards continuing on to St. Peter's, where we were repaid for mounting an incline of 1,332 feet up through the dome by the view of all Rome, the Vatican gardens and the tops of the "seven hills."

Mrs. F. joins us often now. She went with us again Thursday to the churchSan Paola alle Tre Fontane(St. Paul ofthe Three Fountains). It is kept by Trappist monks, a silent order. They never speak to each other, but make up for it when visitors come. We had a dear "brother" show us the objects of interest, and he presented each with a wee drinking glass to measure out the Eucalyptus wine which they make there.

The three fountains are flowing clear as crystal, and whether or not the head of St. Paul jumped three times on these spots, as tradition has it, it matters little; but the simple faith of the sweet-faced sisters who knelt and drank from each spring and arose freed from some claim was touching, and far from provoking the mirth that some people feel toward these devout pilgrims.

En routehome we stopped at the English cemetery and plucked a flower from the grave of Keats and of Shelley and of Constance Fenimore Woolson.

STANZA DELLA SEGNATURA, VATICAN PALACE, ROME

We saw Hilda's Tower, too, that day. I had occasion to thank Hawthorne for "The Marble Faun" and "Italian Note Book," otherwise I should not have been able to relate the story of Hilda and her tower. In truth, all Italy would have remained as a closed book to me had it notbeen for my three "H's," as Ruth calls them—Hawthorne, Howells and Hutton. The latter says, in his "Literary Landmarks of Rome," that the "Italian Note Book" is still the best guide to Rome that has ever been written, and that one should read it before coming, again while here, and yet once more after returning home.

I shall say the same about the Landmarks, for without them much of the charm I have found here would have been lost.

Yesterday we bade St. Peter's good-bye on our way to Sant'Onofrio. Here, again, a bright youngfrèreshowed us over the church made most interesting from its association with Tasso. There are some excellent paintings in the lunettes under the colonnade of the cloisters.

It is a great pleasure to show Mrs. F. anything, as her appreciation is keen. She knew little of the literary landmarks which she passed each day, and I pointed out to her the house where Keats lived, on the left as one goes down the Spanish steps, the house of Shelley on the right, with the lodgings occupied by Byron almost directly opposite.

On our return from Sant'Onofrio, she inquired of the coachman if the horses were fit, and upon his answering that they were good for several hours, she turned and in a low voice asked me to remain with her as long as possible. I understood. From a list of streets and numbers which I had with me, we selected such as we wished to visit.

On the Via di Bocca di Leona we found the home of the Brownings; close by, the house that sheltered Thackeray in Rome; and not far away, the place where Adelaide Sartoris lived. In rapid succession, then, we made "little journeys" to the Italian homes of Louisa Alcott, Helen Hunt Jackson, George Eliot, and the house where Mrs. Jameson held Sundaysoiréesin a wee two-by-four room. Mr. Hutton and I did good work, for after all other sights had failed to interest, our (?) literary landmarks succeeded in saving the day.

Afterthe rather strenuous day, the account of which closed my last letter, we settled up our affairs in Rome, heard for the last time the Pope's angel choir, sent off our luggage, purchased our tickets,with innumerable stop-overs, and, hardest of all, bade good-bye to our friends.

Just before we were leaving, Mrs. F.'s footman brought to the door of our compartment in the traveling-carriage an armful of roses and a letter. The flowers brightened all the hot dusty day, but the letter—oh, that letter will brighten all the years that may come to me, and I have tucked the precious words away in the warmest corner of my heart, to be taken out on the rainy days of life, and fondled like some of childhood's memories.

I did not see her again after she left me at the door that evening, nor had she spoken one word to indicate that she knew that I knew. She paid me the highest tribute of friendship—silence.

Among other things in the letter, she said:

"The Catholic Church has not a monopoly of 'ears that hear yet hear not, eyes that see and are blind,' for I find in you one who is built fine-grained enough not to mistake silence for stupidity, nor to consider the absence of an interrogation mark as lack of sympathy. The very evident fact that your beautiful companion knows nothing of my sorrow stamps youas a splendid friend, and I want you for such.... Your going has taken away my strongest staff. You have been bravely permitting me to lean on you, too hard I fear, these last days, but you understand, and, understanding, forget.

"I should come to you in person to bid you good-speed, but I should break down and perhaps not be able to let you go, so I am sending instead this message. I have determined to be brave, to end this deceit, to go away from Rome; to begin aright in some other place; to live the truth."

