You must hear it to
appreciate it. (Some day I hope you will.) Good Friday is the great day
at St. Peter's. The church is so crowded that one can hardly get a
place to stand. There are not chairs enough in any of the churches
during Holy Week for the numerous strangers that pervade Rome. My
servant generally carries a camp-stool and rug, and I sit entranced,
listening in the deepening twilight to the heavenly strains of
Palestrina, Pergolese, and Marcello. Sometimes the soloists sing
Gounod's "Ava Maria" and Rossini's "Stabat Mater," and, fortunately,
drown the squeaky tones of the old organ. A choir of men and boys
accompanies them in "The Inflammatus," where the high notes of M.'s
tearful voice are almost supernatural. People swarm to the Laterano on
Saturday to hear the Vespers, which are especially fine. After the solo
is finished, the priests begin their monotonous Gregorian chants, and
at the end of those they _slap-bang_ their prayer-books on the wooden
benches on which they are sitting, making a noise to wake the dead. I
thought they were furious with one another and were refusing to sing
any more. It seemed very out of place for such an exhibition of temper.
A knowing friend told me that it was an old Jewish custom which had
been repeated for ages on this particular day and at this hour. It
closes the Lenten season.

On Easter Sunday I sang in the American church. Dr. Nevin urged me so
much that I did not like to refuse. I chose Mendelssohn's beautiful
anthem, "Come unto Me."

ROME, _1883_.

Dear ----,--We have moved from the Palazzo Rospigliosi to the Palazzo
Tittoni, in Via Rasella, which leads from the Palazzo Barberini down to
the Fontana di Trevi. I never would have chosen this palace, beautiful
as it is, if I could have foreseen the misery I suffer when I hear the
wicked drivers goading and beating their poor beasts up this steep
hill. The poor things strain every muscle under their incredible
burdens, but are beaten, all the same. I am really happy when I hear
the crow--I mean the bray--of a donkey. It has a jubiliant ring in it,
as if he were somehow enjoying himself, and my heart sympathizes with
him. But it may be only his way of expressing the deepest depths of
woe.

Mrs. Charles Bristed, of New York, a recent convert to the Church of
Rome, receives on Saturday evenings. She has accomplished what hitherto
has been considered impossible--that is, the bringing together of the
"blacks" (the ultr