"Igil/e the^tBo'oks:
j for the fqugulmg vf a. tttttegi in thlf Colony'

• ILEMrmiElf ¦

From the estate ol
Mrs. Virginia H. Curtis

11/

X

Florentine Letters

Grace Hanford Frisby

*

NEW HAVEN, CONN.
RYDER'S PRINTING HOUSE
1904

Edh F 6 6
303

The Reason Why
When on a particularly doleful evening in New
York the other girl looked suddenly up from her work
and whispered the idea that we should go to Italy
to study I could only gasp.
The other girl is much braver than I, still even she
gave out the idea timidly.
You see, we were both ridiculously poor and how
such a wonderful thing was to be managed was a
question of the gravest.
However, we began to think and plan and work
harder if possible, with the result that just six months
from the day of that most startling whisper — that gun
in New York that was heard in Florence — we set sail.
It would seem that two American girls with a single
purpose was a combination hard to break.
Notwithstanding the fact that we were conquerors
and should have been strong in the knowledge of
victory, it was with sinking hearts we said our fare
wells and realized that our last remaining tie (the
gangway) had disappeared and on the instant we be
came just two plain, ordinary home-sick girls with the
heartfelt wail, "Oh, why did we do this thing !" * * *
Now comes the rush for the salon. Every one must
have pen and paper. Letters must go back by the
pilot. It is the last little grain of comfort.
Ahead is the dreary waste of fifteen days to be lived
through some way — and then — what?

Florentine Letters
Grace Hanford Frisby
On Board Ship Cambroman,
November 26th, 19 — .
As was most fitting for daughters of New England,
we began our pilgrimage from Boston Harbor and
came on board escorted by friends admiring, envious
or tearful, as was most natural to their varied per
sonalities, after having lunched well, but far from
wisely, I fear, in consideration of the probabilities of
our early days at sea.
Being so dead certain, however, of what was to be
our attitude during those early days, we determined
to grasp the happiness within our reach and give no

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thought to the morrow's evil that was sure to be able-
bodied enough to take care of itself.
Starting as we did at such an extremely unfashion
able time of the year, we were most fortunate in having
a stateroom designed for four, given over entirely to
"we two alone," and I must say, we felt very tender
and teary when we saw all the lovely flowers that
literally filled the room, and the heaps of letters
wishing us all good luck, and a safe voyage to the land
where we would be. There was just a wee feeling
of disappointment when we saw no letter from you, for
though we had only said good-bye in the gray of the
morning, we expected the little last word at the
steamer; but when next morning brought that lovely
surprise note, and every day thereafter a note, a book,
a paper, or a poem, we understood and blessed you for
your thoughtfulness.
A ship sails from Boston, I imagine, the same as it
does from New York, so I will not talk of bands and
good-byes, tears, fading shores, or any of those weepy
things, though they were all there.
At dinner we were pleased to see that most of the
young unattached people were at our table, and every
body determined to be lovely to everybody else, and
let me give my testimony, as the Scotch would say,
right here, that out of the fifty saloon passengers, there
was not one disagreeable person as far as I could see,
and I knew the whole fifty more or less well. Of
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course there were all shades of adorableness among
us, but unless I was the exception it was a shipload of
the salt of the earth.
Wednesday breakfast and luncheon passed off most
gaily, but by five in the afternoon a gentle zephyr (?)
began to blow, the like of which I never imagined, and
for forty-eight hours it raged.
I am told of this, however. I am not sure, for the
beginning of that zephyr was our finish, and from that
time followed days of misery and nights of anguish.
My dear! you may have had seasickness described to
you, but the most graphic description would be nothing,
absolutely nothing.
After the manner of green travellers, we were easily
persuaded we were not so very ill, and aided and
abetted by those persuaders, the stewards, each day
struggled up on deck, remaining there for an hour
or two in abject misery, and then going down again in
worse state than before. This went on until Saturday,
when we were too ill to move, and sent for the doctor.
Then came a bright spot in our desolate lives, and
the bright spot was a lady, charming, the sweetest
person on board, and I really glow as I pay her tribute,
both because of her own worth and that she is the
mother of a New Haven lady, not of a lady born in
New Haven, but in California. However, as that early
indiscretion was repented of, it should be overlooked,
for she married a young New Haven man, and is

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. therefore one of the elect. This charming lady, armed
with champagne and authority withal, so petted, doc
tored and nursed us that by Sunday morning we were
able to get up for service (Church of England, read
by the ship's doctor,) and stay up all day, feeling better
and better.
You can imagine nothing more gorgeous than that
night at sea, warm as summer, with scarcely a ripple,
and bright moonlight over all.
Monday and Tuesday were perfect, and Tuesday
night, before we turned in, we sighted Mt. Piso, one
of the Azores, rising directly out of the sea, and when
we awoke yesterday we were anchored at Fayel, an
other island.
I shall not soon forget this early morning — the
mountains, or rather high hills, cultivated to their very
summits — a very primitive fort with Portuguese
guards about, and little houses of stucco, colored pink
or blue, and some white with bright blue or green
tilings about the doors and windows.
About in the middle was a large church, queer
looking, with square towers.
As soon as breakfast was over we began bargaining
with the native boatmen to take us on shore.
It was interesting even this, the quarrelling of the
natives, the shouting and gesticulating, and our wild
haste to feel land once more under our feet. Finally
we were off and soon landed in the midst of things.

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The streets are very narrow and the sidewalks in
tended only for one of meager proportions — meaning
me. My companion of this part of my earthly journey
took to the middle of the streets — which streets are
paved with tiny cobbles. We went into several shops
and bought some pieces of pottery, and cards, coming
away with a large bag full of coin, value unknown.
As we came out of one of the shops we dropped some
cards. A young Portuguese fellow whom we had
noticed following handed them to us and made us
understand in his few English words that he wished
to go with us.
As the ladies of our party were interested in the
shops, which to me were somewhat uninteresting, being
well stocked with lace and things "made in Germany,"
and the men of a mind to lunch at the "Fayel Hotel,"
a weird and marvelous place, we accepted his offer
and went off to see what we could see.
I must tell you about him. Figure to yourself a
roost beautiful male creature, tall and slender, with
a small Hermus head and huge black eyes. He was
dressed in a pinkish tan duck suit, a soiled pink hat
of felt and a yellow bandana at his throat, which was
bare. He was barefooted and very brown, and he had
the manners of a prince.
As we walked up the street, someone called to us
from an upper window, and looking up, we saw a
rather wicked face, dark, unshaven, under a murderous 9

Florentine Letters
slouch hat, and this is what the voice called down,
"Can I do anything for you, ladies ? I am de Ameri
can Consul." We were much surprised to learn later
that he really was. Evidently the American Consul
is not intended to inspire confidence or to be lightly
and carelessly appealed to by unsophisticated females
cast upon these shores.
All the time we were meeting women walking so
sedately along, wearing long full cloaks and enormous
stiffened hoods. I thought they were some sort of
nurses, but we were told they were the married women.
It is, we were made to understand, the only time in
the life of a native woman when she worries about
her clothes. These things are made of dark blue
cloth and cost forty dollars. Sometimes ladies of an
uncertain age buy them when they have not succeeded
in marrying — a sort of whistling up a breeze, as it were,
in the calm of dead hopes, but I believe such whistling
is looked upon with scorn by their more fortunate or
unfortunate sisters according to individual point of
view. All the other people were barefooted, but these
wonderful cloaked persons wiore leather ties with
turned-up pointed toes.
We now came to the fort, having been told that
some sort of a permit would be necessary to show us
the inner workings thereof, we felt somewhat des
pairing, but by using any word of any language that
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came into our extremely catholic minds were promptly
admitted. It was great ! All the men in full uniform,
armed to the teeth, ready for instant action. They all
wore big black mustaches and their little caps over one
eye. I thought the fort looked rather crumbly and
the cannon so sunken that if one were fired the fort
would inevitably go too. Still, there will very likely
be no occasion to use them.
Up on a hill was a little hut used as a kitchen. In
it were all sorts of devices for smoking meat, a large
water jug and a few stone bowls. Surely, for all their
gay trappings, these soldiers cannot live very high if
all their food is prepared in this tiny kitchen.
From there we went to the Cathedral. This was
marvelous — a huge pile built in 1700, and is exactly
as it was then. A gentleman who was standing at
the door, seeing we deported ourselves like Christians,
asked if he might show us about. His English was
quite understandable. There are, of course, no seats,
and the floor is beautifully tiled, the general effect
being red in the nave of the church.
There were three chapels on one side, on the other
two and the Baptistry. The altars in all these were
very elaborate and massive, and in the Lady Chapel
the statute of our Lady was most beautiful — a fault
less face.
The walls of all the chapels and chancels were tiled
in blue and white and were gorgeous with pictures in
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perfect state of preservation. The lectern was enor
mous, in the middle of the chancel, of rosewood
beautifully carved and inlaid with ivory — the work of
monks, and as old as the church.
The high altar was larger than the others, very
impressive with carvings and gold. The vases, candle
sticks, etc., were solid silver and all hand-made.
In one of the chapels the altar was of silver,
gorgeously engraved and carved. The lamp there was
beautiful, hanging quite to the floor. Then we went
into the sacristy and, finding one of the priests there,
he showed us the old sacred vessels, all hand-made, of
gold and silver, some of them very beautiful with
jewels, both cut and in the rough — all massive — and I
coveted them for my own church at home. Also that
kind old priest showed us the vestments. Some of
the lace was beautiful beyond words, old quaint pat
terns almost impossible to match now, and though the
priest said, "I have not of the English," he made us so
welcome with his pleasant smile, gracious manners and
little words here and there, that we felt for him to have
had "of the English" would have been a distinct
disadvantage. The sacristy was full of big carved drawers with
heavy silver handles, and in the center was a mag
nificent carved marble table. Altogether it was a sight
worth going far to see, and we learned that we had
been peculiarly favored in the matter of the vestments,

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for they are seldom shown, except to people of
importance, as they are very, very valuable.
From there we went up the hill about a mile to the
Public Gardens, filled with all sorts of tropical plants
and queer old moss-grown marble benches. The
keeper gave us each an enormous bunch of pink and
white camelias and tea-roses.
Then back to the boat, after thanking our most
deferential guide and bestowing on him a slight token
of our appreciation, both of which he accepted in a
manner that made us feel quite royal to have been
attended by such a squire of dames.
That night we put to sea in the teeth of a frightful
gale, as the coast and harbor are dangerous. It lasted
all night, and so we did not reach St. Michaels until
noon on Thursday.
This island is the show place of the Azores, being
wealthy, with many English living there. We did not
go on shore, not being able to afford two days, we
had chosen the quainter island.
The men, however, at our table, each brought us
something. Pineapples delightful, simply melt in your
mouth — you eat even the core; some post-cards and
two scarfs of lace, embroidered in pale yellow straw,
the work of the natives.
Now we are again at sea. The old ship goes from
side to side. Everything is in racks, and we eat
our dinners to an obligato of smashing glass and13

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crashing plate. It is all an experience, and like the
little old woman of classic Mother Goose, I say con
tinually, "Can this be I, as I hope it be?"
We have a number of Mascagni's leading men on
board, all with magnificent voices, and we have had
much fine music. And one other man deserves a line
all to himself.
I discovered the first night at dinner he was a
priest — Roman Catholic, travelling incog. — the sweet
est, most delightful soul. He left us at St. Michael's,
after winning the heart of every man, woman and child
on board. He had made for himself such a place in
the affections of every one, that when it transpired
that he was that dreadful thing, an emissary of the
Pope, not one of us turned a hair, and sad to relate,
one old lady whose house was built upon Plymouth
Rock, and who up to now had clung to the faith of her
fathers, said: "Well, if I thought all the priests in
the Roman Church were like that man, I'd turn Cath
olic to-morrow, and put up with all their church
foolery." I should not, perhaps, have told this, but she was
such a dear, strong-minded old lady and had so often
expressed her Plymouth Rock convictions directly
into the ear of that now departed saint, that her con
fession brought down the ship.
I shall mail this most disjointed letter at Gibraltar,
where we expect to have a fine day.
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Just to think of it — we are only now pulling into
Naples! The reason of this long voyage is the
poor coal. On account of the strike in America we
were obliged to coal at the Azores, and the quality of
that was very poor. It will be quite three weeks from
our time of starting when we get to Genoa, but it
has all been glorious after those first few miserable
days. My last letter was up to Gibraltar, so I will
go on from there.
We saw a little of Spain at five in the afternoon —
sand downs only — but a welcome sight all the same.
A little later we came to Trafalgar. That was about
all of interest on that side; but, the African coast!
I shall never forget it as long as I live. One mass
of high mountains looking like huge opals as we saw
them first, with the setting sun upon them. You know
we read of mountains looking like opals, but never take
it in. It is true, however, and that sight of the African
coast literally took my breath away. We could see
Tangiers plainly, and then we came to the straits
with the Rock looming up in the background. 17

