This morning I determined that I would spend a half-hour in the Church of S. Onofrio and refresh my recollections of the frescoes of Baldassare Peruzzi and of Pinturicchio, and pay a tribute to the memory of the greatest poet of the late Renaissance, Torquato Tasso. On the side of the steps that lead down to the shoulder of the hill surmounting St. Peter's is an oak-tree, long since dead, but securely banded and spliced and propped by indestructible metal. Here, it is said, Tasso sat and contemplated, too forlorn and ill further to poetize, during those months of 1594 while he was awaiting his call to the capitol to be crowned poet laureate. When the illness to which he succumbed increased to such extent as to incapacitate him he repaired to S. Onofrio "to begin my conversation in heaven in this elevated place, and in the society of these holy fathers." It is strange enough that Tasso is a very real and living force in Italy to-day. Not only are many of his poems, and selections from them, read in the schools, but "Jerusalem Delivered" on the screen has recently had a remarkable success in Rome and in other cities of Italy. The Convent of S. Onofrio is now scarcely more than a reminder of what it was in its golden days. Long before the Italian Government had abolished the right of monasteries to hold property, and therefore delivered the death-blow to the parasitical grasp which they had upon this country, the Ospedale Bambini Gesu had taken possession of a large part of it and converted it into a work of mercy and of salvation which finds, I fancy, more favor in the eyes of people to-day than does conventual life. The church, rather impressive from without and particularly when approached from below, is small and dainty and has distinctly a spiritual atmosphere. It is what the Italians call _molto carina_. When I entered the church there was one solitary female prostrate before an image. I fancied that she had had a troubled night and had repaired to this sacrosanct environment early in the morning to purge herself of her sins and to ask forgiveness. For a long time she remained in an attitude of profound contrition, and I was curious to see if, on arising, she displayed in feature or in form any evidences or manifestations of indulgence in those transgressions which we are taught are so offensive to the Lord. My vigil was rewarded by the sight of age, deprivation, and poverty. Had pulchritude or passion ever been a part of her, all sign of them had passed; had sins of commission ever brought to her riches or the semblance of riches, she had long since forfeited them; had her transgressions been translated into fugitive pleasures, no signs of them remained. Like Tasso, she had repaired there to begin the conversation she hoped to continue in heaven. It is much more likely, however, that she had gone to church without definite antecedent thought or determination. It seems to be as much an act of nature for women in