sants; professional models waiting to be hired, and arrayed in those fantastic colors the painters of Rome represent so often; and professional cab-drivers and map-sellers dressed in garments which no artist would ever care to paint. Everything is delightfully strange and curiously familiar; and one instinctively feels, as Dickens felt when he first arrived in Rome, that the models are all personal acquaintances whom he has met scores of times before, until he realizes that he has seen their lineaments and their habiliments in every picture of Rome that was ever publicly exhibited in England or America. The models are as much a part of Rome as is St. Peter's or the Colosseum, and they are precisely what one expects them to be. The Pope's Guards, on the other side of the river, are, however, a bitter disappointment when seen in the winter months. The Papal authorities have covered the Fifteenth-Century MichaelAngelesque, red-and-yellow legs of their uniformed defenders with long, blue, modern Amer

ican army sack-overcoats; and they appear now, to the untrained eye, as absurd as would seem the Jack of Clubs in an ulster!

The sad and harrowing story of Keats's last hours in Rome need not be repeated

KEATS'S GRAVE.

here. His friend Joseph Severn has told it all. Early in the month of October, 1820, Severn and Keats arrived together in Rome. Dr. Clark, afterwards Sir James Clark, found apartments for them in the building described above. "This," wrote

Severn, "had the great advantage not only of good situation, but of being opposite to the physician's own house, which, indeed, was a prearrangement, so that Dr. Clark might have his patient near at all hours. We both found accommodations in the same house, and Keats's bedroom was the one which looked over the steps on the side of the house." On the 14th February, 1821, Severn wrote to Mrs. Brawne: "Little or no change has taken place in Keats since the commencement of this, except this beautiful one that his mind is growing to great quietness and peace; I find this change has its rise from the increasing weakness of his body, but it seems like a delightful sleep to me. ... Among the many things that he has requested of me to-night, this is the principal, that on his grave shall be this:

'Here lies one whose name was writ in water.'"

"At times during his last days," said Severn elsewhere, "he made me go to see the place where he was to be buried, and he expressed pleasure at my description of the locality of the Pyramid of Caius Cestius, about the grass and the many flowers, particularly the innumerable violets; also about the flock of goats and sheep and a young shepherd-all these in tensely interested him. Violets were his favorite flowers, and he joyed to hear how they overspread the graves. He assured me that he had already seemed to feel the flowers growing over him.'" "And there they do grow," added Lord Houghton many months afterwards, "even all the winter long-violets and daisies mingling with the fresh herbage, and, in the words of Shelley, making one in love with death to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.'

Sixty-one years after the death of Keats, Severn himself was laid to rest by the. side of the friend he had loved so well and had never forgotten.

Keats lies in the old portion of the Protestant Cemetery, very near the entrance. The monument, bearing a medallion portrait of him, has this inscription:

"This grave contains all that was mortal of a young English poet who, on his death-bed, in the bitterness of his heart at the malicious power of his enemies, desired these words to be engraved upon his tombstone:

Here lies one whose name was writ in water.'"

There are more numbers than there are houses in Rome, and almost as many tablets. Many houses have two numbers, some houses have three, and one particular house in the Via del Tritoni is distinguished by no less than six, tablets being set up in some instances to mark proprietorship of the property, fire-insurance, business connections, divine interposition, and heroic occupancy, all over the same front door. This, naturally, is confusing. Shelley's house in the Piazza di Spagna has two numbers, 25, which shows that it is next door to 24, and 366, in small blue figures, the reason for or the meaning of the latter being unknown to any person in the neighborhood, although they are generally supposed to have something to do with the gas or the water. The building has three tablets showing that policies are placed upon it in as many fire companies, and innumerable commercial signs; but there is nothing to explain that it was once the house of Shelley, as Mr. Forbes declares it to have been. It stands north of the house of Keats, with which it is almost identical in architecture, and on the other side of the famous steps.

Shelley wrote portions of The Cenci and of Prometheus Unbound in the Palazzo Verospi, Nos. 373, 374 Via del Corso. It is a great building in the busiest part of that thoroughfare one of the Great Streets of the World-and a tablet recording Shelley's association with it was placed upon its front in the summer of 1893.

Shelley obtained these lodgings in the Palazzo Verospi in February, 1819, and there, in June, William Shelley, his son, died. The child was laid in the Protestant Cemetery, but exactly where is unknown. The tombstone erected to his memory was placed, in the absence of his parents, over the wrong grave.

Shelley's body was burned where it was found. His ashes were brought to Rome, but his heart, which the fire did not consume, given by Edward John Trelawney to Leigh Hunt, and by him surrendered to Mrs. Shelley, was carried with her to England, and is said to be still preserved, with other sacred relics of the poet and his wife, in Boscombe Manor, Bournemouth.

