Rome. February 11, 1896. To lunch with Mme. Labatt to meet Hall Caine again. He is a _rosso_, with no body, only a big head and consuming brown eyes. He is arranging “The Christian” for the stage and gave us the whole play from beginning to end in the rough, telling the great situations and giving fragments of the chief speeches. Caine talked to us from half-past twelve till four o’clock. He thinks the Roman campagna disgusting, says there isn’t a decent drive near Rome, also says the “Old Masters” are fakes. I said to him, “Mr. Hall Caine, you have never learned to see. Stay in Italy till you have learned to use your eyes!” We had quite a fine row. We are to go for a drive and I am to try and teach him to _see_. It will be of no use, however! To-day Mama and I went out to a tea where we met Mr. Butler, the author of Flora McFlimsey--“Nothing to Wear.” He is coming to see us to-morrow; he and Mama had endless literary reminiscences together.--We are very angry about the _Maine_ tragedy. From the first moment I have been sure of foul play. I know too much of our naval men to believe in the possibility of such a hideous gigantic blunder--no, there’s malice in it. March 26, 1898. We are living so much in ancient Rome that I can more easily tell you about Caligula and Caracalla, or even Numa Pompilius, than about modern politics and Crispi, upon whom the Chamber has passed a vote of censure. This is very sad, as no one believes that he was guilty of anything but that political dishonesty, which at home goes under the name of “campaign expenses”, but it was a cruel thing, though an act for which one must respect the Italian Government. The death of Cavalotti was a great misfortune for the liberal party. He was a remarkable man, the strongest and most honest of the radical deputies in the Chamber. He was a perfect firebrand, had fought thirty-eight duels and was killed in his thirty-ninth by a man with whom he had some political quarrel. The only good likely to come out of it is a generally increasing dislike of duels. Mama is so well that I don’t worry about her at all and hardly consider her more than I do myself. For the past hundred years the English doctors have been sending old people who wished to prolong their lives to Rome. This has to do with the effect of the climate on the action of the heart. * * * * *