LITMIR.BIZ

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himself the other night and had a very pleasant evening. First to the Piccolellis' where he found a small party and his old friend Bentivoglio, with whom he had travelled in the East. Of course they instantly got into a corner and talked shop (medals). Then to Lottie Van Schaick who had a few friends, where he amused himself very much.

      Gertrude writes that our rooms are very nice, and the man at the hotel delighted to have us. I wonder what Rome will be like. It will seem funny to be back there again, a respectable middle-aged lady. I think one should always be young and gay to live in Italy.

      We had a fine musical evening Saturday with the Landi family—five; mother, father, daughter, son, and grandfather. Madame Landi sang anything, everything, delightfully. Some of the stornelli and peasant songs, those particularly of the Abruzzi mountains, were charming. I wonder what Italians have got in their "gosier" that we haven't, that gives such a charm to their simplest song. I sang once or twice in French, and then Madame Landi and I did some duos in Italian which went very well. She was very complimentary over my Italian (I told it triumphantly to W., but he remains under the impression of the razor), said it was evident I had learnt in Rome; the language is so much softer, or rather the pronunciation "Lingua toscana in bocca romana."

      The old father was killing, knew everything, was wildly interested, and criticised freely. I think the daughter will have a very pretty voice, like her mother's, a rich, low mezzo.

      I was called off by some visits, and will finish now. My letter will go to-morrow morning. We don't start very early—9.30—but I shall not have time to write anything more.

      To H. L. K

Hôtel de Londres, Rome,February 24, 1880.

      We arrived last evening for dinner, dear mother, and are most comfortably settled. We have a nice apartment on the second floor—a large bright salon with a good bed-room on either side of it for me and W., and a very fair anteroom where Madame Hubert has just had another wardrobe put up. She interviewed the gérant and made it clear to him that it was impossible for her to unpack her mistress's dresses until she had something suitable to put them in. We found flowers and papers on the table from the Schuylers, Mrs. Bruce, and the proprietor of the hotel.

      I thought we should never get away from Florence. We were so happy there with the Bunsens and Mrs. Waddington, and every day there was something to see or do. The weather was divine the last days—the hills were quite a pink-purple sometimes as we drove home after sunset, and quantities of roses climbing up all the old grey walls. We had a very easy journey—they had reserved a carriage for us, which was a good precaution, as the train was crowded. We got to Rome about six. W. was quite excited as we approached (it is too funny to think that he had never been here), and very anxious for the first glimpse of St. Peter's. I can't say we saw the dome from a great distance—I fancy it depends upon which way you enter Rome. We found the Schuylers at the station with a carriage, and drove at once to the hotel, where Gert had ordered tea and a pannettone. If I hadn't known I was coming to Rome I should never have believed it on arriving at the station. It was so unlike the little old Termine of our Roman days—the funny little station so far away, with few porters or cabs, and comparatively few voyageurs. I was quite bewildered with the rush into this great, modern station, with porters and officials of all kinds, and all the bustle of a great city.

      I looked in vain for some familiar landmarks as we came along. Nothing. The new streets, Via Garibaldi and Nazionale—an abomination, tall ugly maisons de location and official buildings so new and regular—awful! It wasn't until we got into the town and near the Piazza di Spagna that I really felt that I was back in Rome; that of course was unchanged. It brought back such a flood of memories as we passed 20, and all the first happy days in Rome came back to me, before father's illness, when he enjoyed everything so much, and wrote to Uncle John that "the hours were golden." The "barca" looked just the same, with boys and women leaning up against the stones, flower-girls on the Spanish Steps, and even old Nazzari's low, dark shop opposite looked picturesque. W. was quite surprised to see me so sentimental, though I had warned him that for me there was no place in the world like Rome.

      The Schuylers stayed talking some little while, then had to go, as they were dining out, but promised to come in after dinner. W. asked me if I was too tired to go for a little stroll (the tea had refreshed us), so we started up the Spanish Steps to the Villa Medici, where we had that beautiful view of Rome. I showed him the stone pines of the Doria-Pamphili, which stood out splendidly against the last bright clouds of the sunset—it was quite lovely. We stayed out quite late, and were received with respectful, but decidedly disapproving greetings from the gérant when we came in. It was not at all prudent for "Eccellenza" and Madame to remain out late, particularly as they must be very tired after a long journey. We dined downstairs in the big dining-room. There was a long table d'hôte full—people about half through their dinner—and at the extreme end of the room five or six small tables, one of which had been reserved for us. I didn't see any one I knew, but two men got up and bowed as we passed. The dinner was good—the head waiter hovering about us all the time, and of course always addressing W. as "Eccellenza." We had coffee upstairs. W. smoked and I read the paper and one or two notes. About ten the Schuylers appeared, very cheerful and full of propositions of all kinds. They have got a big reception for us on Sunday night—Roman and diplomatic—and we agreed to breakfast with them to-day. Gert looked very well in blue, with her diamond necklace and feathers. They don't seem very pleased with Marsh—our Minister. Always the same old story and jealousy—the ministers consider themselves so far above a consul. But really when the Consul-General happens to be Schuyler and his wife King, one would think these two names would speak for themselves—for Americans, at any rate.

      We told Schuyler how many compliments we had had both in Paris and Florence for his "Peter the Great"—so much in it, and yet the subject one that had been written about so often. They went off about eleven, and I was glad to go to bed; could hardly believe I was sleeping again in the Piazza di Spagna. I certainly never imagined when I left Rome tearfully so many years ago that I would come back as the wife of a French statesman.

      I was busy all the morning unpacking and settling myself, and of course looking out of the window. It is all so delightfully familiar—all the botte standing in the middle of the street, and the coachman trying so hard to understand when some English or American tourists give them some impossible address in Italian—you know the kind of people I mean, conscientious tourists who think they must always speak the language of the country they are in, learned out of a phrase-book. We have various invitations, from our two Embassies, Quirinal and Vatican, also the Teanos, and W. had a nice visit from Lanciani, who wants to show him all Rome. We took a botta to go to the Schuylers. It isn't far, but I wasn't quite sure of finding my way the first time. They have a charming apartment in Palazzo Altemps, near the Piazza Navona, not at all far really from our hotel, and now that I know the way I can often walk over in the mornings when W. is off sight-seeing seriously with some of his learned friends. It is a fine old palace with a large open court and broad stone staircase. San Carlo Borromeo is supposed to have lived there. Their apartment belongs to Mrs. Terry, wife of the artist, who had arranged it very comfortably, and the Schuylers have put in all their Turkish rugs, carpets, and bibelots, so it really looks very pretty. There are quantities of green plants and flowers about (they are both fond of flowers and are always making experiments and trying something new) and of course books, papers, reviews, and a piano.

      I told Gert I thought I would write to Vera and have some singing lessons—I have done so little singing since I have been married. Eugene is a charming host, and he and W. had plenty to talk about. I inspected Gert's wardrobe while they were smoking. Her dresses are all right, and I think her maid is good. I wrote all this after I came in. The man of the hotel had engaged a carriage for us—a nice little victoria with a pair of greys. It comes from Tomba's stables—do you remember the name? The same loueur we had when we lived here. The coachman said he remembered me perfectly, had often driven the "signorine" to the meets, and hoped la maman was well. We were lucky to get such a nice little carriage. The d'Aubignys, a French couple, had just given it up, as they were leaving the Embassy here for Berlin.

      We drove about a little—left cards for the Noailles, Desprez, Cairolis, and wound up in the Villa Borghese, which was again quite changed—such quantities of carriages and people

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