The tomb of Shelley is in the Protestant Cemetery, in the upper or eastern part of the new ground. It bears the name, the date of his birth and death, and the in

autumn of 1895, by William Wetmore Story, artist in marble as well as in words, who lies with his wife by the side of the ashes of Shelley. He lived for many years in the Barberini Palace, and he was one of the most important and familiar figures in that quarter of the world of art and letters which lies between the Tiber and the Esquiline Hill. The monument to Mrs. Story was the sculptor's last and perhaps his greatest work, certainly the work in which was put the most of his heart. Longfellow's first visit to Rome was in the winter of 1828. In 1869, almost half a century later, he wrote: "Here we are at a new

from The Tempest:

66

Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea change
Into something rich and strange."

A spot that touched me deeply," wrote George Eliot, in 1860, "was Shelley's grave. The English Cemetery in which he lies is the most attractive burial-place I have ever seen. It lies against the Old City walls close to the Porta S. Paolo, and is one of the quietest spots of Old Rome. And there, under the shadow of the old walls on one side, and cypresses on the other, lies the Cor Cordium, forever at rest from the unloving cavillers of this world, whether or not he may have entered on other purifying struggles in some world unseen by us. The grave of Keats lies far off from Shelley's, unshaded by wall or tree. It is painful to look upon, because of the inscription on the stone, which makes him still seem to speak in bitterness from his tomb."

Not far from Shelley's grave, in this Protestant Cemetery, is that of Constance Fenimore Woolson, who died in Venice in January, 1894, and was buried here, at her own request.

She was preceded, in 1893, by John Addington Symonds, whose body was carried here by the hands of loving friends, one warm May morning, from the Hotel Italio, where he passed away in peace.

And she was followed, in the early

villa, on a spur of the Quirinal, back of the Barberini Palace. In the rear the windows look across the Campagna to the Alban Hills. In front we have all Rome, unrolled like a panorama, and crowned by St. Peter's.... I look out of the window this gray rainy day [30th January] and see the streets all mud and the roofs all green mould and the mist lying like a pall over the lower town. And Rome seems to me like King Lear, staggering in the storm and crowned with weeds. But this is altogether too fine writing!" The house which he thus described was the Hotel Costanzo, now a German Jesuit College, extending from No. 5 to No. 10 Via S. Nicola da Tolentino.

"At Rome," said Sir William Gell, "Sir Walter [Scott] found an apartment provided for him in the Casa Bernini.... Soon after his arrival I took him to St. Peter's, which he had resolved to visit that he might see the tomb of the last of the Stuarts." A few days later Scott went to the Villa Muti at Frascati, which once belonged to the Cardinal of York. He was too feeble to see much or to do much in Rome. "I walk with pain," he said, "and what we see whilst suffering makes little impression on us." In his Journal he wrote, on the 16th April, 1832: "We entered Rome by a gate renovated by one of the old Pontiffs, but which I forget, and so paraded the streets by moonlight to discover, if possible, some appear

ance of the learned Sir William Gell or the pretty Mrs. Ashley. At length we found our old servant, who guided us to the lodging taken by Sir William Gell, where all was comfortable, a good fire included, which our fatigue and the chilliness of the night required. We dispersed as soon as we had taken some food, wine, and water.

"We slept reasonably, but on the next morning-" Here the Journal stops abruptly, and forever. Lockhart believed these to have been the last words Scott ever penned. And they were penned in Rome!

A tablet marks the house of Scott, which stands in the narrow little Via di Mercede, not far from the General PostOffice.

James Fenimore Cooper first entered Rome "by the Gate of St. John" in the spring of 1838. His earliest stopping-place was at the Hôtel de Paris, in the Via S. Nicola da Tolentino, but in a short time he occupied lodgings in the Via di Ripetta. He made no notes of Rome which are worthy of record. He saw everything that was to be seen, he enjoyed everything he saw, but he left Rome with little regret.

Hans Christian Andersen made repeated visits to Rome. The first was in 1833, when he saw the second funeral of Raphael, and formed an acquaintance with Thorwaldsen. He was here again in 1841, when

his birthday was celebrated, and when he wrote, in The Story of My Life: "Frau von Goethe, who was in Rome, and who chanced to be living in the very house where I brought my 'Improvisatore into the world, and made him spend his first years of childhood, sent me from thence a large, true Roman bouquet, a fragrant mosaic." In the Improvisatore he said: "Whoever has been in Rome is well acquainted with the Piazza Barberini, in the great square, with the beautiful fountain where the Tritons emp

SHELLEY'S TOMB.

ty the spouting conch-shell, from which the water springs upwards many feet. Whoever has not been there knows it, at all events, from the copperplate engravings; only it is a pity that in these the house at the corner of the Via Felice is not given-that tall corner house, where the water pours through three pipes out of the wall into the stone basin. That house has a peculiar interest for me; for it was there that I [The Improvisatore'] was born."

This house, Nos. 1 and 2 Piazza Barber