A Roman Holiday Twenty Years Ago

AMAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE, ART, AND POLITICS.

VOL. XLIII—MARCH, 1879.—No. CCLVII.

II.

THE next day (Tuesday) we were all up at an early hour, ready to set off, but as the weather was still lowering we waited till nine o’clock, and then, there being a promise of good weather, we ordered our carriages. But now came a new difficulty. The rains had so swollen the stream that it was unfordable. We could not go to Atina. Nothing was left but to go to San Germano, where there was a good road with a bridge. The vetturino was again called up, and after a long discussion we canceled our former contract, and agreed to pay him four and a half piasters to take us in a single covered carriage to San Germano; for we were now determined, rain or shine, to get away from Sora, having come to the conclusion that it always rained there.

No sooner were we off than the rain held up, and after a few miles the sun began to struggle through the clouds. Looking back, we saw, however, that it still rained at Sora, a great gray cloud having, as it were, fastened itself to the overhanging cliff, with the intention to rain itself out there to its heart’s content. The valley through which our road lay was exquisite, and the mountains behind us towered grandly into the air. After skirting along the Liris for three miles we approached Isola, where there are extensive manufactories of paper, cotton, and woolen. The influence of this industry was at once visible. Everything had a thrifty, spruce, neat look. Scattered about were nice, pretentious little case di Campagna, and houses for the operatives, and gardens; and on the summit of a hill, where once would have been a feudal castle, rose the Carteria del Fibreno, a large paper manufactory owned by Monsieur Lefebvre. The country all around is very charming; its broad slopes are covered with vineyards; grand mountains hem in the valley, and at their cloven base the Liris, sweeping down the shelving rocks, flings itself in foam over a precipitous cliff. The river was now greatly swollen by the rains, and its turbid yellow rapids roared and flung up their spray, as they plunged along between masses of green overhanging foliage, and tumbled into the gorge below.

About a mile beyond may be seen the old monastery and church of St. Dominico Abate, which are curious to the artist for their combination of various orders of architecture, reverend to Catholics as being the scene of the saint’s death, and interesting to scholars particularly as occupying the site of Cicero’s Arpinum Villa. Into the walls of the monastery and church are built many fragments of bassi-relievi triglyphs and Doric ornaments which once belonged to the villa, as well as several columns of granite and marble which were used in building the church. These are all that now remain of that beautiful villa where Cicero composed his orations for Plaucus and Scaurus, and held his dialogues with Atticus. There is nowhere in this country a vestige of the great Roman orator which does not show his perfect and fastidious taste, but nothing more plainly proves that he inherited it than the fact that his ancestors (for so he himself tells us) selected this place as the site of their villa. He might fairly call the little islands that the two rivers here embrace the μaκáρων νσοɭ the islands of the blessed.

Copyright, 1879, by HOUGHTON, OSGOOD & Co.

In the second conversation De Legibus he says that whenever he can absent himself from Rome for a few days he delights to come to this villa, because of its amenity and healthiness. There is, however, he adds, another reason which brings to him a pleasure which it cannot bring to Atticus; and when Atticus asks “ what that may be,” he replies: “ Because, to speak the truth, this is the native country of myself and my brother. Here we were born from a very ancient line of ancestors. Here are our sacred relics, here our family, here, the traces of our forefathers. This villa by the care of our father was enlarged and put into its present condition, and here, when he was infirm in health, his age was passed in study. In this very place, while my grandfather still lived and the villa was small and in its original state, like the Villa Curiana in the Sabine hills, I was born. There is some secret influence, I know not what, affecting my very soul and sense which gives this spot a special charm to me, so that f am like that wisest of men who is reported to have said that he would forego immortality so that, he again could behold Ithaca.”

To this Atticus says: “ These, in my judgment, are very good reasons why you should like this place and find pleasure in coming here; and I myself, to speak the truth, also find the villa more delightful for this very reason, that you were here born and brought up. For we are moved, I know not how, by places themselves, in which are the imprints of those whom we love and admire. Thus our Athens itself affects me with delight, not so much on account of its magnificent works and the exquisite art of the ancients, as because the reminiscences of its great men are associated with the places in which they used to live, and to sit, and to discourse. Nay, even their tombs I contemplate with deep interest. And so, in like manner, I love this place the more because it is your birthplace.”

