unmistakeably the air of a gentleman—the grand desideratum in masculine attire-and yet have no one thing on that is cut just as it should be. This ideal Englishman has seen the world, served in India, and picked up a great deal of knowledge of life and common things;knowledge which he does not make any particular use of, and did not mean to, when he acquired it-in which he differs essentially from an equally well-informed Yankee. The particular specimen of which I began to speak seemed to be a resident in Rome, and soon discovering that we were Americans, showed the advantages of long sojourn abroad by a willingness to take part in the conversation which arose about our purchase, apropos to a book for which we were inquiring,-Mrs. Fanny Kemble Butler's "Year of Consolation," which nobody should go to Rome without— he spoke of English writers on America-said nobody had ever spoken against America but some stupid, prejudiced English people, and that the English were the most prejudiced people in the world. We were much amused with the naïveté of some of his observations, and set him down for something of an oddity-none the less English for that.

Willis has well said that the American people are like a paper of pins-one row exactly like another, and fixed in parallel; but the English have individuality enough, and are just so far the more true and more respectable people, spite of their prejudices.

From Monaldini's we drove to the Borghese palaceone of the most magnificent in all respects. This private residence has a gallery of seven hundred paintings, which is open to the public daily from ten o'clock. It were

vain to say what we saw here, for we did not know, ourselves, so great was the wealth of splendor and interest. Raphael's earliest historical picture-an Entombment, full of tenderness and grace-is but one of many precious things-The Cumaan Sybil of Domenichino; Albano's quartette of the Elements, among the sweetest pictures we have seen; several of Andrea del Sarto's Madonnas, holily beautiful; Titian's Sacred and Profane Love, of which everybody perversely thinks the profane the more attractive; a Crucifixion by Van Dyke; an original portrait of Raphael at the age of thirteen.

Again to the Vatican for two or three hours, about which one can say nothing, for the mere catalogue of what we saw fills a thick volume. The Hall of animals in marble interested me much to-day-nothing can be more wonderful than the expression given to these brute faces and forms. The Etruscan Museum is full of marvels, but should not detain one long, because it is more curious than beautiful, and the hasty visitor has no time to search out remote interests. The study of these alone would be quite enough for a month in Rome. My own taste is to seek rather for graceful and pleasing objects, such as I can never hope to see elsewhere. If one has time for the study of what is merely curious, or interesting from historical association, this may be done at home, and with the aid of drawings. But who can get an idea of the Apollo, or even of Canova's Perseus, from a drawing?

The immense sarcophagi and baths, in exquisite rosso antico and other rare and costly marbles, which line the open corridors around the cortile, are among the most splendid things here. The perfection of their condition,

not only as being unfractured, but as to the most brilliant polish, makes it hard to believe the undoubted antiquity of these superb relics. The view from the corridor in which they stand, open on one side and looking over the cortile to the distant country, is charming.

But when we went home to dinner all this was forgotten. "Forgotten! What-the Vatican, with its four thousand apartments, and eight grand stair-cases and two hundred others; its loggie, its stanze, its Sistine and Paoline chapels-all filled with treasures upon treasures of beauty and wealth and antiquity and association ?"

Yes-for we found letters from home.

When we had dined and taken some repose after sightseeing and being glad, we drove to the Villa Borghese, where we saw, besides many other beautiful things, the Venus Vincitrice, reclining in conscious beauty on a couch, in the centre of a richly decorated apartment of this country-house. She is indeed lovely, in classic style, yet quite French in expression, as her original, the giddy sister of Napoleon, is represented to have been in her tastes and feelings. In the saloon through which we passed immediately on entering the villa, is a fine basrelief of Curtius leaping into the gulf, and a grand bust of Isis. Apollo and Daphne-the nymph holding up her leafy fingers most piteously-is a favorite subject with the artists who embellished this villa-as is St. Sebastian, stuck full of arrows as a pin-cushion is with pins-in all the collections. The number of times we have seen the same subjects treated is really something curious. The portion of the Borghese villa which seemed to us, on a general view, the most splendid, is the room called the Galle

ria, sixty feet in length, and ornamented with pilasters in the beautiful marble called giallo antico, and many bas-reliefs and some statues of great merit. It is a noble mansion, worthy the wealth and taste of the family which throws open its spacious and beautiful grounds to the public.

We had not yet made enough of this day, so we drove through the Corso to the Capitol, which some of the party ascended for the fine sunset view of Rome; but I have made a vow against birdseye views in general, and was unusually tired on this particular day, so I sat still in the carriage, much amused with the Roman panorama that moved before my eyes, giving me no trouble. There were priests and friars in plenty, lounging about with an easy, sunset air; beggars in all varieties of rags, and more dogs than I ever saw before. Fountains were playing; the statue of Marcus Aurelius in the centre of the square gleaming golden in the rich light, and the architecture of Michael Angelo on every side, alive with statuary and sculptured ornaments. It was a scene to be remembered, and I enjoyed it long, in a half-dreamy silence that was very pleasant.

There being yet a gleam of day when our party descended, we stepped into the church of Ara Cœli, just at hand, and on a level with us, though the ascent from the street below is by a hundred and twenty-five steps of Grecian marble, from an old temple of Venus. This church is the property of the Franciscans, who are the happy custodians of the Santissimo Bambino, to which, rather than to any pictures or other valuables of the church proper, we were bent on making this evening

visit. The church was so dark that we could see little beside a rather dirty monk who met us at the door, and who consented with great alacrity to show us the miraculous image. He led the way to the sacristy-lighted several wax tapers, unlocked a closet like a clothes-press, took therefrom, with the help of a younger brother who had followed us by way of aid-de-camp, a wooden chest, over which was spread a sort of crimson pall. When this box was opened there was another within it, and at last, after the undoing of as many wrappings as hid the atomic dog in the story of Beauty and the Beast-(I hope I am right in my references!) we had full sight of the squab little figure, covered from head to feet with mock jewelry, and looking like a very clumsily carved simulation of Tom Thumb in swaddling clothes.

This thing, as is well known, is carried to the house of the sick who are rich enough to pay for it, and has the reputation of working miraculous cures. The monk said it was sometimes sent for twice in the same day. "And you really think it cures diseases ?"

"The people think so."

"And you?"

A shrug of the shoulders was the significant reply, with the addition of "It is an ancient tradition; and if the people wish it, we are willing to carry it to them."

"But it is said that the Bambino, having been secreted by a wicked woman, and another substituted and brought back in its place, returned to the church in the night, and knocked at the door for admission. Is this true?"

Another shrug. "It is an ancient tradition”—and there we left our Franciscan of Ara Coli, with his