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By this time it was too dark to see anything dis
tinctly, but the bay was lovely with all its lights. At
seven we were in the bay and at anchor, expecting to
have half of the next day on shore, but to our intense
disappointment, the all-powerful agent came on board
and ordered us out at midnight.
Then there was a scramble, for many of our pas
sengers were to leave us there for good. Now an
enormous Spaniard came on board and said there was
a tender alongside to take anyone ashore who wished
to see Gibraltar by night, and would bring us back,
and so off we started.
Our Spanish knight was a most impressive figure,
much more than six feet, and wearing a long white
raglan with pearl buttons like small bread and butter
plates — not so very small, either — and a huge sombero
of the same color. Black were his eyes, and his mus
taches were the most enormous I ever imagined pos
sible to be developed on a human face.
So to the shore we came and it certainly was a sight
to my green, untravelled eyes.
You know, of course, it is a walled town, and on
entering we went through a long stone corridor,
meeting soldiers at every turn, and hearing the con
tinual clank of swords.
In the town everything was light, and people, people
and again people walking up and down. Spanish girls
in white dresses with lace scarf over the head, frumpy
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English women, gorgeous Moors, with turban and
tunics, and wearing all sorts of cutlass things at their
sides, and plain British "sogers," Spanish bloods and
Portuguese beggars. I can't tell you what it all meant
to me.
We saw the gorgeous Palace, the Convent, the
Cathedral and several shops.
The houses were all walled in, seeming to have
extensive gardens. We could see the waving palms
above the walls.
The shops were ravishing — full of Spanish and
Moorish work of all sorts, beautiful brasses and neck
laces of stunning beads. The loveliest were pearls
from Granada.
We were invited to stay over and join a party going
up through Spain, and to join another party going
over into Africa, and take a camel trip. Either would
have been great fun, but it was not for us, so soon
back to the boat, with only a glimpse at the under
ground galleries and the fortifications.
It was now half-past eleven, and most of the men
still away. We went into the smoking-room with the
captain and some of the older ladies and had much
sandwiches there.
The days do fly, and yet one would think there was
little to do; but we eat, play shuffle-board — great fun
— then we eat, then perhaps play quiots, then tag, until
luncheon. After luncheon a nap, a long walk, then 19

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tea, another game of tag, then dinner. To-night we
are sitting up late, as we expect to be in the Bay of
Naples at twelve, and see Vesuvius.
We are ordered to coal at Naples, and so will have
two whole days in port. We hope to do Naples to
morrow as much as we can and devote Sunday to
Pompeii. I forgot to tell you that when we awoke Tuesday
morning after leaving Gibraltar we saw the Sierra
Nevada mountains, with their tops glistening with
snow, a beautiful sight in that early morning. Noth
ing so far in color description that I have read has
been at all adequate, much less has it been exaggerated.
Two big whales came to us at different times and
spouted in the most obliging manner. We saw schools
of porpoise and one of flying fish.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving, and though we are
Britishers, we had quite a celebration. The dining-
room was lovely with flags, and on all the tables were
deadly little English cakes with Thanksgiving in pink
icing on top, much turkey, plum pudding and the
usuals. In the evening the ship's doctor read a lot of poetry
of appropriateness and we had much music. A lot of
people are leaving us at Naples. That is the worst
of a long voyage: you get to like people and then
must say good-bye to many for all time. I am going
now to play for one who desireth to sing, and so,
good-night.

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The days that followed on the Mediterranean were
full of interest. The wonderful blue of the water is
a never ceasing pleasure.
The snow covered mountains of Spain with the
sunlight upon them. There is Sardinia, and, a little
later, Corsica, and finally the Bay of Naples, with the
majestic and awful Vesuvius, sleeping, they say; pos
sibly. Not the sleep of the just, I am certain; a little
dozing, perhaps, a simple biding its time, and for
what? And in the shadow of his awful majesty lies
Naples, the lovely, brilliant with color, sweet and fresh
to the eye, a perfect picture that makes one almost
wish to sail away and risk no closer view.
We take, however, a closer view, and find an in
teresting and fascinating city. All the rest of Italy
holds Naples as the scum of the earth, and to be a
Neapolitan would seem to be the lowest form of
degradation. Much they care! They live their lives
happily and lazily, never under any circumstances
letting work interfere with play.

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Our first impression is one of hopeless confusion
and dirt; cab drivers, hundreds of them, with such
forlorn little horses; beggars, beggars, and again
beggars. Naples has solved the problem of life with
out work. I feel overwhelmed with so much attention
as if I were a person of importance, and then comes
the realization that I am a person of much importance
— an American, not only born great, hoping to achieve
further greatness, and at this moment surely having
much greatness thrust upon me.
We go for a wonderful drive over the hills to
Castello San Elmo, from where we see the gleaming
slopes of lava, and down below a bay of rainbows.
On our way down we come upon a real stage mob,
excited girls and women, screaming, gesticulating. A
mean and narrow street was that stage, and in the
center two young girls, evidently just separated by a
policeman. Their gorgeous hair, black as coal, hanging in wild
confusion, flaming cheeks and eyes glaring at each
other like two cats. It was like a scene from "Car
men," and I wanted to stop a little and watch pro
ceedings, but our driver was indifferent and regarded
our interest with mild contempt, that so very every
day an affair should excite us.
We did stop for a glimpse of the Aquarium — such
a wonderful place ; saw the octopus fed, and had creeps
up our backs in consequence, which creeps were much
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accentuated by seeing people eating parts of this hor
rible fish, which vendors were cooking on the street
corners. We drove slowly along the shore and watched the
fishermen haul in the huge nets ; then suddenly decide
to go to Pompeii to-day.
We appeal to a uniformed and reliable looking man
for information as to trains.
"The only train to-day goes at one-thirty," said he.
We bolt a hasty sandwich by way of luncheon and
make a dash for the station, which place, by the way,
is in a quiet rural spot, the ideal of perfect peace.
There were flowers growing all about, and a silence
that might be felt everywhere. A train, a noisy, dirty
train, was the last kind of a serpent one would expect
to invade that peaceful Eden.
Inside, to be sure, were various little ticket offices,
but no business could we find being done at any of
them. Finally we come upon some guards. We beg
humbly for information. "Pompeii," we say, "and
a train to take us there."
Gentle and obsequious are these guards, but of
Pompeii they seem never to have heard ; but they look
so sorry that we should care.
After a quarter of an hour of anguish, thinking
Pompeii was not for us, a ticket man woke up and
told us cheerfully that the one-thirty train left at
two-fifteen. 25

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Instead of rejoicing at our good fortune, we begin
to grumble at our lack of luncheon and uncomfortable
haste. This is generally called "human nature."
After many false alarms we are locked into our
compartment, and settle down with sighs of relief.
Another fifteen minutes and we begin to think our
guard has gone off and died. Not a sound is heard,
not a human soul is in sight. Why should anyone
hurry for a train in Italy? Eventually, and in Italy
it is always eventually, we begin to move. Our little
engine gives a funny shrill little shriek, which might
come from a toy engine running on a tin track on the
dining-room table, leaps forward and then rushes
madly into a tunnel.
Arriving at Pompeii we cross to the gate directly
opposite the station, secure our guide, and are in
stantly taken back into the world of 1900 years ago,
and as we look around we see that we need not give
up many of the necessities of the world from which
we have just come, while we have made a gain in
luxuries. All the wonders of this wonderful Pompeii you can
read about, but I will mention two little things I
noticed, too insignificant possibly for towering writers
to make note of, and they were a manicure set and
some safety pins that were in use in the year 310 B. C,
and your opinion that safety pins, shoe blacking and a
ribbon bow are the safeguards of the nation was held .
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here in Pompeii also; as the pins were distinctly in
evidence, I have no doubt the blacking and ribbon
bows were somewhere about, or their equivalent.
Looking on the faces of the men and women who
had met their death on that awful night and day made
me wonder at the temerity of a people who build and
settle on the very slopes of Vesuvius, this threatening
monster that any day may repeat his' awful work.
We go from house to house and wonder at the
preservation of pictures and carvings. There is a
noticeable lack of marble that surprises us, it is used
so very commonly in this part of the world. The
beautiful columns and pillars we see in Pompeiian
pictures are brick covered with a kind of stucco, as
are the walls of the houses. This makes a beautiful
soft surface for frescoes, which are everywhere, many
as bright and clear as though done but yesterday.
Such a gorgeous city this Pompeii must have been,
with its open courts, fountains and altars of beautiful
mosaic. The reds and yellows of the houses, the
wonderful allegorical paintings on the walls of the
rooms show, even at this day, what every one was
used for. Baths as luxurious as our own, temples
with magnificent altars, columns and colonnades;
theaters and the huge amphitheater, wonders dug up
every day, for the excavations go on all the time,
supported by the entrance fee charged.

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We have been so absorbingly interested that all at
once we are startled to find that even now is the time
for our train to start, but remembering our experience
of the morning, we still hope to be able to make it.
Almost are we there, just outside the gate, when
again comes the tiny cry of the engine ; with despair in
our hearts we see the train rush away.
We cannot go back to the excavations. It is past
the time for admitting visitors, so what shall we do?
We bemoan our fate loudly, while all about us cabmen
quarrel among themselves, and gradually it dawns on
us that to us are their remarks addressed.
After a while, our limited Italian, even, lets us
understand that they wish to drive us to the next
station, where, they assure us, we can overtake the
train. It sounds ridiculous, but so many things have
sounded ridiculous and then were not, that we were
prepared for anything. So, after allowing the cab
men nearly to come to blows, and realizing that had
there been time we should have ourselves been paid
something for driving with one of them, at such a rate
did they beat each other down, we get into the nearest
carriage and start on the maddest career I ever
imagined. The driver shouted at the top of his lungs, flourished
his whip furiously, everything about the vehicle that
could rattle and squeak (and the number was sur-

28

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prisingly large) added its voice to the general con
fusion. We keep firmly in the middle of the road. Every
thing and everybody stands from under. We arrive
breathless, tumbled and tossed, to find our train peace
fully rusticating at the station, tear madly into a
compartment, and sink into a seat.
The guard locks us in and in another half hour or
so, after our breathless ride, again comes that tiny
shriek, and wildly we again rush into another tunnel
on our way back to Naples.