I left the eternal city with a light and happy heart, for my new heart's sister (new if we count by that false estimate—time) is free. I still do not know what her given name is, as all her notes have been signed with her initials, and her surname does not resemble mine in the least.

No wonder Mrs. Ward sent her weakest heroine here to hide. If you ever lose me, and suspect that I am in hiding, hunt for me in Orvieto. I had heard nothing of the place until I read "Eleanor," but now, if I were a guide-book, I'd put five asterisks before it and six in front of its cathedral. You will understand how I feelabout it when I tell you that most of the guide-books never use more than two stars to indicate the superlative. Loomis, in his wildest flights, sometimes uses three, so I think five would about fit my estimation of the Orvieto of today.

The town is on the top of a mountain, up the almost perpendicular sides of which it is reached by afunicolare.

I wishI might live here, on this street and in thispension, and have it all on my visiting-cards, and write it in my best style at the top of my letters. If it were engraved on my visiting-cards, and you should wish to come to see me, you would simply have to say to the cabman, "See-nyee-o-rah—Al-vee-nyee-ah—Sah-chah-ro—Pe'n-see-yo'—Tog-natz-zee—Vee-ah—Sal-lut-chio—Bahn-dee-nee—Dee-chee-ah-no-vay," but the entire address doesn't include the beautiful cloisters into which my windows open, for the place is an old monastery.

The first I ever knew of Siena was from one of Lilian Whiting's books. She spoke of Symonds' history and Mrs. Butler's"Biography of Katherine of Siena," and straightway I devoured them both. How little I thought then that I should walk the same streets and kneel at the same altar at which that saint knelt. I like her the best of all the saints "I have met," for she loved to be alone and build castles.

Siena is a rival of Rome and Florence in mediæval art and architecture. The churches are wonderfully beautiful, and filled with the choicest works of ancient and modern artists. The marble pavement and the carved white marble pulpit in the cathedral cannot be equaled.

Threeweeks in the art center of the world and not one letter written! The note-book, however, is getting so fat that it begs to be put on paper and sent away to you. My bank account is correspondingly lean, made so partly by the purchase of prettycarte-postaleswhich carry the telegraphic messages across the sea, just to show that I'm thinking and that a letter is coming some fine day.

If myporte-monnaiewere not sotrès maigre, I'd buy many copies of Howell's "Tuscan Cities," Hutton's "Literary Landmarksof Florence," Ruskin's "Mornings in Florence," Mrs. Oliphant's "Makers of Florence," and Mrs. Browning's "The Casa Guidi Windows," and send to each of you with this inscription: "These are my sentiments."

It was with a sense of lazy delight that we wandered about Siena, watching the peasant women in their picturesque head coverings, inhaling the atmosphere of mediæval art and the restfulness that comes with it. In the same leisurely manner, armed with numerous Leghorn straws, we turned our faces northward, and found pleasant rooms awaiting us here.

Our windows look out on the Arno, and to the right I see thePonte Vecchio; to the left, abella vistawhich ends at Fiesole.

The new Florence is broad and white and glistening; the old is narrow, dark and massively rich.

The Arno, like the Tiber, is a yellowish green. Its eight bridges are unique, ancient and historic.

The Lungarno, down which we walk each morning, is odd and fascinating. It has on the Arno side a marble balustrade; on the other, little shops displaying jewelsand precious stones which would tempt the soul of a female angel Gabriel. The display of turquoise, of which stone Florence is the home, is ravishing, yet sometimes—once, I think—we really went by without entering. The day we did not go in, however, we went by appointment to one of the shops on the Tornabuoni, where were arrayed some gorgeous ancient chains and rings of scarabs, the cartouch of which proved them to belong to some Egyptian potentate.

The Piazza della Signoria forms the center of Florence. It is surrounded by the Palazzo Vecchio, the Uffizi, and the Loggia dei Lanzi. In the center is the fountain of Neptune. It was in this piazza that Savonarola was burned.

In the buildings just named, each a masterpiece of architectural beauty, are found many of thechefs-d'œuvreof the world. Florence overflows with so much that is ornate, it was difficult to make selections. Like poor Helen—

"Were the whole world mine, Florence being bated,I'd give it all to be to her translated."

"Were the whole world mine, Florence being bated,

I'd give it all to be to her translated."

PIAZZA DELLA SIGNORIA, FLORENCE

Sometimes I think if I could have but one of these gems of architecture, I'dchoose the Duomo, with its graceful façade and its campanile; but when I cross the street to the Baptistery of San Giovanni, and gaze at its bronze doors, I change my mind, and give it first place.

