“It is better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”
Yes, the added verse is an immortality. May I indeed be there to hear, and all our “beautiful beloved” who have gone before. You did not mention our dear one, Miss B——. Do you know anything about her? I have had no letter since I wrote to you, but so many of my letters do not reach me, I attach no blame to her, only I wish so much to hear. And will you make the race for governor? If so, I will put up special prayers for your election. Then if you are elected, you will invite us two to visit you in that castle made without hands. Won’t you, please. Thanking you for all your kindly expressions and injunctions.
L. G. C.
ROME.
N Rome still, but this is my last week. Were I to write many books, I could not get in the half of these wonder days in this queen city of the world. Yes, crowned so long ago, she still wears her royal diadem, and will wear it even as the old lines have it:
“While Rome stands, the world stands!”
I have made the rounds of the churches, that of the galleries and museums, that of the villas and palaces, and finally that of the—shops. Take notice, that of the studios, is omitted; not because it was not made, but because it was confined to four. Such a four, though! One can hardly realize any were left out. Be sure they will come in for ample mention. Will it seem sacrilegious to admit several hours of one afternoon were devoted to the Lateran, and the rest to watching the queen and “lesser mortals” coming home from the races? Life is a very mixed sort of affair here—“Motley’s the wear,” indeed, and there’s nothing to be done but “Being in Rome to do as Romans do.” The only saving clause is I did not hurry through the church because of the carnival ahead.
I began with the Piazza di San Giovanni and its great obelisk—“the largest in existence,” erected some fifteen hundred years ago by an Egyptian king in front of the Temple of the Sun, at Thebes. I felt that it had strayed “far away from its native heath.” This is one of eleven obelisks brought from far eastern climes to grace this imperial city. The conqueror has a right to his spoils, I suppose, or this might be called vandalism. In the Baptistery, I saw the font of green basalt in which tradition says Constantine was baptized; and in its several chapels, Mosaic frescoes dating as far back as the Fifth century. They were more curious than beautiful, the figures representing Christ, apostles and saints, being decidedly of a caricature order. But one—flowers and birds on a gold ground, and another—golden arabesques on a blue ground—were more successful, indeed beyond criticism. I lingered long at the foot of Santa Scala, “that flight of twenty-eight marble steps from the palace of Pilate at Jerusalem, which Christ is said to have ascended once,” and which are now set aside for the devout to ascend on their knees only. Many were doing it as I watched—men, women and children; old and young; rich and poor. To the looker-on it would seem rather an acrobatic feat, than an act of devotion.