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Still on board the good ship Cambroman.
And now 'tis our last day on the steamer.
Twenty-one days at sea. I have become so used
to it now and so fond of the sea that I really am sorry
to change.
Our little stateroom seems so homey and my little
berth has become a down couch on which I sleep
like the doormouse of blessed memory.
The breaking away has been so gradual we shall
not mind that part so much now. We have scattered
people all along the way and the most important left
us at Naples.
We have been slow, but very, very sure, and this
has been a delightful voyage — with every one more
than good to us — and the being made much of in this
little world has given us more courage to face the
unknown, and to look with less anxious eyes toward
the new strange country to which we are going, while
we do not for one instant make light of the big proposi
tion we are going to solve.
My next letter will, I hope, be written in Florence,
and maybe I shall write it with tears and bitter
lamentations. 31

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Via della Pace, Florence, Italy.
Well, here we are at last, although I find it hard
to realize that same, and in the dearest little house with
the sweetest lady.
We went the first night to a Pension which had
been arranged for us by the English priest.
It is a palace on the Arno. The rooms were so
enormous and so cold I was frightened to death. It
was a dollar and a half a day, and even our poor pale
little candle, the only light, was extra, and very much
extra, and so after two days we found out about this
place and came here, and the dear woman took us in
at once and made us happy. She is an Italian lady,
the widow of an English gentleman, and speaks very
good English. She is about fifty-five, and lives here
alone in this little house, which is a dream of delight
after that awful palace.
I would as soon take up my abode in the middle of
Yale Gym. all alone as to live in one of those old
palaces, where everything is extra.
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by signora or maids, and when we could not under
stand their rapid Italian we were all of us lost and
done for.
It certainly takes a lot of courage for one to land
in a strange country, knowing no one, little of the
language, and none of the customs, but so far all has
gone safely.
Everything I have seen is a little more than my
dream of it — all exceeding the greatest picture my
mind has painted.
Coming from Genoa we changed cars at Pisa and
had a good view of the Tower. Even that leans
more than I thought it did, and is beautiful. And no
picture ever exaggerated the color of this land.
We have walked about a little and seen the outside
of things, trying to realize if possible that we are in
Florence. We have been through the court of the Uffizi, where
the statues of the great men are ; seen the Pitti Palace,
crossed the Ponto Vecihio, been to the Duomo, seen
the Baptistry and the Companile of Giotto.
It all seems sacred grounds to me. We have the
dearest little room with two most comfortable beds,
and in the corner is a big round stove with much
gilding and figures wandering over it. The place
where the fire goes is about the size of a coffee cup.
However, after the palace we wept with joy at the
sight of it.
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Yesterday, before our wood came, Elena, the maid,
and a darling, brought us each a scaldino, a little tin
box of fire with holes in the top. You put it on the
floor under your skirts and there you are — warm as
toast. We called on the English priest, a darling old man,
who lives in another palace, but it is a warm one — a
most beautiful place — full of magnificent things. He
and his wife were sweet to us, and said they should
expect us to come to them in any emergency.
Then we presented our letters to the American
doctor and his wife. We found them also most
cordial, and already we have dinner engagements at
both homes.
We certainly do have the finest things to eat and
beautifully cooked and served. Last night a most
delicious soup made from I know not what, and reck
lessly do not care; a veal cutlet with onions and little
cauliflower heads rolled in cracker and fried in deep
olive oil, not one speck of grease; a Romaine salad,
apples, pears, figs and dates, and all through most
velvety Chianti. You have never eaten such fried
chicken as we had for luncheon this day, and the
macaroni is a poem, called parta, and appears in
many delightful combinations.
I wish I could send you a load of the lovely things
I see on every hand, but you will be surprised to
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as it is in New Haven; but not quite as bad, in some
ways, for here are the wonderful galleries where the
poorest may go and feast their eyes on the beauty and
glory which one can never begin to realize until they
stand face to face with it all. What wouldn't I give to
have you here! There is not one little thing you
would not love that I have seen so far.

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Via della Pace, Dec. 7th.
We have just come in from a day of sightseeing.
We saw the Palace of the Medici, the Palace of Cosimo
I, in front of which is the giant Neptune, a fountain in
Carrara marble by Bolognia, about 1500. At the left
is the Loggia, or open court with a roof, where public
meetings were held. There are beautiful groups there,
all by famous artists, and in the middle of this square
or Piazza the stake stood where Savonarola was burn
ed. At the left of the Loggia is the Palazzo deli Uffizi.
The gallery is on two sides and the end of a long
court. All along in this are niches with statues of
great men in marble. And now for the pictures. You
cannot imagine how one feels in the presence of such
work. We saw many Botticelli, all familiar; Leon
ardos, Raphaejs, Michael Angelos, and a lot of others,
artists not so familiar, but beautiful, wonderful.
However, the loveliest picture I saw was Andre del
Sarto's Madonna and child with St. Francis and St.
John.

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We were in three rooms filled with portraits of the
masters by themselves. Oh, such a beautiful one of
Michael Angelo, when he was an old, old man. We
have seen the home of Dante, and later will go there,
but we must take things very, very slowly. There is
so much to learn, we feel so insignificant and stupid in
the midst of it all. This will be our first Christmas
out of our own home. Oh, do write every little thing
that happens!

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Via della Pace, Dec. 27th.
The home letters all came on Christmas quite early
and made a delightful beginning for a most happy day.
Everything was so new. We were not homesick as
we had expected to be. Of course we wished much
for a little look in at "you all," but more we wished
to have you here with us. Florence is so beautiful,
so full of old world atmosphere and traditions, one
walks in a dream most of the time.
We have been early to church and are now going
to the Pitti Palace. These galleries only cost a franc
on week days, but we think it wiser to go on Sunday
when everything is free. There are so many things
to do and see.
I say again, you can have no idea how ignorant
this city makes one feel. We try to read and study
about everything we see, but when we go on to the
second we forget a lot of the first, and is so dis
couraging. There are so many gorgeous antiques in
the way of jewelry and the like.

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Almost every day as I pass I stop to look in at a
little shop on the Ponte Vecchio. Among other things
there is a little hand-glass encrusted entirely with
sapphires, rubies and emeralds. Hanging from the
lower part are two enormous pearls, pear-shaped and
somewhat discolored. The pearls are set in silver
black with age, and it is a lovely thing. I love all
these old things, the designs so simple and beautiful
and the workmanship breathes of the love I feel must
have been put into every one of them. Many a day
it seems another world in which we live, or rather
that we are walking in centuries long gone, thinking
the thoughts, feeling the loves, the joys, the sorrows
of the men whose very souls look at us from canvas
and marble, and sometimes there comes the feeling
that we have no right to let our curious eyes gaze into
the very hearts of these men who have so long gone
away. A message there is always, too, and that we
cannot understand in full, is a sorrow and a pain.
This week is very gay and bright. The streets are
crowded and the Flower Market, a beautiful stone
pavilion with magnificent pillars, is perfectly lovely
with holly and mistletoe, much fuller than we ever
see at home; roses, violets, chrysanthemums, all very
cheap. A dozen and a half of tiny pink rosebuds cost
two cents. All the luxuries in Florence are very
cheap, all the necessities very expensive. On Christ-

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mas eve two American boys who have an apartment
and are here for study, gave a party.
We had a tree with one funny present and one nice
one for everybody. We had an American supper,
so-called; played snap dragon, and had fun generally.
We are asked to many and diverse functions, for the
people — Americans and English — are very cordial, and
i{ we chose it could be a social whirl, but we are here
for work and so decline most invitations.
Christmas morning we went early to church and
then home to breakfast, where we were much sur
prised to see a lot of presents for us on the table, dear
little bundles with flowers stuck under the ribbons
of every one. After breakfast we went to the Duomo
for high mass.
It was a most solemn service. The Archbishop was
the celebrant, and with him were ten priests, besides
the two hundred Dominicans in the choir and the fifty
priests in the procession.
The music was very grand and when the long
procession came down and the Archbishop with up
lifted hand passed blessing the people, I was so near I
could touch his robe. I was so glad to be there, for
it is, you know, the church into which Saint Antinino
came barefooted when he was elected Bishop; and
the very same pulpit is there from which Savonarola
preached. On our way home we went to San Marca
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Fra Angelico, San Antinino and Savonarola had passed
day after day.
San Marco is where the Dominican monks lived,
built for them by Lorenzo de Medici, and decorated
by Fra Angelico, who was one of their number. It
is now no longer a monastery, but is kept by order of
the government as a museum.
Fra Angelico painted his lovely Christs and angels
directly on the walls, about the year 1400.
From there we went to walk over the long covered
bridge or way that is between the Uffizi and the Pitti
Palace, going along the Arno and across the Ponta
Vecchio above the little shops. The Ponta Vecchio is
most interesting to me, crossing the Arno and leading
to the Porto Romana, which is the oldest gate, and
outside of which are the Public Gardens.
It is a covered bridge and has little shops — jewelers
— all the way across. Since the very ancient times
these shops have been here, and you may be sure they
are enough to drive one wild with the beautiful old
jewelry. To-day in passing one of the gardens I
saw a rose bush in full bloom. You see it is only
cold in the houses, but they are fierce, and we wear
all our clothes at once.

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January 7th.
On New Year's night we were invited out to a most
delightful villa. It was like an immense greenhouse,
full of flowers and vines. There were lots of little
salons, a smoking-room and a tea-room. The main
hall was so pretty, a series of arches supported by
columns, and everywhere on this floor the doors are
of glass. We meet a great many Italian men at teas
and so on, but as we are instructed never by any
chance to speak to one of them on the streets if we
meet them on our daily walks, we simply look as if no
such thing as a man was there, just a little thickening
of the atmosphere, and walk serenely around that bit
of fog with sweet unconsciousness ; but bless you, the
creatures have no pride.
There are a few counts, barons and such small deer
scattered along life's pathway, all old and very ugly,
but young or old, so frankly fortune hunters that
they are no trouble at all.
The eyes of every male Italian are turned hopefully
toward America, and I think that steady, anxious look 49

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so far afield, or rather asea, has made them old before
their time. Hope deferred brings new lines each day.
Oh, but the officers are magnificent! To see them
walking about makes one feel like a small boy following
a band. You want to prance behind them and say
hurrah, when at every hand soldiers salute and their
grand air is awesome.
The Italian uniforms are gorgeous. Some wear
capes of cadet blue, others of dark navy, very full
with the right side crossed over the left shoulder so
stagey. They are of all sorts and all most stunning.
I do not know what any of them mean, but it's all the
glory of the army and navy rolled into one gorgeous
bundle and tied up with gold lace and dignity.
Several times we have been to the opera and have
heard some adorable voices. The orchestras are very
fine, and the bad manners of the boxes the same as at
home. There are some delightful Rochester people here
who give an American tea every Friday, and we have
music and homey times that are so comforting.
Every day we pass the old Palace of the Medici,
that is now the Palace of the Prefect. These old
palaces are perfectly plain stone and in some of the
little side streets it is almost impossible to tell whether
one is in the slums or in the heart of the aristocracy.
On a little street where we cross from the palace is the

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old Church of San Lorenzo, where the Medici chapel is,
containing the family tombs, where you find much of
the finest work of Michael Angelo. Later I will tell
you a bit about this chapel.
In the court-yard of San Lorenzo since the very
earliest times, at noon every day, all the stray cats
come to be fed by a monk. I suppose there was some
special reason for this, but I have not found out what.
And you know there are doves about the court of the
Uffizi as there are about St. Mark's in Venice.
I saw them one day come down in hundreds, beauti
ful colors and so tame they will light on your arms
and shoulders and look around in your face so coax-
ingly. Five came down on my arm and wrist at once.
And again, one could never imagine such sunsets —
impossible to describe — marvelous color effects, pink,
violet streaks, clear across the sky. I stood one
evening and saw the sun set with a most curious
effect. I was standing on the edge of a small lake. Op
posite was a straight row of pine trees with grotesque
lines standing up against an absolutely red gold sky,
and all reflected in the lake at my feet. They waved
and beckoned with long crooked arms, and as it was
quite dark now where I stood, it was a strange, weird
picture — a Dante-like vision, a golden pathway beyond

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the reach of those black arms that led, in spite of
them, to life and hope.
They tell me the winter is nearly over, and all the
gardens are being made ready. The little golden
oranges are now delicious. A cent will buy two.