Now it is Santa Croce, with its wondrous wealth of marbles, where Ruskin—and I—spent many happy hours; but soon Santa Maria Novella has outshone them all, until the loveliness of the Medicean Chapel wins my heart anew.

Alas, so weak am I, that all the cathedrals sink into obscurity when the Uffizi Palazzo, with its Tribune, is seen. It holds the one perfect woman—the Uffizi Venus. The Pitti Palace and the Boboli Gardens; the Bargello, with its unique staircase and court; the Riccardi—in truth, all the wealth of incomparable grandeur of artistic Florence have their places in my affections.

The wealth, beauty and royalty of Florence are seen on the fashionable driveway. The Cascine is to Florence what the Pincio is to Rome. There, in the late afternoon, society drives back and forth along the bank of the Arno, listening to the music of a military band.

It is of little consequence how the artistgives expression to his dream—whether by pencil, pen, brush, chisel or voice, in marble, painting, song or story—Florence is the home of them all.

And Fiesole, ah, Fiesole by moonlight! I have walked up the Fiesolian Hill, and taken the little electric tram, but last night I took you with me in a carriage. The others did not know you were there, so you and I "cuddled down" on the back seat. You held my hand and said never a word, but by that same blessed silence I knew you were drinking in the beauty of it all.

STAIRWAY BARGELLO PALACE, FLORENCE

As the strong horses pulled up the mountainside, you and I looked back at Florence. She lay off in the distant shadows, with the Arno at her feet—the Arno, no longer a yellow, muddy stream, but a glistening, silvery ribbon, with the moonbeams dancing merrily on its phantom-like bridges. The towers and turrets were transformed into marble lace; the statues to golden cupids; the chimney-tops formed bas-reliefs; and the whole, a misty shadow-picture. Even Florence was improved by the witchery of "that old man in the moon." The silvery unrealness of it cast a spell over us, making—

... The longing heart yearn forSome one to love, and to beBeloved of some one.

... The longing heart yearn for

Some one to love, and to be

Beloved of some one.

That's why I took you with me.

When the top was reached we looked only at the fairyland in the distance. It is difficult to idealize an ordinary little village, even if it be Tuscan, and this one has nothing to recommend it but a cathedral and some picturesque beggars.

Returning another way, we passed Boccaccio's villa, and in fancy saw his merry party of lords and ladies seated in the arbors looking out toward Belle Firenze over the now golden River Arno.

Thus it was I left you in Florence. I could not find you when Ruth called out, "Are you going back with the cab, honey?"

If Florencewas left behind in a memory of purple mist, the highroad between it and Bologna would awaken the most poetic. The word "highroad" is a little creation of my own in this connection, but I feel sure you will believe it to be "high" when I tell you that Florence lies at the foot of the Apennines and Bologna at the summit; and that the railway is, by somemiracle of engineering, built up through and around these mountains. We threaded forty-five tunnels, swung around numberless viaducts, crawled over heart-stilling trestleworks connecting one peak with another, and finally came out on top, much dirty and more tired.

We arrived in Venice at 12 o'clock, midnight, at the full of the moon. It cannot be compared with my Florentine dream, for while they are both exquisitely lovely, they are different. There is nothing on earth quite like Venice by moonlight.

All things lose perspective at close range, or in the glare of the sun's rays, and Venice shares this disenchantment. It matters little what or how much one has read of Venice—to realize its charm, its color scheme and its uniqueness it must be experienced. For Venice is not a thing, it is an experience.

We owned a gondola,—for a week. We lived in it, and I, sometimes, slept in it while we were being wafted from one place to another.

THE GRAND CANAL, VENICE

There is the usual—oh, no! there is nothingusualin Venice—cathedral, as in all cities, but St. Mark's stands out first and forever as The Church of all churches.My first glimpse of this pile of precious stones was unexpected and most dramatic to me.

There were no letters that morning, and I was just walking—I did not care where or on what. What's beauty and loveliness compared to One letter? An arcade blocked the way, and not knowing—not caring—where it led, I passed in and through it. Chancing to look up, I found myself in the light of day, and straight before me, ablaze with the sunlight full on its façade, was a structure of lavish Oriental magnificence.

"What is that?" I cried aloud.

"San Marco!" answered a number of soft, musical voices in unison; and there stood by my side a little crowd of Italians, their dark eyes sparkling and white teeth showing, evidently pleased at my adoration.

