ait
statue to remember any other princess of that noble house; but as we
wander through the portrait gallery of the Colonna palace it is equally
difficult to choose a favourite from its brilliant gallery. My apologies
are due to many another in fixing upon Giulia Gonzaga, wife of Vespasian
Colonna as my heroine, though such was the fame of her beauty that the
Sultan of Turkey despatched a fleet for her capture.

In the last decade of the century, Marie de' Medici looked down upon
Rome from the villa of her uncle, Cardinal Ferdinando, and wandered
among that wonderful array of statues which now form the glory of the
Pitti Palace.

This was the time, if ever, that Shakespeare visited Italy, and I have
attempted to give a true picture of the life and scenes which he may
have viewed.

To my last chapter is left the confession that the supreme charm of
Rome of the Renaissance lies not in itself, but in the fact that it is
the bridge which unites modernity to the Rome of antiquity.

Each statue unearthed in the cardinal's garden, as it reassumed its
place upon the familiar terrace, must have whispered to its marble
companions: "They call this the Villa d'Este! We know better, it is
Hadrian's. Their learned men have labelled you, 'By an Unknown
Sculptor,' little suspecting that your lips were arched by Praxiteles.
They have christened our friend in the garden of Lucullus, the 'Venus
de' Medici,' ignorant of the prouder name she bore, and they call the
relief in that new villa, 'The Antinous of Cardinal Albani,' not knowing
that the portrait and its original were alike, Faustina's."

Shall we, indulgent reader, on some fair, future day, led by the lure of
_old_ Rome, together revisit our loved villas and win the confidences of
these marble men and women who smile on us so inscrutably, and yet with
such all-compelling fascination?

Dear Italy, the sound of thy soft name
Soothes me with balm of Memory and of Hope.
Mine for the moment height and steep and slope
That once were mine. Supreme is still the aim
To flee the cold and grey
Of our December day,
And rest where thy clear spirit burns with unconsuming flame.

Fount of _Romance_ whereat our Shakespeare drank!
Through him the loves of all are linked to thee,
By Romeo's ardour, Juliet's constancy
He sets the peasant in the royal rank,
Shows, under mask and paint,
Kinship of knave and saint
And p