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January 18.
We have had such a lovely Sunday at San Lorenzo.
We went early to church and directly after breakfast
went to what is called the new Sacristy or Chapel of
the Medici.
It is a part of San Lorenzo. There is the Chapel
of the Princes, which contains the sarcophagi of the
Grand Dukes of the Medici. It is the most striking
and beautiful place I was ever in.
The effect as you enter is that the entire place is of
a rich dark green, octagonal in shape, with a very
high roof.
In the dome is a series of beautiful pictures, but
very hard to see. They are the Creation, Fall, Death
of Abel, Sacrifice of Noah, Nativity, Crucifixion, Res-
surection, and Last Judgment.
The walls are of different colored marbles, green
predominating, though there are many browns.
On the coping around the chapel are the armorial
bearinp-s of sixteen Tuscan towns, done in wonderful
mosaics. All the marbles are mostly highly polished. 55

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The sarcophagi are against the walls on a sort of
dias, which was as high as our head. These are at in
tervals all about the chapel, and above each is a deep
niche. Some of them hold statues of the dead Medici
in bronze, richly gilded, in their ducal robes.
The floor is not finished, but is of marble in many
shades of green. It is impossible for me to give you
any idea of the magnificence of this place.
The chapel was built in 1600, and the Medici spent
more than four million dollars on it. This is the old
Sacristy, though why so called I do not know, as it
was never used or intended to be used as a sacristy as
far as I can find out.
By a corridor from here you reach the new Sacristy,
a little chapel built by Michael Angelo for Pope
Clement — one of the Medici — one for a masoleum
for the house of Medici.
It is a plain quadrangular chapel and contains mon
uments to only two of the family, the last who died.
One is the father of Catherine de Medici.
Now I beg you will never let yourself be influenced
by what Grant Allen says about Michael Angelo. His
prejudice is perfectly unbearable. For be you well
assured all other sculptures look pale and lifeless com
pared with the work of this wonderful man.
There are two sarcophagi at opposite sides of the
chapel, and upon each are two reclining figures. On

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*
one are the figures called "Night" and "Day" ; on the
other "Twilight" and "Dawn."
Above them are two figures in the niches supposed
to represent the dead Medici, but as they are not por
traits no one knows which is which for sure.
One is a man representing, I am told, General of the
Church, with a conductor's baton in his hand ; the other
a man in profound meditation (il penserosa), a
beautiful, strong figure.
Day is an enormous man, awake, but with a world
of misery in his face, woe unutterable in every line.
Night a beautiful woman sleeping. This is more ad
mired than the others, but I did not like it best.
These are some lines of a poet of the time :
" 'Tis night in deepest slumber all can see
She sleeps (for Angelo divine did give this stone a soul) ;
And since sleeps must live.
You doubt it? Wake her and she'll speak to thee."
Dawn, the figure of a woman ; oh, beautiful, beauti
ful ! With an expression of sorrow and unhappiness,
and a great longing that is heartbreaking, marvelous!
This figure I liked best of all.
The "Twilight," a man. There is no way of telling
you what magnificent work this is. Even the best
photographs will not begin to do it justice.
The figures are not absolutely finished and yet the
rough places but serve to make all the stronger the
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The figures were done after Michael Angelo had
been in hiding, and represent more especially the
master's attitude.
I will quote Mrs. Oliphant, who is always more
affording and more than anyone else we read (and we
read a many), sure to express the thought as it comes
to us : "How hope has departed. How life had be
come a desert. How it was hard to struggle with
waking consciousness. But how good it was to sleep
and forget."
At the time Michael Angelo was an old broken-
spirited man, but he went at the work of these monu
ments in a sort of fury, making such strokes as to be
in danger of shivering the marble, huge as the blocks
were. I have found his answer to the little verse I
quoted about his "Night" :
"Grateful is sleep, and still more sweet while woe
And shame endure ; 'tis to be stone like me
And highest fortune nor to feel, nor see;
Therefore wake me not: speak low, speak low."

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Via della Pace, Jan. 25.
More lost letters, but what can be expected when the
men in the mail service proper get eighty cents a day,
and the men who deliver the same, the munificent sum
of forty cents, and they are the stupidest lot. A lost
letter now and then to them is of such small import
ance, and when you row them they wonder with a gaze
that is childlike and bland at your fuss, till you feel like
you are beating a poor defenseless dog and stop in
sheer shame at your brutality. But it is trying to have
an experience like mine last week. When I had a very
special invitation to dinner, and containing the request
that I let my hostess know at once if I could not come,
to receive that note five days after the dinner, the same
having been mailed three days before.
This is a land of wonderful art and music, magnifi
cent buildings and delightful climate, but I am sure I
could run a better government myself and not half try.
I have just come up from my luncheon and I'll tell
you of a delicious little pie we had. It sounds weird,
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lightest of pastry with an interior combination of veal,
calves' brains and several cocks' combs. I remark
your disgust, my little Dutch mother, but when I come
back and introduce you to some Italian cooking — this
pie in particular — you will repent you of your scorn
and will walk in humility for days. A famous cook
has our landlady, a daughter of the house am I to the
high priestess of the kitchen, who speaks no word of
English, and whose smile is even Italian, so I may
watch her now and when I please. When you have
nuts at dinner serve them with tiny squares of slightly
crisped, unbuttered bread, mixed therewith, and note
the improvement.
The coldest weather we have had is with us now,
and I must get into bed to finish this letter, for I defy
the most tender-hearted of daughters, "which," as
Lavy Wilfer says, "one hopes one is," to be very af
fectionate with a zero room and a marble hearted fire
box the size of a coffee cup to keep that zero fiend at
bay. After all, we are in Florence with beauty and de-
lightfulness beyond the dream. of dreams about us on
every side, and thankful are we that for a time, at
least, we may make this beauty and delightfulness our
own, and so, good-night.

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January 29.
Come with me for a little while into the Uffizi, where
I was all yesterday afternoon. You will not mind the
cold there so much as I. A barn, a cellar, a refriger
ator is warm compared with these old palaces.
The cold of centuries is stored up in their marble
walls. You should put your bare feet down on the
floor just once to realize what I mean.
The Italians say, "On a cold day go to the Uffizi;
that is heated."
Figure to yourself the vivid glowing heat of corri
dors a quarter of a mile long, in the centre of each a
scaldino holding two quarts of ashes. However, out-
of-doors makes up for it. The silken veil of pink,
lavender and gold let down between the heaven and
earth each sunrise and sunset makes of the buildings
with their red, white and black marbles a perfect fairy
land of wondrous tints and tones from this delicious
coloring. We only looked at a few pictures. How the per
sonally conducted can prance through these galleries 6s

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as they do and retain even a glimmer of what is there
speaks well and in volumes for their native intelligence
and concentration of thought. I may be more stupid
than most, but I get my only satisfaction by taking a
few pictures, two or three for a day's work. On my way
up the stairs, which are always beautiful here, I must
stop and look at the portrait of Michael Angelo, I
love it so — the one by himself, the old man. There
are some beautiful Botticelli, of which I have never
seen copies. The faces are lovely; they speak to you.
There is an immense canvas by Rubens, "Battle of
Ivy," with King Henry II on a huge chestnut charger.
The pain and stress of battle in the men's faces, the
terror and fire in the eyes of the horses, and action
and heat of it all made me wish to hide my face and
cover my eyes.
Do you know one feels like a discoverer when
wandering about, you suddenly come upon a paint
ing by someone of whom your ignorant ears have
never heard. Well, that happened to me yesterday.
In a corner was a small medallion, "A Holy Family."
I must try to make you see this beautiful thing.
The Virgin at the right, the Baby lying across her
lap, his little head resting on her arm.
Just back of the Virgin at the right is St. Joseph,
swinging a long branch of red cherries over the Baby,
who is trying to catch them with His dear little dimpled
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It is the sweetest, most adorable Baby I have ever
seen — the flesh tints perfect, the hair, the eyes, the
whole natural pose of the figures so ideally true to
life that you involuntarily hold out your hands to the
happy little Child. The home touch is so appealing, the
beautiful face above with strong mother love and
tender brooding, and over all the inexpressible holiness
that is, after all, the heart and soul of the picture. It
is by far and away the most ideal Holy Family we
have seen. I call it the "Madonna of the Cherries,"
and it is by a modern Dutch painter, Adrian Van der
Werf. We went for a little into the salon of Design, which
is of exceeding interest even to me. What must it
be to the art students? Sketches, studies of all the
great masters, all sorts of detail and many finished
drawings. We only looked a little at Andre del Sarto. We
shall hope to go often.
There must be crowds of copyists on a week day,
from the stacks and stacks of easels in the corners. I
heard yesterday of a man who has been fifteen years in
line to copy one of Murillo's Madonnas and has but
just now commenced.
A future is in store for the artist who could truth
fully paint the line of figures passing that picture
through these weary fifteen years.
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Italian opera Germania, but with very Wagnerian
music. On the second night the Duke and Duchess
Aosta were there. The people all rose, the singers
came before the curtain, the orchestra played national
airs, all the people cheering. The pretty Duchess at
the front of the box bowing, smiling, showing all her
dimples, made me quite forget my democratic or re
publican (which is it?) principles, and I waved and
cheered lustily with the rest.
The Duchess wore in her hair a beautiful fleur-de-lis,
which is the mark of Florence, and was given her by
the women of the city, with whom she is very popular.
You see, she will be the next queen if no boys come
to the home of King Victor, who has two baby girls.
The Duke's brother, the Conti de Turino, lives here
in the Pitti Palace. He drives every day a white
horse before a high cart through the streets of
Florence. I never before knew what it meant to come from a
long line of kings. The small head so proudly poised,
the grace and strength of every line and curve of his
magnificent physique. Every time I meet him my
admiration grows apace and my heart glows at the
careless glance of his soft brown eyes.
You understand, of course, I am speaking of the
white horse. The count himself is of an insignificance
so pronounced that even the most emphatic and as
siduous of cringers would never give him a second
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glance were it not that his undoubted superior judg
ment in the matter of horses gives him a certain claim
to consideration.
The King keeps a very sharp watch out on the
Duke and Count, and calls them down right smartly
when occasion requires.
We saw also that night the Prince and Princess
Strozzi. The Strozzi is one of the oldest families in
Italy, and they are said to have the finest private
collections of jewels in the world. The Princess is a
cripple, but very lovely and the people adore her. The
Prince is also much admired for his many virtues ( ?).
He is a big dark man and looks like a farmer with a
long black beard. However, he is very good to the little
Princess as Italian husbands go, and they go very
badly at the best, I can tell you.
Many of the Americans over here, I should judge,
had made money rapidly and not quite caught up
themselves. They make a very brilliant showing
where the native aristocracy is noted for its economy
in dress, and so many English who seldom dress well
anyway. This class of Americans give one many
lessons on what not to do, and one only need watch
quietly to recognize those who have been unable to
make their newly acquired means of grace go at home,
all right. A little money goes so far in making a
gorgeous show over here, for comparatively these
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Do not think all my country people are of the earth
earthy, for it is not true. We have plenty of our own
high types of gentlewomen, of which there are no
higher for sweet, true courtesy, but there is no doubt
the social climbers are in excess and they do not edify.
I think of the children so often. Here they drive
about in dear little donkey carts that our children
would so love. But Italian children look so suppressed
and the young girls are watched as though they were
capable of any crime, and they look absolutely spiritless.
It takes some little time to become acclimated, and
we have all been a little rundown and disposed to be
lazy, but now that spring is so near we will be getting
energetic with the rest of the world.

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Via della Pace, Feb. 8.
Spring is really here and in the gardens across the
way birds are singing all day long. Birds of an
entirely new kind to me — a sort of finch with a wild
sweet note.
The Cascini (the Central Park of Florence) is per
fectly lovely now, full of violets and rose hedges. All
society drives in this park, you know, and it is even
more fun to watch the procession than at home. We
could never hold a horse show with these people, for
the horses are magnificent, but our carriages and liv
eries are much handsomer.
It is surprising how many ponies and little donkeys
are used before really grown up stylish carts. Yes
terday a little cart passed us drawn by a little donkey
(I do not exaggerate) no larger than a full-grown
mastiff. In the cart was a very full-grown woman,
driving along so peacefully. We expected every min
ute to see that cart tip up over back and the little
donkey hurled heavenward, pawing the air with his
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of little donkeys must have held his feet down, for he
passed from sight shaking his little head and trudging
sturdily on. The children would be wild over these
little creatures, and they are all warranted not to kick
or bite.
Oh, it is such a wonderful, beautiful country — not
thinking of the art at all. Such a glorious city, the air
now so fresh and sweet, the flowers that never need
to be planted, for they plant themselves and blossom
just because they can't resist the lovely sunshine and
delicious haziness that spreads itself over everything
at nightfall.
To-day we went to see Michael Angelo's "David" —
a giant David, 18 feet high, cut from a block of marble
that was thought to be ruined. An old sculptor had
it in Fiesole, and in trying to cut a figure destroyed it
seemingly. It lay for years, and finally was brought
to Florence, and when the barricade was removed this
glorious "David" looked out upon the city.
Only one spot shows how nearly the block was
ruined. In the right shoulder is a deep dent, but
that adds to the interest of the figure, and the whole
strength of the overgrown boy with his big hands to
which he must still grow up. Oh, but it is most
glorious ! Ever since we have been in Florence we
have been reading about "David," seeing in the mean
time much of the work of Michael Angelo, and yet
to-day when we really saw it I was dumb with amaze-
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ment. All the work of Michael Angelo appeals to me
more than anything else, and if I read the slightest
adverse criticism it makes my blood boil. All people
get crazes and usually recover and start violently in
on some other one, and before I come home I may
be raving about Titian, who, up to now, has moved
me not at all.