And Cicero adds: “ I am glad to say I can even show my swaddling-clothes here.” Over eighteen centuries have passed by since this conversation was written, and we still find the same charm in this place, because Cicero was here born and lived and wrote and conversed with his friends. The wasting tide of time, which has obliterated so many landmarks, has, as it were, only polished and refined the antique memorials of this remarkable man, and his spirit still haunts the spot like a permanent presence and inspiration. We seem to walk in his footsteps, and almost to hear his voice, as we pace the paths he used to tread. Nature has changed but little since he passed away. Still, as of old the Fibrenus sweeps along, opening, its arms to embrace the whole island, and then, again, uniting them, flings its chill waters with a murmur into the Liris. The very sounds that Cicero and Atticus heard we still may hear, so many a year after their voices have passed away, and Quintus’s description of it reads as if it were written yesterday: —

“ We have now come,” he says, “ to the island, and nothing truly could be more delightful. Here as with a prow it divides the Fibrenus into two equal streams, that, after sweeping along its banks, again unite in one and inclose a space sufficiently large for an ordinary palæstra. This accomplished, as if its true office and duty were to afford us a place for our discourse, it precipitates itself into the Liris, and here, as if it had entered into a patrician family, it loses its more obscure name. It also makes the Liris far colder, nor do I know any colder river, though I have tried many. Indeed, I can scarcely bear my foot in it.”

The Fibrenus is still as cold as in those ancient days, and in its ordinarily transparent waters we were told that trout abounded. Mr. Blewitt also gives us his authority as to this fact in his excellent guide-book.

The narrow valley, after leaving Isola, widens out like a fan into a broad tableland of meadow, which constantly enlarges as the mountains recede, until it grows into a vast, richly cultivated plain of some twenty miles in diameter, surrounded by mountains of from two thousand to three thousand feet in height. These meadows, when we passed them, were covered with the light springing of young grain which was carefully planted in exact drills. Tall elms stood here and there, and at intervals large groves of trees clustered together. Everywhere were vineyards in which the vines were trained on lopped trees, after the manner of the Neapolitans, and from which they hung in rich festoons; and then there were fields blue with pale, delicate flaxflowers, or glowing with rich, red clover blossoms. The cultivation was perfect, not an inch of ground was wasted, and the fertile soil gratefully repaid the laborer with the promise of ample harvests. The scene was enchanting: the skyey roof of gray had broken; clouds floating off from the valley trailed along the mountains, clinging to their breasts, and letting through bursts of sunshine; and above us, on the slopes and peaks, were the little mountain towns of Arce, Rocca, Secca, Palazzuolo, Piedemonte, and Ponte Corvo, — all rich in history.

Now came the ciociare costume. The busto had gone, and rich-colored cloths of red, blue, and scarlet tied closely round the body took their place. At Arce we were stopped before a little dirty wayside house, where women were washing at a fountain and plaiting straw, to have our passports examined, and we took the occasion to transfer one or two of these figures to our sketch - books while we waited.

At last, after about six hours’ driving, we arrived at San Germano, built on the ruins of the Volscian city of Casinum. There, frowning from its steep and lofty cliff, was the old feudal castle, with its towers, turrets, and walls still standing, where Charles of Anjou cut to pieces the Saracens and Germans of Manfred. Opposite, on a high hill, rose the square walls of the famous monastery of Monte Cassino, which still preserves the ancient name of the place, looking across the gap of valley at its rival castle; and crouching at the foot of both lay, far below, the little town itself. It was a significant emblem of the court, church, and people.

