The “gayer” part of our little world at the baths used, as I have said, more especially to congregate at the “Ponte,” and the more “proper” portion at the “Villa,” for, as I have also said, the English Church service was performed there, in a hired room, as I remember, when I first went there.  But a church was already in process of being built, mainly by the exertions of a lady, who assuredly cannot be forgotten by any one who ever knew the Baths in those days, or for many years afterwards—­Mrs. Stisted.  Unlike the rest of the world she lived neither at the “Ponte,” nor at the “Villa,” nor at the “Bagni Caldi,” but at “The Cottage,” a little habitation on the bank of the stream about half-way between the “Ponte” and the “Villa.”  Also unlike all the rest of the world she lived there permanently, for the place was her own, or rather the property of her husband, Colonel Stisted.  He was a long, lean, grey, faded, exceedingly mild, and perfectly gentlemanlike old man; but she was one of the queerest people my roving life has ever made me acquainted with.

She was the Queen of the Baths.  On one occasion at the ducal villa, his Highness, who spoke English perfectly, said as she entered the room, “Here comes the Queen of the Baths!” “He calls me his Queen,” said she, turning to the surrounding circle with a magnificent wave of the hand and delightedly complacent smile.  It was not exactly that that the Duke had said, but he was immensely amused, as were we all, for some days afterwards.

She was a stout old lady, with large rubicund face and big blue eyes, surrounded by very abundant grey curls.  She used to play, or profess to play, the harp, and adopted, as she explained, a costume for the purpose.  This consisted of a loose, flowing garment, much like a muslin surplice, which fell back and allowed the arm to be seen when raised for performance on her favourite instrument.  The arm probably was, or had once been, a handsome one.  The large grey head, and the large blue eyes, and the drooping curls, were also raised simultaneously, and the player looked singularly like the picture of King David similarly employed, which I have seen as a frontispiece in an old-fashioned prayer-book.  But the specialty of the performance was that, as all present always said, no sound whatever was heard to issue from the instrument!  “Attitude is everything,” as we have heard in connection with other matters; but with dear old Mrs. Stisted at her harp it was absolutely and literally so to the exclusion of all else!

She and the good old colonel—­he was a truly good and benevolent man, and, indeed, I believe she was a good and charitable woman, despite her manifold absurdities and eccentricities—­used to drive out in the evening among her subjects—­her subjects, for neither I nor anybody else ever heard him called King of the Baths!—­in an old-fashioned, very shabby and very high-hung phaeton, sometimes with her niece Charlotte—­an excellent creature and universal favourite—­by her side, and the colonel on the seat behind, ready to offer the hospitality of the place by his side to any mortal so favoured by the queen as to have received such an invitation.