_April 20._--The parties and the receptions and the balls go on this winter, just as if all Rome had nothing to do but have a good time. The Journalists’ ball the other night was most striking for its elegance, its diamonds, gowns, and its beautiful bejeweled women. The German artists’ masquerade ball was also beautiful. We went to both the same night. The Roman theater is good, and spectacular opera is given this winter with great effect. “Excelsior” is the most gorgeously gotten up spectacle of dance and scenery I ever beheld. Its ballet possibly has never been approached. A funny story is told here of Joaquin Miller. One afternoon he attended a reception at Miss B.’s. Two old maids, Italians, asked to be seated next the lion of the Sierras. They listened in utter astonishment, but with perfect gullibility, while he wickedly regaled them with immense stories of how he had galloped over the plains of his native country on the backs of wild buffaloes, how he had fought prairie fires, slain Indians and rescued maidens from captivity. The women were amazed, and with grateful hearts thanked their hostess for introducing them to so great a hero. The party over, all are gone, and Miss B. looks about the house. To her astonishment, the wild-eyed poet is there yet, standing alone by the dining-room table. She gently draws the portiere aside to look. He holds a glass of wine in his hand, and, as he balances it, and looks upon its color, he smiles and exclaims to himself, but in tones heard behind the curtain, “Holy Moses, how I did lie to those women. * * * * * _April 22._--Went to a party at Shakespeare Wood’s the other night. He is correspondent of the London _Times_, and is an important man among foreigners in Rome. They say his salary is as good as a Minister’s. I fear that is a mistake. Saw many noted people at his house--Lord Houghton, the poet and critic, the Trollopes and others. Heard much talk against Gladstone. One English gentleman said, with apparent approval of a little group of English listeners, “The man ought to be shot for the good of England.” It seemed inexplicable, impossible--so much hatred of the world’s best Christian statesman. Lord Houghton is a good, gray, old man, full of vivacity and with opinions of his own. He has renown in Italy, for he has been a great friend in the country’s struggle for liberty, and his life of literature has had great reward. Shakespeare Wood knows more about Rome and Italy than half the Italians themselves, and is besides an artist and an antiquarian. Last evening I was invited to dine at the home of the celebrated Professor Moleschott. He is a distinguished author and a Roman Senator, though a born German. My invitation came as a result of a letter to him from my friend Johannes Scherr, the German author. Moleschott had once lived in Zurich.