Just before reaching the town, the road passes within a stone’s-throw of the ancient amphitheatre built by Umidia Quadratilla, and mentioned by Pliny. Here we ordered the carriage to stop, and running through the furrows of a plowed field ascended the slope of the hill upon which it stands. Although ruined in parts, it is a noble structure. The exterior walls of reticulated work are yet in good condition, and its main front is tolerably perfect. Time has tinged its marble facings with a rich yellow hue, but has failed to eat out the cement or to shake the solid courses of its stones. Here and there shrubs, flowers, and one or two fig-trees had found a footing and graced its walls. Climbing through one of the round arches of entrance, which was partially choked with rubbish, we found ourselves within the inclosure. The interior is far more ruined than the exterior; the seats are all crumbled away and obliterated, and indian corn, beans, and potatoes were growing in the arena. As we stood looking in silence upon this sad decay, we heard in the distance the pipe and zampogna of some shepherds, playing a melancholy pastoral tune. Nothing could be. more charming, nor more perfectly in harmony with the mountains and the ruins. I could scarcely have believed such tones could come from a bagpipe. Softened by distance they lost their nasal drawl, and stole sweetly to our ears, with that special charm which the rudest native music has when heard in its native place. As we looked through the archway over the distant valley and mountains, we listened to them, enchanted.

Returning to our vettura, we made our entrance into the town, and rattling quite through it passed out at the opposite gate, to make our headquarters at the locanda La Villa Rapida, which is charmingly situated on the plain, about an eighth of a mile beyond the Neapolitan gate, with a grand view of the mountains before it. We found the inn good and clean, and the landlord civil and attentive. Our rooms, which commanded a magnificent prospect, were tidy and well furnished, with iron beds and a general appearance of care and cleanliness. After ordering our dinner, we prepared for battle with our vetturino, it being necessary to make a new contract for to-morrow’s journey. Accordingly we called in a new San Germano vetturino, who was the proprietor of a curious two-wheeled vehicle with a linen cover, in which he offered to convey us to Atina. But scenting afar the discourse, our old vetturino, Carluccio’s brother, burst into the room, and in a voice of feigned wonder and indignation inquired if we did not intend to secure his services, and whether he had not treated us well, and whether his magnificent vehicle were to be set aside for that wretched thing that they might call a vettura at San Germano but not at Sora. We at once pitted the two vetturini against each other, and at it they went like two fighting cocks. We stood by, laughing and enjoying the sport, now and then urging on Carluccio’s brother to observe that matters were different from what they had been at Sora, where he and his brother had it all their own way. But whereas they pulled both together like a capital double team at our expense there, here they were pulling against each other. The discourse was very loud, but good-natured; all was settled and unsettled again, and leaving the question in suspense we set off to the town. Gradually, as we proceeded, a crowd of boys and men attached itself to us as a suite, and thus attended we went through the place. It is a small town of about five thousand inhabitants, not particularly picturesque or interesting in itself, despite its historical associations and fragments of ancient and mediæval times. The people were decidedly good-looking, and among them was one of the most beautiful children I ever saw. She was about thirteen years of age, and was sitting in the street selling vegetables,— her sad, refined, delicate face entirely out of keeping with her occupation, and looking like that of a little angel in the dirty market-place.

Determined to have another string to our bow in our future arrangements for the carriage, we sought out a third vetturino, who with great pride exhibited to us a tall yellow vettura, painted over with grotesque faces and figures of men, women, flowers, and unknown birds, which, to his complete astonishment, instead of exciting our admiration provoked a very decided smile. “ What do you ask to carry us to Atina and thence, returning, to Colle Noce?” “ Sixteen piasters,” he replied, after carefully examining us. We shrugged our shoulders and gave him a loud laugh for answer. Somewhat sad and crest-fallen at this reception of his price, he added the usual “ Quanto vuol dare? ” The half, we said. “Dice bene” (he’s right), cried out at once an approving by-stander, “ dice bene, alla napolitana.” And all good-humoredly joined with him except the vetturino, who rather demurred, and said, “ Époeo ” (it is little), by which we understood that we could have it at our price.

