Tuesday, April 12th.

The "something quite different" that Zelphine and I consented to do with Angela yesterday afternoon was to go to the Villa Madama. The drive was pleasant, and the villa itself is charmingly situated on one of the precipitous sides of Monte Mario, but alas! when we reached the entrance gate we found it barred and bolted, which shows how important it is to consult guide-books and local itineraries before making these expeditions.

Rosalie, who was with us, spied a man in the grounds, to whom our vetturino called, "Ecco, ecco!"—the ejaculation which corresponds to our "hello," although it is more universal, as it seems to be suited to all occasions, grave or gay. This man proved to be the custodian of the villa. He stated emphatically that the villa was closed and could not be exhibited to-day; but when he caught the gleam of silver in Angela's outstretched hand, he swung the gate open hospitably.

This Medici villa, which was named after a daughter of Charles V. who married Alessandro de' Medici, is not spacious and imposing like the Villa d'Este or the Borghese; but it is an ideal patrician country-seat. We had been reading Marion Crawford's novel in which he describes this villa, restored by the Contessina Cecilia Palladio. So perfect is the vraisemblance of the novelist's picture that when we entered the half-ruinous, deserted house, from whose damp walls the beautiful frescoes are fast fading, we felt a shock of disappointment. Mr. Crawford's glowing description is of the Villa Madama as it should be rather than as it is.

If I were only a multi-millionaire, I would buy this lovely old place and make it the thing of beauty that Mr. Crawford describes. In fact, Rosalie and I sat in the "court of honor" by the old fountain basin, and planned a restoration which we thought even superior to Cecilia Palladio's, with plate-glass sashes in the loggias and steam heat to dry out the dampness and preserve Giulio Romano's wonderful frescoes; comfort as well as beauty would reign in the old villa! When this great work is completed, we four are to meet here every spring in the rose-time; would you like to come, Allan, as our first guest to this chÂteau en Espagne?

Angela, in whom the instincts for castle-building and for home-making are sadly wanting, interrupted our day-dreams by reminding us that we were due at a tea, and had barely time to get to the Via Ludovisi by five o'clock. As we passed by the barracks near the Ponte Margherita, our driver motioned toward an approaching carriage—a handsome carriage with liveries and a fine span of horses but no outriders. In the flash of the rapid passing we could only catch a glimpse of two ladies inside; one with fine dark eyes, animated and gracious, attracted us especially.

"The good Queen Mother," said the vetturino, turning to us. "We all love her."

We were glad to have even this fleeting view of the Queen so beloved by the Italians. It is charming to hear them speak of her as they do, not as the Queen Dowager, or the old Queen, but affectionately, as the Queen Mother.

Friday, April 15th.

Mrs. Coxe, with whom we made the excursion to PÆstum, called to see us yesterday morning. We came near losing her visit altogether in this curious, rambling pension, where the drawing-rooms are on the third floor, the dining-room on the fourth, and the bedrooms are scattered over all of the floors. The bell-boy escorted our visitor, in truly foreign fashion, to Zelphine's bedroom on the fourth piano, and as she happened to be in the salon, and there was no boy or bell in sight, Mrs. Coxe set forth on a voyage of discovery, exploring the dining-room and then going down to the smoking-rooms and library until she found the salon, in which we were comfortably seated enjoying our morning mail.

She laughed heartily over our detached way of living, but said she was determined to find us even if she followed us to the cellar, as she was the bearer of an invitation to join a party to be conducted by Monsignor A. through some of the rooms of the Vatican not usually open to visitors. Mrs. Coxe had brought a letter to this gentleman from her parish priest, which was the reason for this courteous invitation in which we were so generously included.

We met the Monsignor and his party near the steps leading to the Sistine Chapel, and were taken through the rooms in which the finest tapestries are kept—immense pieces representing Scripture scenes. These tapestries, which are beautiful, with all the delicacy of painting and the richness of needlework, are only used behind the altar when the Pope celebrates. Monsignor A. told us that the Holy Father never celebrates before a painting, always before tapestry. In another room we saw a man at work upon a large altar-piece, weaving in the colors by hand—a slow process, as you may imagine, but they count years here as we count days.

