into Piedmont and Lombardy, it struck me with a
sort of awe that I would have been ashamed to put into words, except on
paper, for fear somebody might laugh. I suppose it's because I come from
a country where we think houses aged at fifty, and antique at a hundred;
but these old fortified towns and ruined castles frowning down from
rocky heights give me the kind of eerie thrill one might have if one had
just died and was being introduced to scenery and society on the fixed
stars or planets.

At home it had always seemed so useless to know which was which, Guelfs
or Ghibellines, when I was studying history, that I made no effort to
fix them in my mind; but now, when I caught snatches of talk between
Maida and the Chauffeulier, to whom the Guelfs and Ghibellines are still
apparently as real as Republicans and Democrats were to Papa, I wished
that I knew a little more about them. But how could I tell in those days
that I would ever be darting about in a country where George Washington
and Abraham Lincoln would seem more unreal than the Swabian Emperors,
the Marquesses of Montferrat, and the Princes of Savoie ever did to me
in Denver?

I envied Maida when I heard her say that the House of Savoie had been
like Goethe's star, "unhasting and unresting" in its absorption of
other principalities, marquisates, counties, duchies, and provinces,
which it had matched into one great mosaic, at last, making the kingdom
of Italy. Mr. Barrymore loves Italy so much that he likes her for
knowing these things, and I think I shall steal that book she bought at
Nice, and is always reading--Hallam's "Middle Ages."

The effect of the grim old gateways, even upon me, is a little marred by
the fact that from out of their shadows usually jump small
blue-uniformed Octroi men like Jacks from a box. At Asti there was a
particularly fussy one, who wouldn't take Mr. Barrymore's word that we'd
nothing to declare, but poked and prodded at our hold-alls and bags, and
even sniffed as if he suspected us of spirits, tobacco, or onions. He
looked so comic as he did this that Maida laughed, which appeared to
overwhelm him with remorse, as if an angel had had hysterics. He
flushed, bowed, motioned for us to pass on, and we sailed into a wide,
rather stately old street.

"Oh, look!" Maida cried out, pointing, and the Chauffeulier slowed down
before a house with a marble tablet on it. It was almost a palace; and
Mamma began to feel some respect for Vittorio