The twentieth century dawned for us in Rome, where we were now in our sixth year of residence. The opening of the new cycle was marked by the magnificent pageants of the Pope’s jubilee. The pilgrimages that season exceeded all others in splendor. Pilgrims from all Christian lands, of every class from prince to peasant, poured into the Eternal City, past our windows to St. Peter’s and the Vatican. Looking back, this time seems one long carnival, when the streets were crowded by picturesque figures from every corner of the earth, clad in strange and striking costumes. The Russian Catholics wore rich Cossack dress; one huge fellow had a belt studded with turquoises a queen might have envied. The Easter church services were gorgeous and attracted crowds of tourists from England and America; the Anglo-American colony were hard put to it to meet the demands for hospitality that each day brought. For the English this was a grave time, as the tragedy of the Boer War cast its shadow wherever they assembled. I remember the excitement at a large dinner when the news of a Boer victory was whispered. I sat between two young diplomats representing a country much out of sympathy with Great Britain. I shall never forget the malicious expression of one of these attachés as he exclaimed: “_Elle est fini!_” or his surprise at my sharp rejoinder: “England finished? That’s something you will never live to see, young man!” Among other distinguished visitors was the old Duke of Cambridge (cousin of Queen Victoria) who served in 1854 at Alma and Inkerman and for fifty years was Commander-in-chief of the British army. He was born in 1819, the year of my mother’s birth, and showed the same uncommon vitality at his advanced age that I have noticed in others of the exceptionally large number of famous people born that year. I had a tender spot in my heart for the Duke on account of his romantic marriage to the woman he loved in defiance of the commands of the Queen. With his sons, Colonel and Admiral Fitz-George, the old soldier came to pass some weeks at the Grand Hotel. It was the duty of the military attaché of the British Embassy to plan the Roman days of these exalted personages. As the Duke was not interested in antiquities, the attaché was sometimes hard pressed to fill up the time. Some one suggested that he bring the Duke to my husband’s studio, to see the Boston Public Library ceiling, now nearing completion. I was not present at the visit but well remember J.’s description of it. The visitors were interested in the portraits J. had lately made of three heroes of the Boer War, Lord Ava, the handsome young son of Lord Dufferin, the Marquis of Winchester and General Wauchope. These portraits were J.’s contribution to Lady Lansdowne’s fund for the families of officers killed in the Boer War. He asked the Duke if he would pose for his portrait for the same charity.