The supper-room was a sight to behold--the enormous table fairly creaking under the weight of every variety of food filled half the room, leaving very little space for the guests. The sopranos got in first, ahead even of the amiable hostess, who stopped the whole procession, trying to go abreast through the door with a portly cardinal and a white diplomat, leaving us, the hungry black and white sheep, still wrestling with the chairs. You must have heard of Hamilton Aidé, the author of _The Poet and the Prince_ and other works. He comes frequently to see us, and always brings either a new book or a new song--for he is not only a distinguished author, but a composer as well. He sings willingly when asked. He is very fond of one of his songs, called "The Danube River." If he had not brought the music and I had not seen the title as I laid it on the piano, I should never have known that it was anything so lively as a river he was singing about. Though I could occasionally hear the word "river," I hoped that as the river and singer went on they would have a little more "go" in them; but they continued babbling along regardless of obstacles and time. I was extremely mortified to see that several of my guests had dozed off. The river and the singer had had a too-lullaby effect on them. ROME, _1883_. Dear ----,--Next to the Palazzo Tittoni lives a delightful family--the Count and Countess Gigliucci, with a son and two daughters. The Countess is the celebrated Clara Novello of oratorio fame. The three ladies are perfectly charming. I love to go to see them, and often drop in about tea-hour, when I get an excellent cup of English tea and delicious muffins, and enjoy them in this cozy family circle. Though they live In a palace and have a showy _portier_, they do not disdain to do their shopping out of the window by means of a basket, which the servant-girl lets down on a string for the daily marketing. Even cards and letters are received in this way, as the porter refuses to carry anything up to their third story. "_Sortita!_" screamed down in a shrill voice is the answer to the visitor waiting below in the courtyard. When the three ladies are sitting at the tea-table dispensing tea, one of them will suddenly commence the trio from "Elijah"--"Lift thine eyes"--the other two joining in (singing without an accompaniment, of course) in the most delicious manner. Their voices are so alike in _timbre_ and quality that it is almost impossible to distinguish one from the other. After the trio they go on pouring out tea as if nothing had happened, whereas for me it is an event. It is such perfection! Countess Gigliucci comes sometimes and sings with me. Her voice is still beautiful and clear as a bell. What must it have been in its prime? In her letters to me she calls me "my delicious blackbird." ROME, _March, 1883_.