On rising the next morning (Wednesday) we found, to our great disappointment, that the weather was still lowering; but after a debate we decided to go to Atina, and having arranged with our vetturino that he should carry us there and back, and to-morrow take us on to Colle Noce, for eight piasters, off we set as soon as we had taken breakfast. It was rainy and very cold, and we shivered in our vettura. We all felt assured that we were too early in the season for our expedition. But no one Said, “ I told you so.” After safely fording a wild, swollen torrent, which was more than hub-deep and threatened to overturn us, we commenced our ascent to Atina. The road would have been charming had it not been for the rain and icy wind that blew through our wretched vehicle, and whenever the rain ceased, as it did at intervals, we enjoyed the magnificent panorama of mountain and plain which we saw constantly before us. At last, after a drive of about three and a half hours, we arrived at a little locanda or tavern just on the skirts of Atina. Nothing could be more picturesque than the room into which we were now ushered. Groups of contadini were gathered about, some around a huge chimney surmounted by a black, smoke-begrimed roof, and some around little tables, where they were talking, smoking, and drinking; and the light coming through a small yellow-stained window, and faintly illumining the dark interior and figures, made a picture worthy of Rembrandt. Here we warmed ourselves thoroughly, and then set off for the town, giving out that we were in search of panni and tappeti such as are worn by the people, which we had been given to understand were manufactured here. In this we were misinformed; there is no manufacture of these articles here. But as soon as it was known that we wished to purchase some, the whole town issued from their houses to bring us their old panni. Wherever we went we were escorted by crowds. Doors and windows were thronged, as on a festa day, by contadini, who screamed to us and offered us their carpets and panni. From garret and cellar curious old faces peered out to stare at us. All industry was suspended. The streets echoed with “ Ecco uno bello! bello! Signore lo vuole? ” The women looked savagely Indian, with swarthy complexions, deep black eyes, and straight raven hair. They are by no means as handsome as the people of Alatri; in fact, we did not find them handsome at all. Their faces were not bad in character, but animal-like. The costume they wear consists of the close cloth skirts of the ciociari, with worked woolen aprons and no busto. On their heads are little flat panni of white, sometimes alternated with chocolate-colored stripes. Sometimes, also, a colored handkerchief is bound round the forehead and knotted behind, which has an admirable effect. In their ears are large round gold rings. All the dress is picturesque except that of the feet, on which they wear common shoes instead of the laced skin sandals or cioci, which are everywhere else seen.

The town itself, which stands on one of the highest peaks of the Apennines, was a thousand years ago a celebrated city, and the remnants of its old civilization may still be seen in fragments of Cyclopean walls, a Roman gate-way called the Porta Aurea, portions of the ancient pavement, and the ruins of some old temples. But the time of its glory has utterly gone by, and it is now desolate, tumble-down, gray, windowless, and shabby. Yet what a prospect it commands, looking over the lovely valley of the Melfa below, and girdled by a lofty chain of mountain peaks, dotted here and there with gray old towns that seem to have grown there! Standing on its outer rampart, we saw Peccenesca opposite us, and still further Albito, from which so many models come every winter to Rome; and behind us rose Monte Cairo, whose summit looks all the way from Rome to Naples.

As we passed along the streets we were plucked by the sleeve, in a confidential way, and informed that if we were really in search of beautiful stuffs our informant could carry us where we would find them. “ Andiamo,” said we; and then we were conveyed along to a large house, into which we entered, followed by the crowd, whose curiosity got completely the better of their manners. An old gentleman now made his appearance, very shabbily dressed in slippers and beretta, who, shuffling along, led us into an interior room, shutting out the mob, who rebelled a little at such aristocracy, and made several incursions into the room, to see what treason we were hatching there. The old gentleman now produced with an air of mystery a piece of antique brocade worked in gold, and a gray satin coat embroidered in silver. They had been splendid in their day, hut were now worn and defaced, — relics of wealth and pride, like the Aurea Porta, where all else was decay and poverty. It was a piteous sight to see this poor, broken-down descendant of an ancient house, standing in his shuffling slippers and seedy frock coat, all white in the seams and polished and patched into decency, as he turned over the rich embroidered coat of his ancestor and the brocade that may have moved to stately music in ancestral halls, and haggled about selling it, unwilling to set a price on these memorials of his ancient glory, but longing for the money. “ Ah,” he said as he unfolded it and spread it on the bed, lovingly, “ è bello, — inagnifieo; ma il prezzo dovrebbe essere un prezzo d’affezione. Il prezzo — il prezzo” — (It is beautiful, — magnificent; but the price must be a fancy price.) And here he sighed deeply, as if he could not make up his mind, and added, " Faccia lei,” as much as to say, “ You must fix the price. I cannot; it is priceless.” We declined to fix a price, and he could not bring his mind to do so, hoping, perhaps, that we might name some enormous sum, and we left the faded old gentleman whose ancestors had “ walked in silk attire and siller had to spend.” Once fairly in the street, Cignale, who wanted the brocade to paint from, — it could serve no other purpose,—determined to do the liberal thing, and to offer the old gentleman five scudi for it. It was more than it was worth, but we had all been a little touched with the scene, and considered the offer in the light of a charity. With these glowing sentiments he therefore returned, and again saw the old proprietor of the brocade, and said if he would like to part with it for five scudi the money was at his service. “ Five scudi! Cinque scudi,” exclaimed the representative of the fallen house. “ Cinque scudi! Why I had at least expected a hundred scudi for it. Nothing less than sixty-five would induce me to part with so wonderful a thing. There was a Russian here five years ago who gave two hundred scudi for a piece not so beautiful as this. Cinque scudi! Just look at it! è magnifico! Cinque scudi! ” And so, rather crest-fallen, Cignale said adieu, while the old gentleman folded up his coat and brocade, saying, “ Cinque scudi! Cinque scudi! O Dio! Cinque scudi!”

