ull of animation. The sabres of the cavalry
soldiers, on guard to prevent infraction of rules, gleam brightly; the
old infantry soldiers are darting here and there, chasing away sundry
ownerless dogs, who always make it a point to promenade the Pincio; the
Italian nurses from Albano, or at least dressed in Albanese costume,
shine conspicuous in their crimson-bodiced dresses; Englishmen going
through their constitutional; Frenchmen mourning for the Champs Elysees;
artists in broad-brim hats smoking cigars; Americans observing Italy, so
as to be like Italians; ladies of all nations commanding the attention
of mankind as they sweep along the hard-rolled gravel-walks; smiles,
bows, looks of love, indignation, affection, coquetry; faces reflective
of great deeds and greater dinners ... every face bright in the lambent
amber light that streams from the sun dipping his head preparatory to
putting on his night-cap, and bidding Rome _felicissima notte!_ a most
happy night.

Over the irregular walls of the subdued white and mellow gray houses and
palaces, beyond the Tiber running red in the dying sunlight, over the
round-walled castle of San Angelo, the dome of Saint Peter's rises full
in the midst of the twinkling, hazy, red and golden light. Passing the
stone-pines crowning Monte Mario, there gleam away to the left the far
waters of the sea, over which the purple mist of young night tenderly,
softly falls. Once thoughtfully noted, you will remember this glowing
scene years after sublimer and wilder views are lost to memory or grown
so faint that they are to you but as dull colors seen in dreams of old
age compared to the flashing brightness of those presented to the closed
eyes of youth.

As the sun sets and those in carriages and on foot slowly leave the
hights of the Pincio, and descend once more to the old city, you will
hear, as the evening star shines brighter and brighter, the first
liquid, thrilling notes of the nightingales; then as you lean over the
stone parapet, dreamily looking into the dense foliage of trees and
shrubs beneath you, you will feel the beauty of those lines:

Seek the nightingale's sequestered tower,
Who with her love-lorn melody
So bewitched thee in the vernal hour:
When she ceased to love, she ceased to be.

It is from the months of May to November, when travelers have left Rome,
and the city is in the hands of the Romans, that your walks on the
Pincio will prove something more than a m