came to sell things. We did not live-we swam in ecstasy; and over all the sun, and the blue, transparent sea at our feet. Oh, Italy! What can I say of you? Land of song and beauty! Where even the weeds are beautiful! Oh, ye Powers who made me, shall I long in vain for an eternity like this, where the hungry soul is fed with beauty and with music? When we landed, a child of unearthly beauty, like Raphael's angel, took me by the hand.

APRIL 22. Florence. Since writing before at Naples, weakly striving to find words to tell the influence of Italy on me, we have been in Rome, coming here on the 20th of April. I have kept no journal of these twelve days, for they are too rich to be weakly told on odd scraps, at a time more preciously employed. In Florence divine art and nature are combined, and man, although less beautiful than in the South, has still a resistless charm. Florence, the home of art and beauty, is not so much a city as a community whose lives are given up to beauty; all the sensuous grace of the antique world comes here.

APRIL 25. The same helpless feeling of trying to tell what Florence is! To-day how rich! With Will in the morning to see the National Museum,

with its bronzes by John of Bologna. Then to the Galleria delle Belle Arti, to see the pre-Raphaelite pictures. In the evening, when the lights skim along the Arno and distant music is heard, all the procession passes. The telegraph-man brings a message from the consul at the Museum. I dread the hour when I shall leave Florence, which is already so near. The beautiful, virile people look like descendants of the antique gods. On Sunday we drive in the lovely park along the finest avenue in the world, varied by the costumes of the soldiers scattered about to give color to the picture. Mr. and Mrs. B. dined with us last night; to-night, Count S. I do not go to the opera, having an engagement. I do not like the "old master" Will bought yesterday.

APRIL 26. It rains, and in the river under my window, some boatmen, like Hercules, dredge sand in their boats. I am hindered in dressing, looking at one who would be the despair of a sculptor. I walk before breakfast. In the forenoon Will and I go to the Pitti Palace, stopping on the way at a wonderful old art collection which is for sale. We walk over the river and through the gallery to the Uffizi. In the afternoon to see the Della Robbia sculpture, and to the Church of Santa Croce, where Michelangelo, Galileo, Cherubini, and Dante are

buried. I then go to the grand cathedral and, in the gathering darkness, pray.

MAY 2. Venice. What gaps! All eloquent of how hard it is to do regular things in an intoxication. We left Florence almost in tears, passing through flat, rainy landscapes. We stay at Bologna in an old palace full of busts and ruffed portraits. There is "Punch and Judy," with a large audience. We see the leaning towers and the venerable and splendid churches, one of which has columns from an old temple of Isis, my Egyptian god. And then we come to Venice. I land intoxicated in a strange and beautiful place, the sight of which is maddening. We are splendidly lodged at the Grand Hotel. We take tea with Mrs. G., and then see the pageant on the canal. Words cannot describe it. I meet Pietro Marina and go with him to the Lido. To-day I ascend the Campanile with a brawny porter in blouse for a guide. I ride with Matteo Mossetti, enraptured, in his gondola. We dine with H., and after on the water with Will to hear the music. Afterward I walk in the Piazza, and see much Venetian life. MAY 3. The same rapturous condition. I am all day with Matteo in his gondola, he teaching me Italian. His pure and beautiful face lends a new

charm to this most wonderful, old, splendid, decayed place. We wandered through the watery streets, not caring where, hearing music, while over us towered the sad, crumbling palaces, on whose marble balconies the rags of the poor were drying,-where once leaned the beauties now long in the dust,-sad commentary on the brevity of human greatness!

We dine with Mrs. G. in the beautiful old palace, served by her people in livery,-the vast and splendid rooms filled with frescoes and rare works of art. A memorable night. Will sits on her right, and I on her left,-her plain face transparent with genius; a great woman. We then go to the opera, lighted by thousands of candles. The King and Queen come; all rise; the Queen most graceful. Will and I leave at once and go with Matteo on the canal in the moonlight, listening to the music. It is a dream. Can I see this only once?

Afterward on the Piazza St. Marco, where I see many things.

MAY 4. It rains all day. The gondoliers wait. Oh, Venice! city of my soul! I am so full of exalted emotion that I cannot write. My life is now in flower. I am bitten by Venice.

The ticket porter who took me to the Campanile knows me as

I

pass.

ZOAR

1895. Zoar. I am home

OVEMBER 18, 1895.

NOVEM

again from the splendid wedding. I am heart-sore at the coldness of one, once my friend, who treats me now as a stranger.

And so I came away from the splendid wedding, sick at heart. My life is clouded, nor can I shake off the settled distress that weighs me down. I sometimes think of death as a thing to be welcomed. Certainly the bitterness of neglected and impoverished age seems near me.

Why can I not have the peace of mind I had one year ago?

At the wedding Mr. Crocker and I are asked by Harry up in the very front of the church. Nordica sings; also Edouard de Reszke: Gounod's "Ave Maria," with violin obbligato-heavenly; "The Crucifix," by Faure; duet, Nordica and de Reszke, with orchestra and organ. The responses are plainly heard.

He who was once my friend

Yesterday I went to my high farm, sadly dragging my feet through the rustling leaves. When