t of the lot. Can't bear the Venus, or Titian's famous
hussy hanging over it. Like his portraits much. Busts of Roman emperors
great fun. Such bad heads! The Julias, Faustinas, and Agrippinas, with
hair dressed like a big sponge on the brow, were so comical I was never
tired of looking at them. I see now where the present bedlamite style of
coiffure comes from.

'The philosophers, &c., were very interesting. Cicero so like Wendell
Phillips that I could hardly help clapping my hands and saying, "Hear!
hear!"

'Gave A. a sad blow by saying the Campanile looked like an inlaid
work-box. Did not admire it half so much as I did a magnificent stone
pine. Best of all, saw in the old Monastery of St. Marco many works of
Fra Angelico. I love his pictures, for he put his pious heart into them,
and one sees and feels it, and I don't care if his saints do have six
joints to their fingers and impossible noses. A very dear picture of
"Providenza,"--poor monks at an empty table and angels bringing bread.

'Angelico's picture of heaven was more to my mind than any I have seen.
No stern, avenging God, no silly Madonna, but happy souls playing like
children, or singing and piping with devout energy.

'Relics of Savonarola,--his cell, bust, beads, hair-cloth shirt, and a
bit of wood from the pile on which they burnt him. I like relics of one
man who really lived, worked, and suffered, better than armies of
angels, or acres of gods and goddesses.

'Pleasant drives. Saw artists, Casa Guidi windows, and a model baby
house with dolly's name on the door, and steps modelled by hands that
have made famous statues. "Papa's baby house" was best of all his works
to me. A nice little earthquake and a trifle of snow to enhance the
charms of this sweet spot.

'Visited Parker's grave, and was afflicted to find it in such an
unlovely, crowded cemetery. It does not matter after all: his best
monument is in the hearts that love him and the souls he fed. As I stood
there a little brown bird hopped among the vines that covered the grave,
pecked its breakfast from a dry seed-pod, perched on the head-stone with
a grateful twitter, as grace after meat, and flew away, leaving me
comforted by the little sermon it had preached.'

'I don't wish to hurt your feelings, dear, but if this is Rome I must
say it is a very nasty place,' began Lavinia, as they went stumbling
through the mud and confusion of a big, unfinished station on their
arrival at the eterna