After making purchases of some panni and tappeti we returned to the osteria, still surrounded by a herd of men and boys, who pursued us quite into the room. Every now and then the host made a rush at them, and with pushes and oaths drove them all out; but back they came, swarming in like locusts, to be swept away again and again by the Balaclava charges of our host. Here we ordered our carriage, and while it was getting ready watched the company, who were busily engaged in eating roasted snails, which were considered by all the frequenters of the place as a rare delicacy.

The weather now began to clear up, and our drive back was very pleasant. When we arrived at San Germano it was two o’clock, but the sun was shining, the clouds were all disappearing, and there was every promise of a beautiful afternoon. We ordered dinner at once, and donkeys afterwards to carry us to the Benedictine monastery on Monte Cassino; and our dinner over we mounted and were off.

The donkey boys yelled and screamed, stoutly whacking the poor brutes, who only “ squirmed ” half round under the heaviest blow; and accompanied by a poor deaf and dumb fellow, who by turning somersaults and gesticulating like a madman, endeavored to amuse us, the cavalcade in great spirits ascended the steep road to the monastery. The ride was exquisite. The sun shone out clearly over the valley with its cultivated meadows and its massive chestnuts and oaks, and at every turn we caught new and beautiful views. The cool, delicious air tempered the heat of the sun; the trees shook their last drops of rain on our faces as we passed beneath them. Birds were everywhere singing, and the songs of the contadini in the valley came to us refined by distance.

In about an hour we began to approach the square gray monastery. On arriving at the great door, we found it closed. We rapped with the great iron knocker, and after a moment’s delay it was cautiously opened, and in the crack we saw the figure of a little dirty priest who had evidently spilled his soup daily down the front of his black sottana for many a month, and wiped it off with his sleeve. He looked dubiously at the cavalcade, and still holding the door half open called out in a snuffy voice, “ Chi volete?” (What do you want?) We were so completely taken aback by this salutation that nobody spoke ; seeing our blank look of dismay he added, " Avete lettere? ” (Have you letters?) We could only say, “ No; ” on which he turned upon his heel, and left us to a shabby little scrub of an attendant, who inquired if we wished to see the monastery. “ Yes,” we meekly answered, and he then let ns in. First we went to see the church which Murray affirms to “ far surpass in elegance, in taste, and in costliness of decoration every other in Italy, not excepting St. Peter’s itself.” It was certainly decorated in the most costly manner, with all the splendor which the rich marbles in which it was completely sheathed could bestow. But to me it appeared as ugly, inelegant, and tasteless as it was costly. It was of the very worst style of barocco architecture, and the superfluity of ill-conceived ornament and wretched pictures only made it more tawdry and repulsive. It was like a fat, vulgar, ugly old woman covered with diamonds and rubies. The carvings of the choir, however, were beautiful.

Our guide then conducted us round the interior arcade, past the dormitories (where we were not to sleep), showed us the famous library through a grating which he would not open, and then issued with us on to a grand open loggia commanding a magnificent view over the country. The variegated valley, rich in the evening light, lay far below, covered with vineyards, grain fields, and lofty chestnuts and oaks. Above us a lofty mountain reared its crest white with snow, and beneath us were the ruins of an ancient wall with square courses of rock. What pleasant hours one might have lingered and chatted here, if one only had brought letters!

