land, and even half gave me to
understand that she was only sorry it was not Africa. I was thus driven
to a last resource. I sent for our old friend, Doctor Bartlet, and told
him frankly that he must order me abroad to a dry warm climate, where
there were few changes of temperature, and nothing depressing in the
air. He did the thing to perfection; he called in Forbes to consult with
him. The case was very serious, he said. The lung was not yet attacked,
but the bronchial tubes were affected. Oh, how grateful I felt to
my dear bronchial tubes, for they have sent me to Italy! Yes, Dolly
dearest, I am off on Wednesday, and hope within a week after this
reaches you to be at your side, pouring out all my sorrows, and asking
for that consolation you never yet refused me. And now, to be eminently
practical, can you obtain for me that beautiful little villa that
overlooked the Borghese Gardens?--it was called the Villino Altieri. The
old Prince Giuseppe Altieri, who used to be an adorer of mine, if he
be alive may like to resume his ancient passion, and accept me for a
tenant; all the more that I can afford to be liberal. Col. B. behaves
well always where money enters. I shall want servants, as I only mean
to take from this, Rose and my groom. You know the sort of creatures
I like; but, for my sake, be particular about the cook,--I can't eat
"Romanesque,"--and if there be a stray Frenchman wandering about, secure
him. Do you remember dear old Paoletti, Dolly, who used to serve
up those delicious little macaroni suppers long ago in our own
room?--cheating us into gourmandism by the trick of deceit! Oh, what
would I give to be as young again I To be soaring up to heaven, as
I listened with closed eyes to the chant in the Sistine Chapel, or
ascending to another elysium of delight, as I gazed at the "noble guard"
of the Pope, who, while his black charger was caracoling, and he was
holding on by the mane, yet managed to dart towards me such a look of
love and devotion I and you remember, Dolly, we lived "secondo piano,"
at the time, and it was plucky of the man, considering how badly he
rode. I yearn to go back there. I yearn for those sunsets from the
Pincian, and those long rambling rides over the Campagna, leading to
nothing but an everlasting dreaminess, and an intense desire that one
could go on day after day in the same delicious life of unreality; for
it is so, Dolly. Your Roman existence is as much a trance as anything
ever