We were allowed to enter the grand banquet-hall hung with tapestries, in which preparations were being made for a great dinner; handsome glass and plate were on the buffet, looking very secular for il Vaticano. We saw the rooms of one of the old popes, and Monsignor A. showed us the low, broad steps over which the popes used to ride on their white mules from one part of the Vatican to the other. We did not wonder that they were glad to ride through this vast building, as we were tired after we had seen only a small part of it and a few of the eleven thousand rooms. Fancy the extent of this palace, with its museums, libraries, chapels, and suites of apartments, of which we gained some idea from the inner court and galleries.

Monsignor A. proved to be a genial old gentleman who enlivened his discourse with occasional anecdotes, which, delicious as they were in his broken English, would lose something of their flavor if I should undertake to repeat them in less picturesque language. He took us out on the balcony overlooking the piazza, from which the Pope used to give his blessing to the populace on Easter Sunday. The Monsignor said, with some sadness, that this custom belonged to the old rÉgime. We could imagine what the great piazza must have been, filled with devout kneeling figures, and, like the good father, we regretted the passing of this impressive ceremony.

As we were going through one of the large audience-halls, an American lady drew Mrs. Coxe and me aside.

"What shall we do about tipping?" she whispered. "These men," pointing to some attendants, "have been opening doors for us ever since we started. We must fee them, and yet how can we do it without attracting the attention of the Monsignor? Do you think there will be an opportunity to give them something?"

"If there is not," said Mrs. Coxe, promptly, "it will be the first time such a thing ever happened in Italy! I, for one, am quite willing to take my chances on it."

A few minutes later the Monsignor signified that we had completed our tour with him. He courteously hoped that we had been repaid for the fatigue of the many steps we had taken. Then, motioning toward the attendants, he said that we might give them a few soldi for their trouble, adding, simply and naturally, as if the words cost him no effort:

"The keys of the rooms that you have seen are in the charge of a gentleman who lends them to me. When I return them, I should be glad to hand him something to repay him for his kindness. If you feel like giving him a trifle, he and his friends will sit down at a table in some garden, with a bottle of wine before them, and drink to Father A.'s hat." His own hat, of course! Was it not deliciously frank and foreign? Mrs. Coxe glanced triumphantly at us, and Angela was so much amused at the idea of contributing to the convivial pleasures of several unknown gentlemen in return for our privileges at the Vatican that I thought it wise to make our compliments and adieus to the Monsignor as quickly as possible, before she should disgrace the party by unseemly hilarity.

Thursday, April 21st.

This has been a full week, in which there has been little time for letter-writing. Zelphine and I have been driving about making calls and leaving cards upon people who have invited us to their days. Angela flatly refuses to join us, declaring that she did not come to Rome to do the self-same things that she has to do at home. Instead of which, she has been having a gay time with the W.'s from Philadelphia, driving to the "Doria-Pamfili" and going to the races at the Campanelle, for this is the height of the racing season. To-day she went to the Grand Steeplechase of Rome, and had the pleasure of seeing the King and Queen driving in an open carriage drawn by four horses. The Queen gave her own prize, the Queen Elena prize offered to gentlemen riders, and who of all people should get it but the young Roman who nearly ran over Mrs. Robins at the meet! He is a titled personage, the Marquis de B., but as we could not remember his long, unpronounceable name, we have dubbed him the Marquis de Carabas, being more familiar with titles in fairy lore than in real life. Angela says that when Ludovico brought the Marquis de B. to the carriage to speak to her, she was in such terror lest she should call him by our nickname that she was afraid to open her mouth. Fancy Angela afraid to open her mouth under any circumstances! She must have overcome her hesitation, for she afterwards had a long talk with the young Marquis, who took her and Mrs. W. to have tea.

Zelphine and I find that our social duties have their compensations, as we meet such interesting people. I had a long talk with your friend Dr. White at a reception the other evening. He told me that he was publishing his reminiscences of diplomatic life in Russia and Germany. Madame Waddington is here now, and much fÊted of course. Mrs. Coxe, who has known her for years, says that she is the same Mary King whom she knew as a school-girl, and is quite as unspoiled by the success of her book as by her diplomatic successes.