"San M-ahr-co, San M-ahr-co!" they drawled in delight. For once their pleasure was real; they did not break the spell upon me by holding out the hand for apourboire.

St. Mark's is Moorish in design, and has a coloring both gorgeous and subdued. The richness of jewels and costly stones does not seem out of place here as in manyRoman churches. Nothing could be too precious, too sumptuous, too rare, for this temple magnificent.

The piazza of St. Mark's is a square paved with trachyte and marble. It has the church on one side, and on the other sides, old white marble palaces, in the arcades of which are now found shops of world-wide renown. The piazzetta leads one, between the Doge's palace and Libreria Vecchia, to the Grand Canal.

Every evening a military band plays in the square, and it is like a vast, open-air drawing-room with a huge masquerade ball in full tilt.

We climbed the Campanile and saw, besides a beautiful sunset, the Alps, the Adriatic, and in the dim distance the Istrian Mountain rising out of the sea.

With but a day to give to Venice, or with a year at your disposal, there is only one thing to do—dream! Whether you rest in a gondola on the Lagune, drifting past the Bridge of Sighs, the Rialto, the Ghetto, or the Lido, listening to the gondolier calling out the names of the palaces as the boat glides by, or whether you stroll idly through the miles of churches and galleries containing the paintings, or sit inwondering awe before the vast area of mosaics in St. Mark's—it matters little—dream!

In truth, one cannot well avoid it, amid the "subtle, variable, inexpressible coloring of transparent alabaster, of polished Oriental marbles and of lusterless gold," as Ruskin puts it.

Heavens! Just think ofmewriting "Como" at the top of my letters! I have pinched myself to see if I am really here. The unreality of it all recalls what Mr. Howells said after reading Ruskin: "Just after reading his description of St. Mark's, I, who had seen it every day for three years, began to doubt its existence." So I am beginning to doubt my own existence.

The morning we left Venice I was nearly arrested by a man in a cocked hat, all on account of two other men in sailor hats. In short, I overstepped the etiquette of the gondolier most woefully. Our train left at the fetching hour of six, so I made an appointment with our trustworthy Pietro to come for us in time. I think I have told you that the word "haste" is an unknownquantity here, and when Pietro was not at the door ten minutes before the time to start, I had the clerk call another gondola. As we were about to step into the boat, Pietro was seen drifting idly toward our hotel.

He wasn't very indolent when he saw what was going on, and those two "sunsets" (I think that is my own, for in a sunset, do you not see the day-go?) danced several kinds of jigs up and down and sidewise before me. Several others came to their assistance, among them the aforesaid cocked-hatted individual.

I told the clerk to tell them that I wished to conform to the rules, and to settle it their way. A summer breeze could not have been calmer than all became in the twinkling of an eye, but the cause of the calm was apparent when I settled the bill. Their understanding of "settling it their own way" was to pay each of them, including the cocked-hat, but that was better than languishing in a dungeon for ever so little a time,n'est-ce-pas, mon cher?

Since then Milan has been visited—Milan, with its mammoth marble cathedral, done in Irish-point pattern and with apapier-mâchéinterior—but beautifulwithal. Several days were spent at Menaggio on this lovely lake; another at Villa Carlotta, where Canova's original and divinely beautiful marble, "Cupid and Psyche," stands in all its purity; many more, sailing up and down these enchanting waters, made green by the reflection of the forest on the mountains surrounding, and by the grounds of the wealthy Milanese, whose summer villas line its banks.

Vineyards are scattered along the mountainside in terraces, and the brilliant green of the chestnut and walnut trees is blended with the dull grayish green of the olive and laurel.

Lake Lugano and Lake Maggiore are beautiful sheets of water, but they lack the romantic atmosphere of Como. I can recall no other description so pleasing to the heart as well as to the fancy as the eulogy to these lakes in Mrs. Ward's "Lady Rose's Daughter."

RuralItaly, to be appreciated, must be seen by tram, by boat, by steam, by old-fashioned diligence, and on foot. Its lakes and mountains, its valleys and vineyards,have been a source of continual surprise to me, and it is with a feeling of keenest regret that our last place in Italy is reached. I feel with Browning as I say farewell to—

"Italy, my Italy!* * * * *Open my heart and you will seeGraven inside of it, 'Italy'."

"Italy, my Italy!

* * * * *

Open my heart and you will see

Graven inside of it, 'Italy'."

LAKE MAGGIORE, ISOLA BELLA, ITALY

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