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February ioth.
My Dear Little Sisters:
I wonder what is the use for me to be talking to
you when you are all snuggled up in bed sound asleep,
while I at 1 1 o'clock in the morning am writing letters
like a good, industrious girl. After all, it is only
about 4 o'clock in the New Haven morning, so it is
just as well you should be asleep.
When I come home I will bring you some pictures
of a most lovely baby. It is the little Princess Yolanda,
the little daughter of the King and Queen of Italy.
In one picture she is trying to eat her fists, like any
ordinary baby, even if she is a princess. A few
weeks ago she had a present of a darling baby sister,
and when this lovely city heard the stork had brought
another little princess to the beautiful Queen Elena
she sent a man up into a high tower to ring a bell that
had only been rung once before in more than two
hundred years, and that time was when Yolanda her
self was brought by the old stork who looks out for
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so the old bell, silent so long, rang out the news that
a new little princess had come for all of Italy to love.
This little one is named Mafalda. The children here
hang up their stockings the same as you do in the
chimney, only instead of Christmas it is on the eve of.
Epiphany, the 6th of January, and have their presents
then. And now I'll tell you a story — a true one at that —
of a little old woman whom all Florence thinks of
every night that comes, and softly they say each nine
o'clock of the night, "II Campanello de Cavalaea,"
and this is what it is all about.
More than one hundred and fifty years ago a little
old woman lived in Florence. She was called Cav-
a-la-e-a, a long name to just mean green grocer, which
again means a seller of vegetables of all sorts. Well,
she sat in front of her little shop day after day and she
began to notice a queer little shop across the square
into which many people went, and no one ever seemed
to come out. She began to worry and finally called
the guards' attention to it. Then investigation began
at once, and it was found to be a den of thieves. Just
inside the door was a trap and as soon as a foot touched
it, as the people came into the shop, down the poor
things went into a cellar, where all their money was
taken and they were left to die.
Of course, all the dreadful thieves and murderers
were arrested and the city was so grateful to the little
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old woman that it was decided to do something that
for all time would make her remembered, and so
they gave an order that as long as the tower should
stand every nine o'clock at night the big bell in the
Campanile of Giotto should ring out, and so it is that
now every night at nine o'clock the beautiful tones of
the bell sound through the palaces and hovels of Flor
ence, and we often hear someone say softly, "II Cam-
panello di Cav-a-la-e-a" — the bell of the little green
grocer. Many, many things about Florence you would love :
the fat puppies of which we see so many, so fat that
when they try to run on the stone floors they slip up
and slide on their little black noses or sit down in the
funniest way. Little children here are not at all
like you little Americans. They only speak when their
mothers say they may.
The other day when we were paying a visit we
noticed a little girl of about nine years sitting quietly
in a corner. We asked her a question. She jumped
up, put her feet together, her hands behind her back,
then answered, never taking her eyes off the person
to whom she was speaking; then sat down again until
spoken to and the same thing happened all over again.
There are times, I am sure, when American mothers
would much appreciate Italian methods of child up
bringing. I have a picture of you both, with meek little faces, 79

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heels close together, hands behind your back, answering
in as few words as possible the question. There is a
restfulness about this picture that is very appealing,
and I am sure would add years to little mother's length
of days.
This is such a cosy little country, tucked away in
the water, and it is a very valuable little country as
well. But do you know, I would rather be an Ameri
can girl than anything else. She has so much more
freedom and fun. I imagine America is the place of
all others for children, unless it should be Japan, which
is, I believe, the children's earthly paradise. But
America is good enough for me, and the blood of my
patriot grandfathers dances in my veins when I see
the flag of my country and hear the "Star Spangled
Banner" sung with a will, as we all sang it at an
American tea last Friday, and I am surprised, for
though a "Daughter of the American Revolution" and
a granddaughter of the War of the Rebellion, I never
realized my privileges as I did last Friday.

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Via della Pace, Feb. 15th.
Yesterday we went up to the old Roman town of
Fiesole. The road winds round and round the same as the
East Rock road, ever higher and higher.
All the way up on one side of the road was a solid
hedge of rose bushes covered with millions of tiny
buds ; a little later it will be a mass of pink bloom. It
takes about three-quarters of an hour by train to reach
the top of the hill on which stands the old town, that
overlooks all Florence, and from whence come most of
the frightful beggars we see about the streets every
day — dreadful creatures, parading their ills with a
sickening emphasis that is horrible and haunts one for
hours. A cross-eyed one, for instance, will have a com
panion with him, whose duty and pleasure it is to lift
the eyelid of the leading man of the drama, as it were,
and show to the unwary pedestrian that frightful eye
in all its horror until you are sick and faint. And that
is a mild thing. Other sights and sounds are un-
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speakable, and I never imagined such things existed,
so you see beautiful Florence has a seamy side, and the
woes and ills of life go hand and hand with the glory,
pomp and beauty that is as far beyond description as
are the horrible beggars that stand for the world's
misery by the side of the world's glory.
But Fiesole has more than beggars. There is an
old Roman theater and a delightful old church. The
church was began in 1056, and has a magnificent tower
built in 1213.
In this church is a chair in which San Antinino used
to sit during solemn mass, and the columns in this
church are of Etruscan marble.
We went all over the old theater, and saw the won
derful baths. The theater was built when Rome was
imperial, about 160, and Florence but a little hamlet.
There are 97 tiers of stone, and below at the left
were three more for the people of rank.
Further along the slope were the baths of the
aristocracy, and others for the common people. The
bathing places were as large as the entire floor of an
ordinary house, and were built on columns about three
feet high. Underneath the fire was built. All these
excavations, you must remember, have been made since
i873. By the way, those bath tubs are the first and only
ones I have seen since I came to Italy, except at Pompeii.

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At the present stage I bathe, in a bowl the size of a
soap dish.
How do you suppose it comes about, when the early
Italians spent hours each day in their baths, the latter
day children of sunny Italy bathe mostly in sunshine
and air? Here is a study in heredity for you. I
think it must be reaction.
Do you remember the man who told you he had once
started to read "Quo Vadis," but as the hero began to
take a bath in the first chapter and had not yet finished
in the middle of the book, he was discouraged to go
on? Well, it would be a mighty short chapter that
could be written while the average Italian takes a
bath nowadays, as far as I see or can hear.
I hope you do not mind digressions. You know it
is high art to have episodes by the way, so now I'll
go back to Fiesole.
We had our luncheon out on the terrace, warm and
lovely; read a little and looked more than a little over
the charming city lying at our feet, and then we wan
dered back up to the old Franciscan Monastery, there
to wait for the sunset, hear the Angelus, and the priests
chanting the Magnificat. The music came to us in gusts
on the soft breeze, and with Florence lying far down
flooded with the wonderful purple light such as you
never dreamed of — a sea of gold away off in the west
— we felt without breath, voice or true consciousness
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It is hard to tell just what we felt. We were not
sentimentalists, but all Americans practical, and yet
no one wished the silence broken and all ten eyes were
wet as we walked down the hill from old Fiesole — a
picture not to be put down by pen or brush. Just the
sky, the light, the air, a winding road rose hedged and
crowned with bud and leaf, and a little band of sober
pilgrims going down into the silvered silence and the
soft darkness to a city of dreams.

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Via della Pace,
Washington's Birthday.
I am quite afraid I shall fall asleep over this letter,
for I have been doing carnival and can hardly keep
my eyes open.
They say it is not so much in Florence, but as for
me it is all I could stand, and all wonderful. On
Thursday was II Corso — a parade; there are three of
them during carnival week, and this was the first.
In the morning there seemed little doing, but every
where there was a suppressed feeling of excitement.
Right after luncheon I had my lesson and from there
we went to the Flower Market, where we were to
meet our party. The streets by now were jammed,
and here and there groups of maskers racing along,
sometimes fifteen or twenty in a bunch, and in most
brilliant costumes, with strange and wonderful wigs.
Of course the country people were all in festa array
and you can never imagine a more good-natured crowd.
Well, we met our party and then made the best of
our way down to the Arno. We looked about for a
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carriage and found a very good looking victoria. The
man asked us nine francs for the afternoon, but we
told him five would be enough, so after telling us we
were taking bread from the poor, whose children, he
assured us, would at once proceed to starve, and
whining for a few minutes, he brightened up and
looked so triumphant we knew he had made a much
better bargain than he had expected.
And now the fun began. We started at once for
the Signorina, where the procession was to form, and
fell in with it.
The procession itself was not so very wonderful.
There were a few floats with a lot of girls and boys
on them, but they did not seem to have any special
significance. The color schemes, though, were de
lightful and made things very gay. One was all
white and silver, followed by another pink and gold;
one was heliotrope, one green and one of every color.
Then there was "Heaven and Hell." Heaven was
on top, all flowers, tinsels and little angels ; and inside
Hell very red and glowing with a lot of little black
devils sporting about, seeming extremely happy in
their weird environment (the little angels looked
rather uncertain, as their support seemed rather
wobbly) . Altogether it was not as impressive a picture
lesson as a stern moralist might wish to show what
might happen to bad little boys and girls who failed
to mend their wicked ways. Following this were hun-
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dreds of carriages, victorias full of masks, and many,
of course, like ourselves, just seeing things.
From all the floats and carriages they were throwing
favors, bunches of flowers and all sorts of things.
From the windows and balconies also came showers
and showers of bright confetti, huge balls of thin
tissue paper which broke the instant they touched the
ground, a carriage or a person, and released millions
of tiny colored pieces of paper. Again from windows
or balconies came down rolls of bright ribbons made
of paper, one end held above, so that the whole street
was full of streamers waving and tossing about, of
every color and shade possible of combination. Also
there was some hard confetti and chalk very disagree
able. We drove up and down the course very slowly, as
was only possible, sometimes having our laps full of
flowers, only to have them snatched away in an instant
by the people from the side as we passed, there only
being room for the carriage, the crowd packed so
closely. A lot of people were armed with long sprays of
pampas grass or bunches of peacock feathers, with
which to tickle the faces and necks of the carriage folk.
Often we were able to grab these away, then the
owners would come running after, laughing and
calling. We would call back "Carnival," and throw
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Every one was perfectly good natured and happy.
Tell the children there were many really babies in
the procession just able to toddle along, all in wonder
ful costumes. Some were little princesses, and others
little pages, knights and ladies, and they were so
cunning and so tiny one forgot how tired the poor
little souls would be when night came.
Of course, you and I have both read a great many
descriptions of Carnival week much better and more
interesting than any I could possibly give, but the
being in it and a part of it means much, and I was
glad and happy that I might be for once a real live
part of a Florentine festa that I hope your mind can
paint the picture as it looked to me, in spite of my
poor powers of description. I want you to see the
lovely city with all the bright sunshine overhead, the
clear, beautiful sky without a cloud, the lovely towers
and columns, with their black and white marbles, rising
so stately and impressive in the blue and gold of air
and sky — and then, down in the streets, the gorgeous
color of floating streamers, little bright paper butter
flies, tossing flowers, wonderful costumes, quaint masks
and wigs, and, more than all, the laughing, dancing
people, the heart and soul of it all.
One could never imagine just to look on there could
be anywhere in the world to-day a bit of care or
sorrow for any heart.
We came home just in time for dinner, and as we
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were going to the opera, had only time to scramble
into our clothes and start off again.
A double bill it was for this night. The first was
an old mystery play set to music, "La Tentazoione de
Gesu." It was very interesting and in no way revolting, as
one might think. It was simply a duet between the
Christ and the Devil, and followed the Bible narrative
closely. The scenery was good and constantly
changing. There, were many teas Friday and Saturday, but
we were glad to stay at home and rest, for on Satur
day night was the Borgese ball, the great event in
carnival week, always given for the foreigners, and to
it we were going whether or no.
It was a great affair, and I shall very likely never
see its equal for strangeness.
The Borgese Casino is a most magnificent place,
all gold and beautiful frescoes. Everywhere there
were candles burning, millions of them seemingly, and
you know what a very beautiful light that is. There
seemed to be an endless succession of rooms. Two
huge ball rooms crowded every instant, then two very
large ones fitted up for the sitters out.
Never saw I such a display of flowers as here. The
walls solid banks from floor to ceiling of vines and
flowers, gorgeous palms, huge tubs of roses, one solid
wall of mimosa, great jars of hyacinth, jassamine and
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jonquils. You really cannot imagine such a wilder
ness of flowers. There were five large supper rooms.
Of course, in such a mob it was hard to dance, but
it was immense to look on even, and just watch the
people — German, Scotch, French, Russian, English,
Swiss, Italian, Spanish, and American.
The Americans were the only perfectly dressed peo
ple there, and the English were — well, they were, not
perfectly dressed.
The people on the Continent were one blaze of
jewels. Some women wore four necklaces, and on
one fat dowager I counted six of every precious stone
that ever was heard of, and while we will hope the
Queen of Sheba had better taste in her adorning, I
am certain for gorgeousness she would have been a
pale, meek shade by the side of this overpowering
dame; and in that ball room there was enough paint,
bleach and varnish to do a fresco a mile long if
judiciously used.
Gowns there were marvels of beautiful material, and
the English as a rule had superb laces. One girl I
will describe, as she stood out, being, I judged, a
person of distinction from the attention she received
and the pronounced court paid her. She was tall, oh,
and very, very thin, so that her nearly six feet ap
peared fully seven. All this she could not help, but
• this : Her gown was a watermelon pink, bright, heavy
dead silk; the skirt had a long train, very full, as there
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were tight gathers in the back, and it rode up in the
front in a way that brought tears to my eyes. The
waist had not one speck of fullness anywhere, cut
square in the neck and drew badly across the shoulders.
Over all this gorgeousness was draped more awk
wardly than it would be possible to .describe a point
lace shawl, the most magnificent piece of lace I ever
dreamed of. Her hair was curled tight all over her
head and looked like a necglected brush pile in the
autumn on a farm, and in and out in an attempt at the
classic was wound a gold chain with magnificent dia
mond clasps to hold it in place.
There were many others nearly as bad. Dear, dear,
the crime it is to American eyes to see money put to
such heartbreaking uses. Give an average American
girl five hundred dollars a year — yes, three hundred —
on which to dress herself and she can make her sisters
of every land under the sun, except of France — and
they must watch out — look like forlorn and dismal
failures, even if their incomes are five times as much,
with shoes and gloves thrown in.
The army was out in full force, gorgeous, magnifi
cent — both uniforms and men- — and made the place
fairly to blaze. They certainly do make bright spots
on any landscapes with all their gold lace. However,
aside from the jewels, laces and the officers, it could
not hold a candle to an American ball, and I thought
how wonderfully lovely our own Prom, would be
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with our beautifully dressed girls, could it only have
the color and setting of the Borgese Casino.
The music was fine — but the dancing ! The English
are athletes and give good strong leaps into the air
with a splendid knee movement.
The Germans start out at one end of the room and
whirl about in small circles, getting up a tremendous
rate of speed, easily cutting through the middle of any
crowd. The French and Italians are better, but a
little stiff and prone to dancing too fast. As a chance
to study how the brain action controls the muscular
movements of different nations this ball would have
given much opportunity.
At a quarter of five the cotillion began, and I was
told there were two thousand in the line, else I should
have said five thousand — and one little man to manage
it. I danced for fifteen minutes, but preferred to watch
it. The little man would clap his hands, jump up
and down and yell, but no one paid the slightest atten
tion to him. And up to the itme I left, an hour later,
it had not the least resemblance to any cotillion ever I
saw. The little man yelled and the people continued
to dance and that's all there was about it.
One thing I noticed about the Borgese. There was
absolutely no drinking, as in America. Of course,
with the supper there was plenty of wine, but that
affects no one, but there were no punch bowls any-
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where and no spirits, and in all that crowd I did not
see one man who looked as if he ever had a drink of
anything stronger than malted milk.
We each wore a huge bunch of Prussian violets and
had a shower bouquet (which we made ourselves) of
the same flowers as large as we could comfortably
carrv, and the flowers cost us twenty-five cents apiece
— and, I do stand up and say there was no more artistic
bouquets there than ours, for I had brought from home
a lot of narrow lavender gauze ribbon, and when we
finished our labors our flowers looked so nice and New
Yorky we kissed them for auld lang syne.
We are going the rounds of the Fairs to-morrow.
Admittance to the large and expensive ones, two cents ;
the small ones one cent. If there is anything new or
strange I'll tell you. Just now I am propping my
eyes open while I write. Good-night.