One day this week an American friend, who lives here in a beautiful old palace, sent us her box for "Les Huguenots." The box was in the centre of what we call the balcony, near the royal box. We were hoping that the King and Queen would appear, but we have learned since that they seldom go to any plays except those given in their own royal theatre. Otherwise the house was as brilliant as we had expected, and the singing very fine, the choruses unusually strong.

Ludovico brought the Marquis de B. to our box. He has charming manners; indeed, so much manner that one does not get beyond it. I prefer our American heartiness to this studied politeness. Ludovico has asked permission to bring the young Marquis to call on us, assuring us that he belongs to one of the oldest families in Italy. I told him that as a gentleman and his friend the Marquis de B. would be welcome without the glory of an ancient lineage. Ludovico laughed, and said, "Oh, you Americans are so proud—as proud of your democracy as if you were all nobles!"

President Loubet is coming to Rome next Sunday, and the whole city has begun to put on yards of bunting to receive him. These people possess a genius for decoration, and have a clever fashion of hanging bright-colored shawls and bits of carpet out of their windows; the effect is really very good.

Sunday, April 24th.

Rome is en fÊte to-day, a brilliantly gay city! We were invited to see the reception of M. Loubet from a balcony overlooking the Esedra di Termine, from which we had a fine view of the great concourse of people—a wonderful sight! All the school-children of Rome were seated on stands surrounding the piazza; there were lines and lines of soldiers, cavalry and infantry, and people were standing everywhere except in the space reserved for the carriages; those of the nobility were like gilded Cinderella coaches, their coachmen and footmen in gorgeous livery. The carriage of the Mayor, Prince Prosper Colonna, was especially fine.

The band played the Marcia Reale, a curious little quickstep air, which announced the approach of the expected guest. A troop of cuirassiers opened the way; then came the royal carriage with the red liveries of the house of Savoy, the King and President Loubet seated side by side. Prince Colonna received the distinguished guest with much grace and dignity; the band then struck up the Marseillaise; the applause was wild, vivas, bravos on all sides. These Italians are not, I fancy, devotedly attached to the French Republic or to its President; but like all Latin peoples they delight in a celebration, a general hurrah, martial music, flying banners, and tumultuous applause.

Monday, April 25th.

We have quaffed our last draught from the Fountain of Trevi, thrown a penny into the pool to ensure our return to Rome, and taken a farewell look at Neptune and his floundering steeds. Our trunks are packed, as we had planned to leave Rome this morning, but the men did not come for our boxes, which are to go by petite vitesse to Florence while we loiter by the way in several hill towns. We set forth to discover the reason of the delay, and found the express office closed, all business being suspended during the grand review which is being held on the Piazza d'Armi in honor of the French President. It is evident that we shall have to adapt our movements to those of this worthy gentleman; but after all, this detention cannot be looked upon as an unmixed evil, as it gave us a few hours more in Rome which we spent in the Vatican. After taking a last lingering look at the Apollo and the Laocoon, we had an hour in the Sistine Chapel for the ceiling frescoes of Michael Angelo. To-day being brilliantly clear, the faces and figures stood out as we had never seen them before, and we ended by feeling grateful to M. Loubet, for had he not detained us we might never have so truly appreciated the magnificent Prophets and Sybils, which are difficult to see properly in cloudy weather such as we had during Holy Week.

En Route for Viterbo.

Ludovico and the Marquis de B. were at the station this afternoon to see us off, although they had spent a part of the morning with us. They both brought offerings of flowers, which was certainly a graceful attention on the part of the Marquis, whom we only know casually; but here they offer flowers with almost as little thought as one says good morning in America. Zelphine and I have the dark red ones that we love; Angela's are white and pink. The Marquis paid our youngest and fairest some compliments about the roses matching the color in her cheeks, which served to spread a pink glow all over her face and to make Ludovico angry. It is quite evident that we are not leaving Rome too soon, as these good friends might quarrel if we should stay longer, and my duties as a chaperon would certainly become more arduous. We shall miss Ludovico at every turn, and I flatter myself that he will miss us. We have all so enjoyed our Roman days together, and he and Angela were simply bons camarades, after the comfortable, unsentimental fashion of the modern boy and girl, until the Marquis came into our little circle with his too evident admiration and florid, Continental compliments.