se of all the experiences of
the life on earth; and to the artist whose works bear this lofty message
of the triumph of spirituality, his reward shall appear, not in the
praise of men, but in the effect on character that his efforts have
aided to exalt; in the train of nobler influences that his work shall
perpetually inspire and create.

Mr. Simmons has always found Rome potent in fascination. One may not
want to go to St. Peter's every day, but one knows it is there, and
there is some inexplicable satisfaction in being where it is possible to
easily enter this impressive interior. One may not go near the Forum
for a month, or even a season, but the knowledge that one may find it
and the wonderful Palatine Hill any hour of any day is a perpetual
delight. The Vatican galleries, with their great masterpieces; the
Sistine Chapel, the stately, splendid impressiveness of San Giovanni
Laterano; the wanderings in Villa Borghese, and the picturesque climbing
of the Spanish steps, even all the inconveniences and deprivations,
become a part of the story of Rome which the artist absorbs and loves.

The studios of Mr. Simmons in the Via San Nicolo da Tolentino are a
centre of artistic resort, and his personal life is one of distinction
amid the picturesque beauty and enchantment of the Eternal City.

For many years (until the death of Mrs. Simmons in 1905) the sculptor
and his wife had their home in the beautiful Palazzo Tamagno in the Via
Agostino Depretis, where one of those spacious apartments of twenty to
thirty rooms, only to be found in a Roman palace, was made by them a
brilliant centre of social life. Mrs. Simmons was herself a musical
artist, with impassioned devotion to music; and her rare personal charm
and distinction of presence drew around her a most interesting
circle. Her receptions were for many years a noted feature of Roman
society. The social life in Rome is very brilliant, interesting, and
fascinating. The sight-seeing is a kind of attendant atmosphere,--the
perpetual environment offering, but not intruding itself. People come to
Rome for reasons quite disconnected with the Golden House of Nero or the
latest archaeological discoveries in the Forum. The present, rather than
the past, calls to them, and the present, too, is resplendent and
alluring.

Of the foreign painters in Rome, Charles Walter Stetson, whose work
recalls the glory of the old Italian masters, is especially
distinguished for his genius as