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Via della Pace, March 8.
You can have no idea how hard it is to manage
one's clothing here just at this season.
Out-of-doors it is boiling hot, except in the narrow
lanes where the sun never reaches, and to walk even
a short distance in heavy clothes is to be most un
comfortable, while in the houses it is like a cellar.
We dare not leave off anything in the house, and as
it would be quite inconvenient to put on thin summer
clothing on the king's highway, so to speak, we suffer
both from heat and cold — living in the tropics one
hour, the arctic the next — so that it would take a
lightning change artist to manage clothing this time
of the year, if any attempt was made at comfort.
We are glad you enjoy our letters — such poor, in
adequate things they are — when we see all this beauty
about us, and yet we often laugh when we think of
your horror at many of the primitive customs here,
many so distinctly unsanitary. When we come home
we will have many a tale to unfold that will make you
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You are so fond of people, you would enjoy that
part, for we meet so many, all so cordial, ask you
everywhere, never bear malice when you refuse, but
ask you just the same next time. You need only go
when you feel lik it, and you are received with a
cheerful heart always. But take this for truth — no
matter what any one says to the contrary — nearly all
Italian men are intolerable.
We have just returned from a few hours' visit to the
Villa Malatesta. It is outside of the old Roman gate,
Porta Romana, and away up at the top of a hill which
overlooks the Val d'Arno. A huge house with all the
comforts of America and all the beauty of Italy, a
combination hard to improve upon. From the terrace
in front we could look across the valley and see Fiesole
perfectly, the Campanile, and all the rest of the uni
verse. These hillsides are so beautiful, covered with
the olive trees, with the sun upon them.
We met there — and this is not at all an unusual
gathering to just happen — a princess of Italy, an Eng
lish countess, a cousin of Marconi, a gentleman and
his charming wife from Hartford, Conn. ; two ladies
from Jacksonville, Florida; a gentleman from Ken
tucky, and New Haven was not neglected, for we
were there. Florence is certainly a congress of nations.
We had a most delightful visit. How very lovely
Americans can be and are most of the time.

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Villa Malatesta, Bellosguardo.
Here we are paying a week's visit in this most
charming of homes. But first I must go back into
Florence for a while and tell you of Holy Week, for
there the old legends and customs make Holy Week of
peculiar interest to those who have never lived in a
Roman Catholic country.
On Ash Wednesday, of course, was the chanting of
the Tenebrae in the Duomo, all the choir and priests
having little switches with which they beat upon the
floor, and all through the days following people sold
these on the streets with the bark taken off and wound
with bright colored paper.
On Maunday Thursday, very early in the morning,
children went and beat upon the doors of the churches,
calling "That for Judas" at every blow.
After mass on Thursday everything was removed
from the altars, pictures covered and everything made
as dark as possible. From now on until the singing
of the Gloria in Excelsis on Easter Even (Saturday)
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So accustomed are we to the continual ringing of the
bells, the chimings and tollings, that we never notice
them, but when they no longer rang the silence was
very impressive.
At three in the afternoon we went to the Duomo,
where each year they have this service, the Archbishop
washing the feet of twelve poor men.
These old men were arrayed in white muslin gar
ments with cowls and were sitting in a row of stalls
raised high at one side of the chancel, and most im
portant they did look, I assure you.
After a service which we did not understand, they
each removed their right shoe and stocking and the
Bishop advancing with two priests, one on either side,
holding his robe, and an acolyte bearing a lavobo.
The Bishop knelt before each man, washed the foot,
kissed it and then gave his blessing. After the last
foot was washed he gave each man a loaf of bread
and a little packet of money. Of course, we visited
many sepulchres, many of them very beautiful.
The altars about them were hung with cloth of gold
or silver with hundreds of candles, and over, around
and in front of them the greatest profusion of flowers,
especially roses and lilies, and always this little corner
was a blaze of light, in strong contrast with the rest
of the church, which was so very sombre.
The people make pilgrimages about the city from one

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sepulchre to another, they being required to make
seven, and as many more as is possible.
The streets these days look like a festa, as no one
works and every one is trotting cheerfully about from
church to church.
We visited five, and then went up to Santissima
Annuziata to hear the music. But, oh, dear, a small
town was that church, and people coming and going on
their pilgrimages, the place, packed besides with
those trying to hear the music, which sounded miles
off; although there was a huge chorus and a full or
chestra it was not very satisfactory.
Good Friday were the exhibitings of miraculous
crucifixes, each with its own particular legend.
At the Duomo there is a ceremony on Easter even
just at noon, which they have nowhere else in the
world. It is called "Scoppio del Caro," or the cere
mony of the dove and Easter fire.
There is a legend that an ancestor of the Pazzi
family made a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre at
Jerusalem and there he saw the monks of Bethlehem
on Easter morning crowding about trying to light their
tapers at the sacred fire within the sepulchre. So after
getting a light himself he came back to Florence with
it, riding backward all the way to keep it from blowing
out. The Devil ran after him again and again trying
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at him, crying, "Pazzo! pazzo!" (fool), and the family
get their name from that.
At last he arrived with his light safely and presented
it to the Baptistry, where every year he lighted a taper
from this light and with the taper lighted the shrine
at the corner of the Pazzi Palace. In support of this
old legend there are two very curious, ancient pieces
of flint which they say from certain marks upon them
were surely brought from the East, and are now in
S. S. Apostoli, and from very earliest times at daybreak
on Easter Even the Archbishop has gone from the
Baptistry with a lamp to S. S. Apostoli, where he
strikes a light from these flints, going back with it
again to the Baptistry.
In the meantime an enormous black car has been
drawn by four pure white oxen which are kept by the
government always for this purpose, into the Piazza
del Duomo. This car is entirely covered with fire
works, crackers and bombs of all sorts, and at the top,
which is very high, is a sort of wheel of firecrackers.
All over the car are bright paper streamers and gar
lands of flowers, and the yokes of the oxen, which are
enormous, are entirely covered by flowers.
You can imagine how beautiful those big white
creatures are with their flower yokes.
From the very top of the High Altar there is a wire
which runs the whole length of the Church, out into
the Piazza and is fastened to the top of the car. The
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distance, I should think, was about the length of a
long city block.
Now at half-past eleven, while mass is going on in
the Duomo, the Archbishop with a long train of priests
and acolytes comes from the Baptistry bearing a lamp.
They cross the Piazza in solemn procession into the
Church. From this lamp the Bishop lights a slow
match at the beginning of the wire and it is so timed
that at the instant with the Gloria in Excelsis a fire
work dove flies along the wire out into the square
where the fireworks on the car are set going, and at
the same time to the second, the bells of all the
churches, which have been silent since Thursday, now
ring out and continue for an hour.
After all the crackers have gone off, that will with
out a second lighting, the oxen are again fastened to
the car, which is drawn like a small mountain through
the streets, to the Pazzi Palace, where there is another
dove of fire which sets off the remaining crackers and
bombs. If the Colombino (dove) slides along the wire with
out a hitch through the Duomo, the Contadini look
upon it as a sign that their crops will be good. The
expression of anxious watchfulness on all their faces
is not the least interesting feature of this most in
teresting spectacle.
All the money for the "Scappio del Caro" festivities
is furnished by the Pazzi family. 107

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Sunday — Easter — the maids went early to church,
taking with them boiled eggs, fruit and lamb to be
blessed, and later in the day we ate it.
On Easter afternoon we came up here to the Villa
Malatesta for a visit of a week, and it is from this
gorgeous place I am writing this letter.
High on a hill and facing Fiesole, is this old Palace
of the Malatesti. A part of it is occupied by a young
American lady who married an Englishman of rank,
and they make their home here a part of each year.
The gardens and grounds are immense, and we live
out-of-doors. The Count Malatesta has some of it
for himself, but it is so huge that several families
could live very happily and never come across each
other. To be sure the count's male servitors quickly find out
any pretty English maids one may have about — but
I can tell you the English rose has no use for a Floren
tine lily of the genus male — and no Phillida of song
or story could ever flout a swain more artistically than
can these girls of the merrie England of to-day. It
does one's heart good to see the sense of them.
Next to this is a big English estate and on the other
side one belonging to a Russian princess. Across the
street, as it were, is the beginning of the estate of the
Baroness Kaufmann, one of the finest in all Italy. So
here I shall stay, in this lovely spot for a whole week

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now, and again come back for the month of June. All
the people in this house are so adorable, and so more
than good, to us stranger maids in a strange land.

