One of the rooms behind the _salon_ (so large that it is divided into four) has the most beautiful frescoed ceiling. It is a pity that it is so dark there that one cannot see it properly. Perhaps originally it was a chapel and the frescoes were easier seen when the altar-candles were burning. But can one imagine a Borgia needing a chapel or a Borgia ever praying? Just around the corner from us is the _campo di fiori_ (field of flowers), where one might expect to buy flowers, but it is the one thing you do not find there. Everything else, from church ornaments to umbrellas, from silver candlesticks to old clothes, you can buy for a song not so musical as Mendelssohn's "without words"; on the contrary, the buying of the most insignificant object is accompanied by a volume of words screamed after the non-buyer in true Jewish style. Then around another corner you come across the Torso, made famous by that witty tailor called Pasquino, where he placarded his satirical witticisms; his post-office for anonymous letters! We have just come home from the Pantheon. There is held every year for the anniversary of King Victor Emmanuel's death a memorial service _pour le repos de son âme_. If it had been my soul it would never have reposed; it would have jumped up and clapped its wings to applaud the music, which, though always beautiful, to-day was divine. I even forgot to freeze during the long two hours we stayed in the icy-cold building, open to wind and weather above and full of piercing draughts below. The marble pavement, which has collected damp and mold since 27 B.C., has long since become so wavy and uneven that you walk very unsteadily over it; the costly marbles of which the pavement is made in fine mosaic-work have sunken away from their contours centuries ago, so that now you only realize how beautiful it must have been in its prime. The high and imposing catafalque, erected for this occasion, which filled the whole center of the large _basilique_, reaching almost to the dome, was surrounded by enormous candelabra containing wax candles as big as birch-trees. The ministers of state and the diplomats had a _loge_ reserved for them next to the orchestra, and, although there were carpets and rugs under our feet, the humidity and cold penetrated to the marrow of our stateful and diplomatic bones. There were tiers of seats for people who were fortunate enough to procure tickets. Gayarré, the wonderful Spanish tenor, sang several solos, each one more exquisite than the other. I have never heard a more beautiful voice, and certainly have never heard a more perfect artist. The way he phrases and manages his voice is a lesson in itself. Tamagno, the famous Italian tenor, sings wonderfully also, but very differently. He gives out all the voice he has, and you are overcome with the strength and power and the compass of his unique voice. He is the _tenor robusto par excellence_ of the world.