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

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

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

And now the quiver in my finger is gone:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

L. G. C.

Rome, April 24, 1883.