From the terrace we were conducted to the four old rooms once inhabited by St. Benedict. The walls were covered with such execrable pictures that we got away from them as soon as possible. The attendant then gravely conducted us to the gate, pouched six carlini which we gave him, and shut the door of the monastery. We looked in each other’s faces, and did what the ancient augurs did when they met in private.

We now retraced our steps to the belvedere, where taking out Murray we lighted on these words: “ Though the high and palmy days of Monte Cassino have passed away, the hospitality of the brethren continues to be extended to strangers with unaffected kindness and courtesy. Several large and comfortable rooms are set apart for the accommodation of visitors, and a cordial welcome is never wanting.” To which statement we added, “ With a letter and for a consideration.”

I was somewhat disappointed in not seeing the library on the inside of the grating, well knowing what treasures it contains of old manuscripts. I should have liked to peep into the MS. Dante of the thirteenth century; and the Virgil of the fourteenth, copied from a MS. of the tenth century in Lombard characters; and the translation of Origen’s Commentary on St. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans; and the famous vision of Albericus; and also to look at a few of the old ducal and imperial charters and diplomas and papal bulls, with their curious seals and portraits, and the MS. letters, all of which I know are there; but I had not a letter to one of the twenty brethren, and one does not see much through a grating.

This old monastery has claims on our gratitude, too, for here were preserved during the darkest of the Middle Ages many a valuable manuscript, which the monks, in the intervals of praying, copied and illuminated. But when the light had come upon the outer world, the shadows began to creep over the monasteries, and they were as reckless in destruction us they had before been in salvation. In the early days it was the occupation of the monks to copy the rarest classical manuscripts, in which work the Abbot Didier, who was the head of the monastery in the eleventh century, zealously encouraged them. To him we are said to be indebted for the preservation of the Fasti of Ovid and the Idyls of Theocritus. But at the time of Boccaccio everything was going to rack and ruin in the library. Benevenuto da Imola, his friend and pupil, tells us that “ when Messer Giovanni went to the monastery of Monte Cassino, celebrated for the number of manuscripts which lay there unknown, he begged to be introduced into the library; a monk answered him, simply,

'Go in; it is open,’ pointing him to a tall ladder. Mounting this Boccaccio found all the books so mutilated and lacerated (mutilati e laceri) that, groaning and weeping over the sad spectacle, he departed. In descending the ladder he met a monk whom he asked how it happened that the books were in such a state; to which the nnmk answered,

' We make covers for prayer-books out of all the manuscripts written upon parchments, and sell them for two, three, and sometimes even for five sous.’ ” ¹ Who can imagine what precious writings, which now can never be replaced, , were thus destroyed by these barbarous monks!

When Mabillon was sent over from France, in the year 1685, to collect rare books and manuscripts in Italy, under commission of the king, he found the convents and libraries which were the repositories of these treasures in a terrible condition. No regard was paid to the conservation of them by the monks, who were as stupid and reckless as they were ignorant. Bat he makes an exeeption to his general condemnation in favor of the Benedictines of Monte Cassino, of whom Michel Germain, his friend, says, “ They are worthy to keep the ashes and the spirit of the great Benedict; " ² and Mabillon adds, in reference to their library, “ L’observance est en assez bon état pour I' Italie; elle y peut passer pour une reforme. ” ³ But the codices and manuscripts had already greatly suffered. Many were lost, many burned, and many cut up into covers of prayer-books; so that out of twelve hundred only five hundred existed at the time of Mabillon. Of these many were then taken and carried to Rome by the cardinals, writes Germain, and at the present day there are but few remaining in the library of the monastery.

The abbey itself was founded by St. Benedict in 529, on the site of an ancient temple of Apollo, the ruins of which are still visible. It has gone through many changes since then, having been destroyed by the Lombards, rebuilt by the Abbot Patronates, burnt by the Saracens under Manfred, again rebuilt by the Abbot Desiderius, utterly destroyed by an earthquake in 1349, and restored by Urban V. immediately afterwards. In 1649 its walls fell down during some repairs, and were again rebuilt and reconsecrated for the last time by Benedict XII., on the 19th of May, 1727; since which time it has managed to escape all accidents. It was admired by Dante, who mentions it in a passage in his Paradiso (xxii.), and on his return from Naples to Rome, just before his death, Tasso went there to venerate the body of St. Benedict, and spent several days with the monks.

