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THE CONGRESS OF WOMEN.

huge fire-place, the last one left at the Capitol of the olden time. Alas! now unfortunately- destroyed. It occupied one entire side of the room, and was kept blazing with great logs, six feet or more in length. It was supported on each side by marble statues, and so fascinating that no wonder the old soldiers lingered there. It was their camp-fire, and as the glow from the blazing hearth lighted up the clay image, they remembered with emotion the shout that went up from the mountains and rang in the valleys as they responded to his call, “We are coming, Father Abraham.” He had been a father to them all, and they mourned him not only as a great man and wise ruler, but as a friend and father. Cabinet ministers and diplomats, journalists and authors all gath­ered there; such men as Chase and Holt, Blaine and Stockton, Field and Miller, Crosby S. Noyes and Gen. Lew Wallace, Deems and Sunderland, Sheridan and Sherman, Grant and Farragut.

I was generally a silent listener as these men conversed, but what they said made deep impression, for ever on their lips was the name of Lincoln. Many stories touched me deeply, but none like the story of his life. Oh,the pain, the pathos of it all! You are all familiar with this story—I have told you how it came to me.

The model finished, I went to Italy with my parents to transfer it to marble. We remained some time in London, and much enjoyed the sessions of the House of Parlia­ment, where we heard John Bright speak. At Paris we remained three months, and there I had the great privilege of daily instruction in drawing from Leon Bonnat, the eminent French painter. Gustave Dore became my warm friend, and presented me with a painting by his own hand, writing the dedication upon the margin: “ Offert ä Miss Vinnie Ream de la part de son affectionne Collegue G. Dore.” Mr. Washburn was our Minister there and showed us every attention. Pere Hyacinthe became our friend, and we had the pleasure of again meeting General and Mrs. Fremont. Journey­ing on through Switzerland, we enjoyed together its snowy mountain peaks and charm­ing valleys. At Munich we became acquainted with Germany’s great painter, Kaul- bauch, who was even then passing away from the people he had so endeared to him by his genius. We sailed together up the Rhine and around the Lake of Lucerne, by the Lake of Como, we visited the Castle of Challou,and paid our tribute to England’s son of genius. At Venice we floated over the Lagoons together and wandered through the galleries, and by the great Square of St. Mark, to see the pigeons fed. At Florence we lingered long among its priceless gems of art, and then, journeying on to Rome, rented a piano , a floor in an old palace, and went to keeping house. It was in the Vicola Marsomti, and a studio for myself was selected on the Via San Basilio, adjoin­ing the studio of my good friend—the gifted painter—George P. Healey. Oh, those hours in Rome! Those days in Rome—those sunny days on the Campaigna! Those goiden hours when we made pilgrimages to the picturesque and historical towns which make all Italy a gallery. I can hear those laughing waters that come down the steeps, and see the gloomy catacombs, the sunny slopes, the ancient aqueducts and frown­ing ruins—the peasant homes and princely palaces. They were with me—my parents —oh, happy thought, and what pleasant memories dwell amid the scenes of our wanderings! They are fresh in my memory—the Falls of Trivoli, the blue waters of the Bay of Naples, the ruins of Pompeii, and the crater of Vesuvius. I can never for­get those charmed days with their precious associations.

Through Bishop Domenec, the Bishop of Pittsburg, we presented our letters to Cardinal Antonelli. We were granted an audience with the Pope, and his blessing; and when Cardinal Antonelli found that I was making the statue of Abraham Lincoln for my government, he became my warm and devoted friend, corresponding with me constantly after I returned to this country until his death. He sat to me in my studio for his likeness, and when I left Rome presented me with three large and handsome stone cameos—one the head of Christ, and the others heads of the Virgin Mary—all three exquisitely-cut, rare and valuable works of art set in etruscan gold; all made in the workshop of the Vatican. Healey painted a picture of myself in peasant costume, which he presented to my mother, and many were the lovely and valuable souvenirs