Italy was seeing the burden of poverty removed from Her children, was seeing Her youth enabled to cultivate talents, was seeing the honest labour of Her manhood and womanhood rewarded, was seeing refuge and provision prepared for old age. Rome set herself nobly to work at housing the treasures of art which Hadrian had given. Immense and splendid palaces were planned for them and began to rise on the Esquiline and Celian Hills; and the gracious forms of the old gods were to stand beneath arcades of marble, white and pure as lilies without, mosaic of bright gold within, amid the groves upon Janiculum. Honest men came by their own. There were no unemployed. Consequently, no hearts were soured while hands were used; and anarchy began to fade away into the obscurity of bad old rubbish rejected. The _Epistle to the Italians_ too! They were in the mood to listen to anything and everything from that dear little piece of omniscient omnipotent omnipresent aloofness whom they called "Papa Inglese." To the strong and simple Italian temper, His words carried conviction by reason of their own essential simplicity and strength. "He speaks like one's own conscience!" said Caio and Tizio and also Sempronio. "Hearken and obey Him, then," invected Maria and Elena and also Margherita. CHAPTER XVII Italy was not first in the heart of Hadrian. She was third. He served Her, because He saw Her instant need. The second of His loved lands did not know Herself to be in need of Him: hence, He offered Her no more than courtesy. He did not want America to tell Him not to monkey with the buzz-saw. And England was first. And what could He do for England? The thought, that He might do something, alone sustained Him now. Life among the millions of articulately-speaking men had become an ever-present horror to Him. He frequently wondered what prevented Him from hurling Himself from the windows on to the stones of Rome. He actually sent for a case of safety-razors, and banished knives from the pontifical apartments. "O for the wings, for the wings of a dove: then far away, far away, would I fly." There was a boy named Roebuck who sang that, in New College Chapel in Commemoration week five and twenty years before. The golden voice, the incomparable young voice came back to Him in Golden Rome where He was longing to be at rest. A scarlet arm held back the blue-linen curtain of the door, and Cardinal Leighton entered. "I think we missed this, Holy Father," he said, and offered a more-than-a-month-old copy of the _Catholic Hour_. Hadrian in a moment dragged Himself erect physically and psychically: He took the paper and read: "We have received a long letter from 'D.J.' taking us to task for exposing George Arthur Rose in a way which he calls 'savagely cruel.' He says,