feelings of that nation which is said to take its pleasures sadly. But
spring works a transformation scene. The air is filled with the most
transparent shining haze; the sky lacks little of that intense, melting
blue that characterizes the ineffable beauty of the skies in Arizona;
and ruins and fragments and strange relics--ghosts of the historic
past--are all enshrined in trailing green and riotous blossoms. To drive
on the terraced roads of Monte Mario with all Rome and the emerald-green
Campagna before one; through the romantic "Lovers' Lane," walled in by
roses and myrtle; to enjoy the local life, full of gayety and
brilliancy, is to know Rome in her most gracious aspects. One goes for
strolls in the old Colonna Gardens, where still remain the ruins of the
Temple of the Sun and of the Baths of Constantine. The terraces offer
lovely views over the city. The old palace is occupied by the present
Prince Colonna, and it is not unfrequently the scene of most elaborate
and gorgeous receptions where the traditional Roman splendor is to be
found. A series of arched bridges over the narrow street of the Via
della Pilotta connect the Gardens with the Colonna Palace in the Piazza
San Apostoli. Very fine old sarcophagi are half buried in trailing vines
on the slope of the hill, dark with magnificent cypress trees. The
Colonna Gardens are a very dream of the past, in their ruins of old
temples, their shattered statues, their strange old tablets and
inscriptions, and their grand view of the Capitol.

In one's retrospective vision of a Roman season all the inconveniences
and discomforts of the winter disappear, leaving only the beauty and the
enjoyment to be "developed," as the photographer would say, on the
sensitive plate of memory.

No one really knows Rome until he has watched the transcendent
loveliness of spring investing every nook and corner of the Eternal
City. The picturesque Spanish steps are a very garden of fragrance, the
lower steps of the terraced flight being taken possession of by the
flower venders who display their wares,--masses of white lilac,
flame-colored roses, rose and purple hyacinths and baskets of violets
and carnations. Did all this fragrance and beauty send up its incense to
Keats as he lay in the house adjoining, with the musical plash of
Bernini's fountain under his window? It is pleasant to know that by the
appreciation of American and English authors, the movement effectively
directed by Robert