There are two other large and beautiful gardens in Rome which are not open to the public. These are the Quirinal Palace garden, and the one belonging to the Vatican. When the new King came to the throne, he selected for his residence, his "Home," as he said he wished it to be called,—the "Palazzina," a part of the large Quirinal Palace which has not been used for many years. This was newly decorated in the best English style, after designs selected by their Majesties, and from the private rooms of the Queen, a terrace was built, overlooking the garden. On the terrace were placed hundreds of flowering plants, making it almost a continuation of the rose-covered arbors below. Here the King and Queen and little Princesses, Yolande Margherita and Mafalda, walk among the blossoms; but the inquisitive eyes of the people may not penetrate here, and only from hearsay does one know of the beauties of this

garden, hidden behind high, gray walls.

The Vatican Garden may, however, be visited occasionally, if a special permit is obtained, and I had the pleasure of going into it not very long ago. It is peculiarly lovely because here nature has been allowed to wander at will, and the woods are wild and untrimmed, at relief to the eye after the conventional gardens of the city. The birds sing sweetly in the depths of the woods and tiny streamlets trickle softly over the beds of moss. Until entering this quiet, peaceful spot one would not imagine that Rome, with its bustling, restless population, contained such a haven. of rest. It is many years since the Popes laid out this park, and built a small villa in the midst of the

trees, to which they could retire when weary of the round of state life. Since Pope Pius IX. laid down the reins of temporary power, this villa has been used for the summer home of the pontiff. It is a small building, containing not more than a dozen rooms in all, but connecting with a tower in which there is a large reception room. Here the Pope receives his ministers and transacts business. When the heat of summer comes on, he withdraws to this villa and, in the midst of the trees and birds of the park, spends two months or more, as it pleases him.

The park which is best known to all visitors to Rome is the "Pincio," carefully laid out on an elevation overlooking the city. So ingeniously has it been planned that one does not realize the very limited space which it covers. The most effective approach is from the Piazza del Popolo. The road winds back and forth, upward between the cacti and palms until it turns into the Pincio, and then continues a circuitous, serpentine route around the summit of the hill.

Not the least interesting part of this well-known park is its history. Here, centuries ago, Lucullus had his famous Gardens, full of the greatest luxury. Near here was his Villa where he entertained emperors and the high and noble of those days at feasts so elaborate that their cost can scarcely be estimated. In these gardens were held orgies unmentionable, so we are told by the historians, and amid the flowers and palms of his gardens, who knows what plots have been laid, what schemes formed for the pulling down of the mighty from their seats of power, and placing there some favorite of the people?

place. Lucullus is gone, Messalina is gone, and the long line of emperors has passed away, with the record of bloodshed and horror. Christ has come to earth, and has brought love and light and peace. So we wander along the flower-bordered paths, listening to the flow of liquid Italian falling from the lips of the hundreds of persons who are almost always to be found here, and seeing what the Italian pleasure gardens really consist in. They are made for the purpose of passing away one's time as agreeably as

ous carriage; the group of American ladies, with the red-covered Baedeker well in evidence; the family of the English clergyman, father and mother and four rosyfaced daughters; all are here. And between them and all around are the handsome Italians, wth smiling faces, long moustaches, and delicate hands making graceful gestures to save superfluous words.

The musicians strike the first notes and the Municipal Band plays loudly, while the carriages draw up on the other side of the benches

where the ordinary people sit, and all listen quietly to the overture. Occasionally a gentleman leaps from his carriage and, going to the side of a couple of elegantly dressed ladies, holds an animated conversation with them. Indeed, this is the afternoon reception for the Romans. Everybody in society is here, and there are many exchanges of compliments and many solicitous inquiries about the health of each individual member of the various families.

The music ceases, and the coachmen drive their horses forward, around the circle of Pincian Hill. The Water Clock tells the time of day above the heads of a flourishing brood of little ducks, and two graceful white swans glide in a dignified manner across the tiny pond. The German priests, robed in scarlet, move about under the trees,

adding another touch of color to the gorgeous scene. Hark! the band begins again! This time it is the "Victor Emmanuel March." A high cart comes around the curve, and in a flash the King, driving with the sweet-faced Queen seated by his side, whirls by, received with respectful salutations from all the crowd.

The last piece is being played and the carriages go swiftly down toward the Corso. The sun is getting low, and St. Peter's dome is resplendent in silver gleams of light. Monte Mario lies like a mass of emerald on the right. The birds are singing in the Villa Borghese, below the steep wall of the Pincio. One by one the people go away, and twilight falls over Rome, that pleasure-satiated, beautiful city, lying as a gem, encircled by a border of amethystine mountains.