The "_cid-evant_" Marquis told us that the Cid had given the sword to one of his ancestors, and remarked that it signified that his forefathers had very decided characters, and that it was either yes or no with them. I thought it might work the other way; it might just as well mean that the ancestors did not know their own minds, and that first it was _yes_ and then it was _no_ with them. The Duke, in a truly grandiose manner, lays no restriction on the public, but throws his whole palace open every first and fifteenth of the month, and allows people to roam at their pleasure through all the rooms; they can even sit on the blue brocade furniture if they like, and there is no officious guide ordering people about with their, "This way, Madame," or "Don't sit down," "Don't walk on the carpet," or "Don't spit on the floor." On the ground floor are the celebrated frescoes of "Psyche," painted by Raphael, and in the large gallery there is a little design on the walls to which the Duke called our attention, saying it was Michelangelo's visiting-card, and told us that Michelangelo came one day, and, finding Raphael absent, took up his palette and painted this little picture, which still remains on the walls, framed and with a glass over it. Mrs. Lawrence told us of a new acquaintance she had made, a Baron Montenaro, who said he was the last (the very last) of the Rienzis, a descendant of Cola di. The last tribune left! "Is it not romantic?" cried Mrs. Lawrence, and was all eyes and ears. But prosaic Duke di Ripalda said, "How can he say he is the last of the Rienzis, when he has a married brother who has prospects of a small tribune of his own?" ROME, _April, 1875._ Mrs. Polk (widow of the former President Polk) and her two daughters are very much liked here. I call Miss Polk _la maîtresse demoiselle_, because she rules every one with a high and masterful hand. They had some wonderful tableaux recently at their palace (Salviati), which were most beautiful and artistically arranged by different artists. They had turned a long gallery which had once served as a ballroom into the theater. I was asked to sing in a tableau representing a Bohemian hall, where, as a background, Bohemian peasants in brilliant costumes sat and stood about. I was also dressed in a Bohemian dress, and leaned against a pillar and held a tambourine in my hand. Tosti played the accompaniment of "Ma Mère était Bohémienne," which was most appropriate to the occasion. The Princess Margherita sat in the front row, and a more sympathetic and lovelier face could never have inspired a singer. She insisted upon my repeating my song, which rather bored the other performers, as they had to stand quiet while the song was going on. Tosti made the accompaniment wonderfully well, considering that I had only played it once for him.