But to return, after this digression, to the belvedere. As we sat there looking upon the lovely scene below and around us, one of the monks came up and joined us. We found him very agreeable, enlightened, and liberal in his views. He sighed over the restrictions of the press itt Italy, and told us that before ’48 the monks had projected an Italian periodical somewhat on the plan of the English Athenæum; but, he added, “the sad experiences of '48 ” had broken up the project. Some of the brothers, he said, were contributors to the new review of San Giovan-Battista Vico, and had written some clever papers; but he shook his head over the degeneracy and bigotry of the times, and hoped that the church might be induced to give a little more freedom to literature in Italy, to which I said Amen. On discovering that we were Americans he expressed great astonishment and pleasure, saying frankly that as for himself he had a terrible fear of the sea, and could not imagine how we had the courage to brave it. When we arose to go he accompanied us for a mile on our way, and I was really sorry that, not having letters, we could not continue our conversation under his hospitable roof.

When we approached the town the shadows of twilight were lengthening across the plain, and we seated ourselves to enjoy the beauty of the scenery in the sunset light, while the nightingales bubbled into song in the trees, and a zampogna played sweetly in the distance. We were now glad enough not to have stayed with the monks. We were really carrying out our original intention, and we had all the fun of the joke without the meagre fare of the convent and an hour’s longer ride to-morrow; and saving the pleasure of saying we had slept at the monastery we were all far better off at the inn.

The next morning, on ordering the vetturino to uncover the vettura, according to his agreement, he declared it to be impossible. Thereupon Campo towered in magnificent and half-simulated anger, and became so grand and imponente that the vetturino gave in, and professed his willingness to do anything in the world.

While he was preparing the vehicle we strolled on through the town to spend a half hour at the amphitheatre. As we passed through the gate we saw at the corner of the street the dead body of a little child lying in its cradle. It was dressed in white, precisely as if it were still living; a little cap with colored ribbons was on its head, and round its neck and over its little hands, which were clasped upon its breast in the attitude of prayer, were strings of large beads. It looked so simple and life-like as it lay there in the open square that one could scarcely believe it dead. The contadini and towns-people as they went by paused, gazed at it respectfully, said “ Poverina,” and recommended it to the Madonna. It had been brought in from the Campagna, cradle and all, just as it lay, on the head of the peasant woman who sat beside it. She was to carry it to its little grave after it had lain, as in state, in the public square for all the people to see.

Passing on, we then went to the amphitheatre, and thence on to an antique tomb, which has been converted into a modern chapel, chiefly by the addition of an altar. It is built in massive blocks of limestone, and is in as perfect condition as if the stones were laid yesterday.

After we had spent a half hour or so here the carriage came up, and we went on. The day was cloudless and the air delightful. After driving a few miles, we turned off the main road to visit the village of Aquino, which still retains its ancient name, and was the birthplace of Juvenal and the “ angelic doctor,” St. Thomas Aquinas. Of the old city there remain only fragments and ruins scattered about on the plain, but they are all eminently picturesque. On the site of the antique temple of Hercules stands an interesting old church, called by the peasants La Chiesa della Madonna Libera, now utterly deserted and going to decay. Weeds choke up its nave and aisles, the roof has fallen in, and the tower has partially crumbled away. It is ruin upon ruin. The very floor of the church has become a cemetery, where you may stumble over old stone sarcophagi, modern grave-stones, and whitening human bones. The old steps which once led to the ancient temple still remain in tolerable preservation, and over them you ascend to the church. Over the door is a curious mosaic of the Madonna and child, with a figure of a woman lying in a coffin beside them; and worked everywhere into the facade are fragments and cornices and ornaments taken from the old temple, out of the ruins of which it was built.

