My collaborator and I drove to Villa Vicentina on Friday, June 7th. We took a lady who is possessed with the photographic mania with us, thinking she might be useful, and the Other Boy to carry her camera, etc. There was no rising at unearthly hours in the morning this time—we started at a respectable hour in the afternoon. The early part of our drive was along the same road by which we went to Aquileia—the long white road bordered with poplars leading through the marshes. After passing through Monfalcone and crossing the bridge over the Isonzo, however, we turned to the right. Hedges of acacia shadowed the road; the flowers are over, here, by June, but the leaves have still their first freshness, the beautiful tender green that the sun seems to love to illumine and brighten into golden yellow. We crossed a little river, a placid stream fringed with graceful willows and bordered with blue forget-me-nots, flowing through the level meadows and sweet-smelling vineyards, and at last came to the gate of Villa Vicentina. The house stands some distance from the road in a large park that, with its huge trees and rich grass, reminds one of dear old England. The trees are really magnificent, mostly white poplars ("the light quivering aspen"), venerable oaks, and towering sombre pines. We got out of our carriage, and walked part of the way to the house

I like big trees, particularly on a hot day; it is so cool and pleasant under their green shade, where no sunlight comes but in little chequered patches here and there, when outside everything is bathed in the scorching rays, and you see the air tremulous with heat.

The Villa Vicentina formerly belonged to Princess Baciocchi, the sister of NapoleonI. Her daughter left it to the late Prince Imperial, and after his death it became the property of the Empress EugÉnie. She never comes here—it is left in charge of an old caretaker and his wife, who, with another lady, possibly their daughter, and a female servant, appear to form the establishment. There is nothing particular about the house—it is an ordinary country villa. All the finer things have been taken away too, but there are still some bits of interesting furniture.

····· It was a strange feeling, not without a tinge of sadness, that stole over one whilst going up and down the deserted staircases and peeping into the empty rooms. Here and there a marble bust with the classic profile of the Buonapartes, an engraving, a faded water-colour, on the scanty remnants of furniture the Imperial eagle, some old firearms, the slender hand of beautiful Pauline Borghese cast in marble, a few bits of rare china, and everywhere the peculiar smell of damp and age that pervades long-unused houses. Where are the eagles now that once spread their wings over all Europe? Where are the famous beauties? Where are the glorious dreams?

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To be truthful, this last bit is not mine. My collaborator has just been worrying the life out of me to make me grow enthusiastic about Napoleon, but it is useless—quite useless. I am not enthusiastic about him, nor about his eagles, nor about his dreams. In fact, I cannot bear him, and he and Wagner make my life a burden. I do not admire them—I wish they had never existed. When those two unhappy beings are mentioned I know people will "jump on" me and abuse me. I bear it all as a martyr, but I absolutely cannot write with enthusiastic admiration about "old Nap" or stay in the room when there is Wagner music going on. So my collaborator has found it necessary to add these lines to my sketch. I do not call this fair, for when I write something she does not like, I have no rest till it is cut out. I know that some time or other Wagner will be brought in somehow, and I protest against it even now. It is a comfort that "our host" is of my opinion about Wagner. He says that he has lost all respect for him since he once went to see some Zulus that were exhibited somewhere, and found that those simple and unsophisticated savages with their war-music could make ever so much more noise than a whole orchestra playing Wagner. He says, too, that, after all, he only once went to a Wagner opera, and discovered that the unhappy tenor or baritone was obliged to make a whole shoe on the stage. No humbug, you know. He had to begin from the beginning and to make that whole shoe (a real serviceable article—no pretence about it) to perfection and to sing all the time till he had finished it. Our host could not stand it. He left the house to give the poor man a chance, and when he came back after two hours, there was the unhappy fellow still hammering away at his shoe, singing quite feebly, for he had no breath left in him. This time he went away for good, and never went to a Wagner opera again.

There! that has done me good.

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The gardens are beautiful—nice old-fashioned gardens where one could wander about all day with pleasure. There is a pretty conservatory with some wonderful climbing geraniums. What delighted us most was a little walk about a hundred yards long, and quite straight, with a trellis-work covered with creepers—a perfect tunnel. At the farther end is an old stone table and seat, where we intended to have tea. It was a charming spot, but unfortunately we were almost devoured by mosquitoes—they seem to be particularly ferocious and bloodthirsty there. The lady-photographer took some photographs, but I am sorry to say she is an utter fraud. Generally there is nothing at all on the plate, and if there is, you are quite at a loss to know whether the photograph represents a landscape, a dog, or a flash of lightning.

We had brought a huge basket, like a Noah's ark, with us, which contained the "tea-things." My collaborator told me during the drive that they (the tea-things) had originally been packed in a much larger basket, but that she (with characteristic thoughtfulness) had taken them all out and repacked them again in this "small" one. Personally I had looked forward to tea all afternoon. It was very hot, and I was thirsty, so it was with feelings of joyous expectancy that I began unpacking the following articles:—

1. Two forks.

2. Some butter (in a liquid state) wrapped up in white paper.

3. The poemshorts of Rossetti (neatly bound).

4. Three drawing pencils.

5. Two cups (without saucers).

6. A telescope.

7. Three tablets of Pears' soap (unscented).

8. A little bottle containing something—we didn't dare to open it. I fancy it was poison, and had some connection with photography.

9. A bottle of milk (sour).

10. Two enormous bottles of spirit of wine (to boil the kettle).

11. No kettle!

12. No tea!!

Happily the "Photographic Lady" (who considers tea a diabolical beverage) had some cake and some cherries mixed up with her apparatus, so, after all, our "tea" was rather a success—our tea on the old stone bench of Villa Vicentina, where the mosquitoes flourish!

There is a tree in the garden that was brought from the Emperor's grave in St. Helena. This is the end of the chapter. I finish it up quickly, or my collaborator will have a fit of enthusiasm again.