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Via San Pier Maggiore, June ist, 19 — .
This is our new home. Do you realize how like
Michael Angelo, Dante and all the rest it sounds, for
right down here is the old, old part of Florence — a
great stone palace it is and very, very Italian.
Our dear little landlady changed her home and we
came with her.
Opposite we have a man who makes copper cooking
utensils, and more than that, they are beaten out by
hand. That I suppose sounds attractive to you in New
Haven, and surely the results of his labors are all your
fancy can picture. But the process! Yesterday being
not only Sunday, but Whit Sunday, when all the world
goes on a picnic, he began hammering at four in
the morning in order to enjoy the later part of the day.
Next to him is a charcoal man. Now the charcoal
business would seem to be only dirty. A mistake this,
for this particular charcoal man has a donkey, who
is never too tired, too hungry, or too happy to bray.
At present his record of "haws" is posted in our

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dining room as 36; may he never break it. Then
there is a man who makes iron beds by hand.
I think the less I say about him the better. English
words sound wicked and my Italian is yet too limited
to do the subject justice. We have, however, one
of the finest old arches in all Florence to look at, and
if we can get in a little sleep between eight and twelve
o'clock we manage very well. At twelve at night they
begin to sing in the street on their way home from
the cafes ; soon the copper man, soon the donkey, and
then the bed man. But it is, after all, good fun if
you are not too tired.
Now what do you think ? We are going to Venice !
Those Princeton people who were here so long will
meet us there and we will all go about together.
I shall tell you all about our visit to that wonderful
city after we are settled in the mountains, where we
are going for July and August, for I shall have no
time for a long letter until then,' and I shall very likely
have things to tell that will make you still more green.
The cricket sings in his little cage. The air comes in
sweet and cool, so I must snatch a wink of sleep before
the copper, donkey and iron trio begin their morning
song; therefore, good-night.

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Well, we have been for a little journey out into the
beautiful country. We took a train away out and
walked back, coming to the Piazza Michael Angelo:
Such a magnificent view! No greater tribute could
possibly have been paid to that superb man than the
building of this wonderful Piazza for his great honor.
Even I, who feel that nothing is quite good enough
for him, am almost satisfied with this memorial.
This Piazza is certainly as large again as our Green
and is entirely pebbled. In the center is the bronze
statue of Michael Angelo's "David."
I thought it a giant David I saw in the museum, but
out there in the sun and light he is twice a giant.
There he stands — David, the grand, the ideal of all
that is grand, impressive, powerful; stands in his
magnificence looking over Florence, guarding the city
with his sling in his hand, against the foe who may
long to do her ill.
The high terrace is walled around with a broad stone
work, part of which was patterned by Michael Angelo
himself. "5

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Off at the right lies Fiesole, the old city with the
Medici Villa, where Florentine aristocrats used to con
gregate for their Bacchanalin feasts and orgies, and
where the monastery is still standing.
A little further along is the Villa Boccacio, in which
the Decameron was written.
Every bit of this surrounding country is rich in
legends and old Florentine lore. A lifetime could
hardly suffice to gather them all into one's mind and
have them for one's own.
Down in the valley just in front is the remnant of an
old Feudal Tower and part of the old Etruscan wall.
Back in the distance winds the river Arno like a
lovely golden ribbon under its bridges until it is lost
in the hills.
At the left the Duomo and the Companile of Giotto,
and beyond that still the wonderful dome of the Medici
Chapel of San Lorenzo, and last, but not least, the
Palazzo Vecchio, with its magnificent tower.
An endless chain of beauty, and no city in the
world could have built a greater monument to a greater
man than did this city of Florence when she located
this Piazza and called it Michael Angelo.
Three long stone stairways lead down into the
city, and on each of the three terraces are grottoes with
wonderful stone work, over which the water bubbles
and runs. The terraces were gorgeous with flowers
and multitudes of stone seats, where people sit, study,
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read or just dream the hours away, as so much of Flor
ence does, just sit and wait calmly in the sunshine.
Marconi is the great man of Italy to-day, and Italy
is slowly waking to the realization that she is proud of
him. Well, we are glad — glad, that we came first to
Florence, instead of making our pilgrimage to Ger
many or Paris. Those, too, we want some day, if
possible, but not yet, and our ambitions may never be
realized, but we shall have had our Florence, shall
have come to know Fra Angelico, Savonarola and their
brethren in their home, and more than all, seen the
city, the work, the heart and soul of Michael Angelo.
Many pilgrims come to Florence on their way to
other shrines, but instead of a week as planned, they
stay on and on, finally tearing themselves away, turn
ing their faces with determination toward Rome or
Athens, as in the beginning they had decided, but
homesickness is with them and they long for the day
when they can go again and dream their dreams in
the heart of the "Lily of the Arno."

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San Marcello, July 6.
You see again we have been on the jump, or, per
haps, I should say, on the fly, for so high up in the
mountains are we.
We left on the first from Florence, coming in from
Bellosguardo on the 30th, as the family all left on that
day for Switzerland.
We found Florence really quite dreadful after our
month at the villa on the hill, and we were sure it
would not be wise to stay there, for whatever one is
led to believe to the contrary, there is more or less
typhus through the hot months of summer.
We were sorry to say good-bye to the people at
Malatesta, for they were all so more than good to us.
Our hostess had an angora kitten she was afraid to
leave there with the Contidini, so we have him with
us. He is a perfect beauty, but a real diavollino, very
Italian, as he comes from a long line belonging to the
Bardinini, one of the oldest of Florentine families. I
hope the Bardinini have sweeter tempers than their
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Our journey up was very uncomfortable, but very
funny to look back upon.
We got up at four o'clock in the morning in order
to leave on the six o'clock train. The train was
jammed, but we at last found a compartment with
two places in it unreserved. All the others were filled
by Italian women, and the racks, the floor and the two
suooosedly vacant places full of their luggage — carpet
bags, small trunks, lunch baskets, rugs, bottles of wine
and umbrellas, and the air was stuffy to a degree that
was hard to bear so early in the morning. Well,
when these charmers of sunny Italy understood that
we were thinking of joining them the most hot
tempered and best dressed charmer rose up and, wav
ing her arms about, called us all sorts of names she
could think of at short notice and ended up by remark
ing that "nothing would induce her to move her lug
gage from the seats," which were ours, "only over her
dead body, should we come in that compartment,"
or Italian words to that effect.
Long since have we learned the uselessness of fight
ing them and so smiling sweetly we continued to climb
in quietly, though boiling with rage inwardly.
Opposite our fighting woman was our other place,
and my soul's sister calmly lifted the luggage off the
seat and prepared to sit down. Another woman in
the corner now objected and moved up to prevent her.
My soul's sister, with her superior size and more than

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superior determination and calmness, sat — some on the
seat and more on the woman, who was pinned firmly
down. She now began to howl that my soul's sister
was much more than exceedingly heavy, the word used
being "grassa-grassa."
In the meantime I had closed the door, piled our
luggage up near it, sat down on that luggage in a little
bunch, smiling on the excited company as if that
position was really the one I would have selected from
all others.
Our party was now complete. A rather poorly
dressed woman with a merry twinkle in her eye, who
had taken no part at all in the row, evidently con
sidering strict neutrality the wisest course in this
battle of America and Italy for supremacy, would
have made a diplomat of the first water. She would
look very pleasantly at us, then turn quickly and smile
on our adversaries.
The fighting woman — she was, I will say, a beauty
— looked like a whole act from an opera. Big, black,
gorgeous, in a linen suit, with rings, chains and pins,
bright shawl and brighter kerchief, all her luggage
gathered about her. In the corner a tiny old woman
who looked mild and much frightened. Opposite,
her companion, who had tried to push my soul's sister
and who was now literally the under dog, a woman
with heavy black eyebrows, a large under jaw and eyes
of lightning, with thunder behind; a German girl,

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who evidently did not understand one word and was
simply scared blue. In the corner a blond girl, sick,
and fast asleep through all the rumpus.
Our fighting woman thought she was the most
important personage in the crowd and I reckon she
was. Anyway, she was the moving spirit.
In the midst of her tirade she happened to turn and
noticed the "poor companion" crowding my soul's
sister. Like a flash she went over to the enemy and
turned on the poor old mistress of said "companion,"
wanting to know what she, the companion, meant by
crowding her betters, or words to that effect, yanked
her luggage off the seat and with a smile like a burst
of sunshine invited me to sit next to her, as though
nothing had happened out of the ordinary, and com
manded that worm of a companion to move over for
la belle signore.
It was too funny for words. We dared not look
at each other. Now we were both taken up and
made much of by our dear friends, the enemy, and
given of the fat of the land. All through the journey
they had little bickerings among themselves, always
two or three against one; but all joined in being nice
to us, and when the kitten was disclosed they one
and all wished to take him and hide him from the
guard when he came through.
Our journey up to Pracelina, where we were to
leave the train, is through a succession of tunnels

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and a most horrible sort of a trip, straight up hill, so
that, although there were two engines, the train poked.
The poor kitten was nearly suffocated and our fighting
woman made the companion fan him in every tunnel.
The women, of course, had to go through all kinds
of hysteria. For instance, after we had been in a
tunnel for ten minutes one of them would jump up,
throw up her hands and scream, "Aria! aria" and
then sink back gasping. Of course, it is all put on,
but trying to the nerves.
We finally arrived and our fellow travellers, who
but a few hours before were apparently bent on mur
der, bade us a most affectionate farewell, with every
good wish possible for a" happy summer.
At Pracelina station we gathered forces, our party
having been scattered through the train, and a most
cosmopolitan crowd we were. The Italian mastro, an
old Greek gentleman with Chesterfieldian manners,
most interesting (he has fought in three revolutions) ;
a German student, whose father is a court official at
Russia; an Australian girl, three American girls, an
Irish girl, and a middle-aged English lady. So you see
we were of all sorts and conditions, but all very nice
and. companionable.
We drove for hours over the mountains and I can
tell you it was glorious. Our first glimpse of San Mar-
cello was a delight, a tiny village nestling in a small val
ley among the hills ; just a little bunch of houses, stucco 123

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with red roofs and, of course, a Campanile in the midst.
When we reached here we found quite a bustling
little village. Our house is the old palace, probably
the nucleus of the town, and a great place; there are
between seventy and eighty rooms. On the second
floor there is a huge stone terrace running nearly
around the house with vines all over it. A handsome
garden and mountains everywhere. It is very noisy,
as it is everywhere in Italy, as the people yell all the
time at the top of their voices, but we shall, I am sure,
enjoy our summer very much.
The mastro has taken the little old theater for les
sons and it will be fine to work in a place built for
music. Our language is Italian now always (pretty queer
sometimes, no doubt). There are gorgeous walks,
great mountains to climb on little donkeys. Our time
will be very full though, for we have an immense
amount of work planned for these two months.
My next letter will be my Venice one. Such a de
lightful experience was that week.