Close by is the antique arch of triumph, with its ornate Corinthian capitals, through which went the great processions of its glorious days; now it is half choked up with débris and weeds, and forms the sluice-way and dam over which flows the mill stream that turns the wheels of a factory a few paces beyond. Tall reeds and flowers bend and nod over the clear water that rises nearly to the capitals from which the arch springs, and the whole scene forms a singular and interesting picture. What a change since Juvenal walked here, composing his Satires, perhaps as he paced the old pavement under this very arch, through which only the trout now dart!

Several other massive ruins of temples still remain standing at intervals on the plain, and one well-preserved old gate-way; and scattered here and there are triglyphs, fragments of cornices and columns, and huge blocks of stone, which attest the magnificence of the ancient city. Nothing can be imagined more peaceful and beautiful than the scene. Lofty hills encircle it, and directly over it rises a great gray peak, which, when we were there, was fringed with snow. At the foot of this stretched the sunny and sheltered plain, with here and there the ruins of a temple rising out of the green grain; and the old Via Latina leads through it, with the antique slabs of its pavement still fresh and passable by carriages. Over this we walked along, — our vettura following us for a mile, — listening to the larks that filled the air with their music, and thinking over the old " days that are no more.”

Our road thence led through a beautiful country, all in good cultivation, with occasionally meadows covered with the blue flax flowers that showed in the distance like little lakes with the sky reflected in them. At Colle Noce we took a new vettura, which we had already ordered to be there to meet us, and drove on through a rolling country of hill and valley, highly cultivated, and covered with vineyards trained in the Neapolitan fashion on trees; wherever we stopped we heard scores of nightingales singing in the groves arid bushes, and larks making musical the high air. And all along the road at the side of the streams and rivers of water we saw the yellow iris growing luxuriantly.

All day long, and indeed during the greater part of our journey, we have constantly met swine-herds seated on the side of the road and tending their droves of pigs. It seems to be the fashion for everybody in these towns to keep a little black pig, which is not penned up at home in a sty, but trots about after his owner wherever he goes, like a dog. They seem always to be on the most friendly terms with each other, the pigs having the freedom of the house and making themselves quite at home in all the rooms. Sometimes they are tied to the peasant by a long string; and one I saw attached to the tail of the donkey on which his master was mounted.

A light shower overtook us towards night-fall, but it soon went by, and the sunset sheathed everything with gold as we came up to Ferenlino. Here we found a civil landlady, and a landlord who had taken so much wine that he tumbled very drolly about among his words. His wife excused him by stating to us that he had been over to Frosinone to purchase wine for the fair which was to take place on the morrow, and that he had been obliged to taste too much, poor fellow. Here we made ourselves very comfortable; we had a good supper and clean beds, and were in every way well treated.

The next day we were off from Ferentino for Rome at seven o'clock. A more exquisite morning never dawned; the grass was spangled with diamonds dropped from the clouds, and all nature was bathed in freshness. The mountain of Ascurgola (as our vetturino called it) rose constantly at our side: grand, delicate, dreamy, opaline, as the Mount Abora, of which the Abyssinian maid sang when on a dulcimer she played to Kubla Khan. The light shooting athwart it, as it lay in its misty veil of purple, brought out the minute details of its structure and organization, yet so refined and harmonized by distance that it looked almost visionary. On one of its ridges lay blocked out in shadow, with squares of dark, the little town of Ascurgola, from which it takes its name. From the valley white fleecy mists, gathering into long clouds, rose gradually and hung around its neck, and then trooped off into the upper air. Larks were everywhere singing; the road was thronged by figures in scarlet who were coming to the fair at Ferentino, some of them accompanying wains drawn by great gray, wide-horned oxen. The grain dazzled the eyes with its wet, brilliant green. White and blue jessamine peeped out. of the bush hedges, over which the convolvulus and wild honeysuckle trailed, and the brown, broken ground, wet with yesterday’s rain, made a rich background to the light green. Now and then we passed some of our old acquaintances of Sora, with baskets on their heads covered with brilliant striped panni, on their way to Rome.

As we went on the vines began to be trained on yellow canes; old towers, the remnants of feudal times, the ruins of ancient tombs, showed themselves here and there; the broken vertebræ of gigantic aqueducts stretched before us; the dome of St. Peter’s bulged up in the distance. We were on the Campagna of Rome; our little excursion was over.

W. W. Story.