lately constructed
across the end of Bellevue Avenue. A new expedient has been hit upon by
some of the would-be exclusive owners of the cliffs; they have lowered
the "walk" out of sight, thus insuring their own privacy and in no way
interfering with the rights of the public.

Among the gentlemen who settled in Newport about Governor Lawrence's time
was Lord Baltimore (Mr. Calvert, he preferred to call himself), who
remained there until his death. He was shy of referring to his English
peerage, but would willingly talk of his descent through his mother from
Peter Paul Rubens, from whom had come down to him a chateau in Holland
and several splendid paintings. The latter hung in the parlor of the
modest little dwelling, where I was taken to see them and their owner
many years ago. My introducer on this occasion was herself a lady of no
ordinary birth, being the daughter of Stuart, our greatest portrait
painter. I have passed many quiet hours in the quaint studio (the same
her father had used), hearing her prattle--as she loved to do if she
found a sympathetic listener--of her father, of Washington and his
pompous ways, and the many celebrities who had in turn posed before
Stuart's easel. She had been her father's companion and aid, present at
the sittings, preparing his brushes and colors, and painting in
backgrounds and accessories; and would willingly show his palette and
explain his methods and theories of color, his predilection for
scrumbling shadows thinly in black and then painting boldly in with body
color. Her lessons had not profited much to the gentle, kindly old lady,
for the productions of her own brush were far from resembling her great
parent's work. She, however, painted cheerfully on to life's close,
surrounded by her many friends, foremost among whom was Charlotte
Cushman, who also passed the last years of her life in Newport. Miss
Stuart was over eighty when I last saw her, still full of spirit and
vigor, beginning the portrait of a famous beauty of that day, since the
wife and mother of dukes.

Miss Stuart's death seems to close one of the chapters in the history of
this city, and to break the last connecting link with its past. The
world moves so quickly that the simple days and modest amusements of our
fathers and grandfathers have already receded into misty remoteness. We
look at their portraits and wonder vaguely at their graceless costumes.
We know they trod these same streets, and lau