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'Tis now July ioth.
But it was June when we had the party — oh, such a
party — a party of a whole week long — each day more
delightful than the other, each night a leaf from a
charming Venetian story, and right in the middle of
the story was I, a most unpretentious figure to be sure
— but there!
Plenty are the descriptions of Venice, always most
glowing, but I have never read one that could begin
to give you an idea how beautiful it all is.
Perhaps our arrival was a little unfortunate, as it
was raining cats and dogs and small white mice.
We left Florence at six in the morning — second class,
you know — and went over the most beautiful country
to Bologna, right up over the mountains.
The journeys are here marred somewhat by the great
number of tunnels which are darker and dustier than
anything of the kind I ever saw or smelled; but now
and then we had a most glorious view, which com
pensated for the discomfort.
We reached Bologna at ten and from there it was
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all down hill, and we simply coasted. It had rained
the night before and everything was fresh and green
and most delightfully cool. Whole fields there were
of scarlet poppies and some fine yellow flowers which
made the valley georgeous.
We were fortunate in having a compartment nearly
to ourselves, our only companion a Venetian woman,
very nice, who seemed to have no trouble in under
standing our poor attempts at conversation.
We had taken our own luncheon in one of those
little tourist's baskets that are a most prominent feature
of travel over here, arranged with all sorts of com
partments well furnished with the bigotry and virtue
belonging to a well appointed lunch table, as well as
for food.
Elena had roasted for us a chicken and we had
plenty of bread, a great deal of cheese, some tiny pies
with outward pastry one would call perfect, were it
not that it concealed a filling still more perfect; some
funny little cakes I especially love, of pounded up al
monds and things, and lastly, though in that dusty
place it should have been mentioned as a firstly, a big
flask of Chianti.
About twenty-five miles this side of Venice we
passed through Padua, which little city looked most
fascinating with its domes and many buildings huddle'd
close togrether, so Shakespearie and of the long ago.
The approach to Venice might, perhaps, be called
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by some disappointing, since one sees very little of the
city. To me though it was rather pleasant, for there
seemed a bit of mystery about it all and made it more
difficult to realize that I, even I, was now in Venice.
In fact, I do not believe anything over here real until
I have pinched myself several times to make sure I
dream not. You should see my arms!
Well, now the train stops. The first thing is a bit
of America to meet us — Princeton University, as it
were, waiting to show us Venice.
"Come," said it, or they, "our gondola is waiting."
Well, as I said before, it was pouring rain, but a
cheerful rain withal, the gondola all that heart could '
wish. So in we stepped with haughty air and lofty
"mien," as is becoming to gondola days, for no more
now was I a meek and humble student, but the haughty
Lady Imogene, so to be for six or seven days. Off we
paddled up the Grand Canal to the humble abode that
our haughtinesses had deigned to honor for our short
stay. Extreme modest, small and clean was this house of
our choosing, looking out on a broad piazza, in the
middle of which was a pump, where every night and
morning boys and girls came to fill their pitchers and
pails, for there is no water in the houses. Still 'twas
Shakespearie !
Venetian girls are lovely, the prettiest we have seen,
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graceful figures, and they wear always soft black
shawls with very deep fringe, and mostly they walk
on air in their little slippers with no heels, but if they
do walk on the pavement you hear the funny little
clack, clack, and I am sure, as the little Venetian maids
came morning and evening they did not mind the wait
ing their turn at the pump, for they were so full of inno
cent gossip. Perhaps, about the handsome young gon
doliers, one liking this fellow in red, and another loved
the one in blue, though the pink one was charming !
One morning "Jessica" passed by. I am sure 'twas
she, and I know "Lorenzo" was a little way beyond,
and as I watched I distinctly saw Shylock looking
hard on every side for his daughter — shy, sweet Jes
sica. I hope he'll not find you, for I'll never tell.
Portia we did not see, but I know she was there, for
Bassanio we saw several times.
We just hung over that balcony most of the time
when we were at home to watch the old world go by,
and were so glad the water ran so slowly. It gave
time for so many dreams.
Poor Desdemona was not there, but we saw her
really truly house, the very balcony, and I am certain
Othello and Iago come every night to weep and lament
for their crimes on this same balcony.
Down these very same canals the Crusaders went
out and conquered the Turks. Oh, for some Cru
saders this minute, to smother those Turks in their
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own turbans ! I dream dreams, I see visions ; this day
am I a little mad, but what would you? It is the full
of the moon, I am in Venice; therefore am I mad!
And so I crave your indulgence.
La Signora (our landlady) proved to be most kind-
hearted, fat, rosy and young. She seemed to enjoy
everything we did, said or saw with us, and wept
copiously when we left her at the end of the week.
Her husband is an artist and doing well. She said
he had "sold pictures in America." I wish you could
hear the respect and awe with which she spoke of
our country; in fact, they all do.
At times it is quite unfortunate, for they firmly
believe our streets are paved with gold, except the
very poor ones and the pavement there they think is
silver. That our homes are run automatically, and
when we desire the earth and the fullness thereof, we
merely reach out a languid hand and press a button.
All these ideas make them most deferential, while it
effects the price of things to an alarming extent.
We were the only people in the house and so had the
run of it. In the morning we made our own coffee, and
with fresh butter and rolls breakfasted most happily.
Luncheon was a picnic, anywhere or nowhere, as the
case might be ; and at night always a most satisfactory
and dainty dinner.
My first surprise was about the land. It is quite
possible to go walking anywhere; of course, by very
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circuitous routes, often as there are innumerable tiny
bridges, and steps, everything most irregular. The
second, a thing rather obvious but one I had never
considered, the absolute stillness. I did not see a
horse and never a push cart there, and if it were not
for the bells of the churches, the voices and the street
criers one would feel quite depressed. It might have
been more noticeable to us who had been living in the
midst of coppersmith men, iron bed men and a donkey ;
anyway, it was remarkable.
We walked to dinner that first night through most
fascinating streets, not wide enough for two people
to walk side by side, and arrived finally at Piazza San
Marco. Now you know there is a Piazza San Marco in
Venice, and so did I know it. You doubtless know,
as did I also, that St. Mark's Church is there, that once
there was a Campanile which fell down a little bit ago,
also there is a wonderful clock tower. Perhaps, even
that there are four bronze horses that were brought
from Alexandria, taken away again by Napoleon and
finally restored after the Austrian peace. But what
does your knowledge amount to? Just nothing at all,
and the pity is I cannot make you see it all more
distinctly. The Piazza itself is much, much larger than our
Green. You see, I measure everything by "Watkins's
store up in York state," like that other old lady.
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On three sides of the square are wonderful white
marble arcades and at the end is the church, the most
ornate thing I ever dreamed of and withal magnifi
cently rich, not gaudy in any way, and yet marvelous
with gold and mosaic work.
In the middle of the Piazza a band played whole
acts from operas, bright lights everywhere, all Venice
walking up and down under the arcades and outside.
Perhaps the most marvelous thing of all to me was,
that I was calmly sitting at a little table drinking coffee
like the rest of humanity not walking, just the same
person I always was, though I am not quite sure I
was "all there" on this first wonderful night.
At half-past ten the music was over, and then we
took a gondola and floated about on the Grand Canal.
Sight ! My dear, and sounds ! Never to be forgotten.
Here and there huge boats covered with Japanese
lanterns, in them little companies of musicians, singers
with orchestras, and such singers, with such songs!
Solos, duets and choruses from Italian opera or
Neapolitan boat songs.
One particularly fine company we grew very fond
of, and this night it was out in the middle of the
canal with hundreds of gondolas crowded about it,
with the graceful steel prows arching like the neck of
a swan and glistening in the moonlight, for always
they are beautifully kept.
The gondolas are all black, with black upholstery. i33

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On fair nights all the gondoliers dress in white with
red or blue sashes and broad brimmed hats with
streamers to match the sashes.
The gondolas are about 35 feet long, and slip
through the water like a canoe.
Fancy lying back in one of them rocking gently and
moving slowly along with hundreds of others, close to
the music in the wonderful moonlight.
After a while a man comes from boat to boat with
a cap for contributions, and he can pass easily over the
whole canal just stepping from boat to boat.
Every night we did this, until after midnight, floating
from one little company of musicians to another. And
then the days ! They simply flew. I found Venice
fascinating in the sunshine as well.
In and out of the tiny canals, finding beautiful door
ways, arches, old shrines, all in most beautiful marble,
and found in the roost unexpected places, and when we
come to the art of the city — well, behold a meek and
humble creature eating her own words.
Venetian painters kept so much to themselves and
worked so much in their own city, so it is to Venice
you must come to really learn Venetian art.
First, of course, San Marco, so much there is to see.
I started in bravely with Baedicker, but soon gave that
up and wandered, looking at the things that pleased
me most, never hoping to see it all.
The wonderful mosaics in the old undulating floor,
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the High Altar which is the tomb of St. Mark. Back
of the High Altar is another and smaller' altar where
there are four columns taken from the Temple of
Solomon, two of beautiful alabaster, translucent, and
two of African marble. There are beautiful bronzes
and a Sacristy decorated with frescoes by Titian. The
whole interior is most wonderful and one should spend
days right here.
Every day we wasted a bit of time in the Piazza
feeding the pigeons, all so tame and friendly. One
morning we were at the Palaces of the Doges, saw the
many council chambers, all magnificent with frescoes,
carved benches and marble fireplaces.
In the Council of Three chamber we saw the "Lion's
Mouth," or slot where secret messages were dropped,
and where so many horrible plots were promulgated.
And we went down in the dreadful dungeons — awful !
without light or air, reeking with moisture. Even
now in summer the walls are cold as ice ; saw the secret
passages from the Council of Three, and the place in
the wall where victims of political conspiracy were
pushed through into the lagoons after they had been
murdered ; saw the torture chamber, crossed the Bridge
of Sighs, and heard many a tale of romance or tragedy,
or both in one.
Most of the frescoes are by Tintoretto, whose story
is interesting. I suppose he would be called con
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younger. Titian lived to be 99 years old, and painted
all the time.
Tintoretto's father was a dyer, as the name would
indicate, and was not poor. When the boy was no
more than a baby he used to make wonderful pictures
on the walls with the dye, and at the age of 11 was
taken to study with Titian, who in a very short time
saw a possible rival and had him turned out. This
only seemed to encourage him to go on, although
Titian told him he would never amount to anything.
After this he never had a master, but worked on by
himself after his own idea.
First he decided that for color no one could equal
Titian, and for form no one so great as Michael An
gelo, and with these two for models he went to work,
sending to Florence for miniature models of Michael
Angelo's greatest works, and working months on the
drawing of an arm, doing it hundreds of times. He
was noted for the size of his canvases, the great num
ber of his figures, the rapidity of his work, and finally
for the high finish of all his work.
In the Palace of the Doges is his picture "Joys of
Paradise," which is the largest picture in the world,
containing the greatest number of figures.
In the Madonna del Ordo are his best frescoes, and
one picture, "The Presentation of the Blessed Virgin
in the Temple," is beautiful, and we all agreed it was
much better than Titian's, which is in the Belli Arti in
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Florence, and which Tintoretto tried to outdo when he
painted his.
Now here is where I eat my words and have a
change of heart. Seldom do we all agree on any
thing — seldom any two of us — but here in Florence we
were unanimous in our opinion that Titian was a
much overrated man. Various "Eves," "Venuses,"
the inevitable "Flora," and all the "Magdalens" which
we gaze upon in Florence and hear people rave about,
had decided us against Titian, we supposed for all
time, and we were sure that one John Ruskin was all
kinds of an idiot, and that his "Mornings in Florence"
was the hottest kind of hot Air. Well, we go to Venice
and see Titian's "Assumption" and prostrate ourselves.
To me it is the most beautiful picture I have ever
seen. Everything about it is perfect, satisfying. Then
after seeing the "Presentation" we decide in favor of
Tintoretto against Titian. Think of our feelings when
we find the aforesaid Ruskin, whose sirname was John,
has decided just as we have, and his hot air is our
hot air as well.
One afternoon we spent at Muranos, where the glass
works are, and watched them make the most beautiful
things. So wonderful the way they take a lump of the molten
glass from the furnace on the end of a long iron tube,
through which they blow and with huge iron pincers
form it into the most delicate shapes. 137

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One beautiful vase the man began and finished (all
but the baking) so that we might watch the process.
It was a tall, slender thing of a sort of irridescent
glass, very pale, into which a great deal of gold leaf
was worked, beautiful tall white handles, and for a
pedestal a dolphin with his tail curling up the stem
of the vase.
The artist did it entirely without measurements and
slung the glass about, seemingly in the most careless
manner. It was a marvel.
He came of a long line of glass blowers, they told
us, and the social position of a glass blower of Muranos
has been for centuries of the very best and their names
with their families inscribed in the "Golden Book."
They are not able to work after forty years of age,
for their eyesight is ruined from the terrible glare of
'che furnaces and their health impaired by the fierce
heat. A good idea of these glass blowers and their most
interesting lives you will get if you read Marion Craw
ford's novel, "Marrietta." It is a good description and
a most romantic story, and true to the life as well. All
Crawford's novels of Italy are much liked by the
people because they say, "it is our life he tells."
We stopped a half day on our way back in Bologna.
Another time I'll tell you what we saw.
Now, I fear, you are ready to drop from reading,
as I certainly am from writing this long letter, and
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yet all my description is so inadequate for all we saw
and felt in Venice. What can I do?
However, the words, though poor things, are yet
mine own, and such as I have send I thee. For your
self you may fill this meagre outline with the wealth
of your own imagination, and you cannot go far
wrong. Dip your brush with which you paint your
imaginary picture in the most vivid glowing colors;
put the green water beneath, the bluest of skies above ;
have golden sunlight everywhere, over tower, dome
and marble palaces, then over all spread a thin soft
violet haze and you will have a perfect Venetian
day, as I see it, but could never put in words.

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