r- Kt in o >- REESE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. Deceived ,190 . Accession No. 92754 . < , , WAYFARERS IN ITALY t f by KATHARINE HOOKER D. P. ELDER AND MORGAN SHEPARD San Francisco 1902 Ctfjright^ 1901 h KATHARINE HOOKER To J. D. H. FOR WHOM ALL WAS WRITTEN 92751 CONTENTS PAGE On the Lombard Plain ------- 3 Milan, Bergamo, Brescia, Mantua, Ferrara. Sojourning in Florence - 36 Florence. Driving through Tuscany - - - 64 Monte Oliveto, San Quirico, Pienza, Montepulciano, Cortona, Arezzo, Borgo San Sepolcro. April in the Marches - - 88 Jesi, Loreto, Recanati, Macerata, Ascoli, San Benedetto del Tronto. In the Abruzzi - 1 1 6 Solmona, Scanno, Avezzano. Roman Excursions - - - - -141 Anagni, Bracciano, Viterbo. Monte Cassino and Ravelk - - 162 The Heart of Vmbria - - - 184 Narni, Assisi, Perugia, Trasimeno. Across the Apennines - - - 211 Gubbio, Urbino. The Shore of the Adriatic - - - - - - -226 Rimini, San Leo, Ravenna. Siena and the Palio - - - - - - 242 Siena. Tower* d Cities - - -- -257 San Gimignano, Volterra, Lucca. Venice - . 279 " Dost know the tombs of Castel d'Asso ? The towers of San Gimignano? The outlooks from Montepulciano ? The palaces of Pienza? The cloisters of Oliveto Maggiore? Hast ever penetrated " the obscure renown of the Fanum Voltumnas, or followed the fading frescoes of the Grotta del Trinclinio, or studied the lengthening shadows of the Val di Chiana, or boated it across to the lonely isles of the Lago Trasimeno?" HENRY B. FULLER. The Chevalier of Pemieri-Vani. ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN " O Milan, O the chanting quires, The giant windows' blazon M fires, The height, the space, the gloom, the glory ! A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! "I climb* d the roof at break of day; Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. I stood among the silent statues, And statued pinnacles, mute as they." TENNYSON. The Daisy. Y THE first of March spring was in full possession of the Riviera. At Hyeres and Mentone the days were warm and mild and daffodils were showing their delicate faces. Climbing the mountain paths, lounging upon the grass under venerable olive trees we forgot that there could be frost and cold not far away; and when we crossed the boundary of Italy and made our way toward Milan it was a shock to meet winter again, among deep snow and leafless trees. We gazed from the car windows a little forlornly ; it seemed but a chilly greeting from the land of our love. But the feeling lasted only a moment; the sun came out presently and lighted the landscape till it shone and 4 WAYFARERS IN ITALY sparkled, and before darkness shut down we were again in warmer regions. It is a question by which gate one should enter Italy. Whether to sail into the Bay of Naples, and ^ yield oneself up at once to the fulness of her charms amid the richness and foreignness of the South, or to begin in the North, and let her unfold them by slow degrees as one advances. To succumb in the beginning need not be to risk disillusion later, for she is dear and beautiful in any phase, but some may enjoy the completeness of a sur- render at the first, while others prefer the coquetry of being wooed and won more gradually, thus husbanding their sensations, so to speak. Age and temperament will have to do with the choice, but, fortunately, either way there need, in the end, be no regret. To begin with Milan is to start soberly. If one be carping one is inclined to find it too modern, too prosperous, and to be disappointed that most of the ancient buildings have been swept away, and that the elaborate stone carving in the ceiling of the cathedral is only brown paper. But this is unreasonable. We can not expect Italy not to experiment in commercial prog- ress with the rest of the world, and the brown paper merely indicates magnificent intentions for future fulfil- ment. Are there not two thousand marble statues on the exterior of the edifice now, with Napoleon among them, by the way, in classic drapery, to show what has already been accomplished? We took advantage of the early morning, which was crystal clear, to climb the four hundred and ninety- four steps that lead to the roof, and there to look down upon all the kingdoms of the earth spread out before us, or so it seemed. Towering against the heavens rose the noblest peaks of the Alps, Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa, the Matterhorn, with all their lesser brethren. Eternal, ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 5 immovable, in their spotless purity of whiteness, they leaned back against the illimitable blue, looking down indifferently upon the turmoil of the world below. Farther away the Apennines loomed dimly, and great plains unrolled themselves to the horizon, while the cities of the world were represented nearest us by the domes and pinnacles of Pavia. A time never comes when the eye and mind are weary of these things, and yet they must be abandoned and the traveler return to earth. On the way down one may purchase if one pleases a little silver medal, at a modest price, from an old man who lives upon the roof, and yet who shows none of that indifference and de- tachment that such intimate association with cold statues and frozen peaks might engender. On the contrary he chats sociably and lauds the artless design on the medal, where the complete fa9ade of the duomo is attempted in the space of a third of an inch. Below, as one emerges upon the great busy piazza, one is conscious of being in one of the largest centres of the Italian life of to-day, and the grandiose Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, with its big colonnades and glittering arcades, is amusing enough for a time. Threading the arcade, it is possible to cut off part of the distance to the quarter where the principal hotels lie by passing through a by-street where there is a very attractive little fruit shop. We noted it, and stopped to make purchases. Various tempting fruits of the early spring were offered for sale, with every advantage of arrangement and con- trast. We admired and hesitated in our selection, and a sweet-faced young woman who was minding the shop came forward to assist us. With the first words that she uttered, all interest in her wares departed; her man- ner was full of blithe courtesy, but her voice it was that chained the attention. It was one of the sweetest I ever 6 WAYFARERS IN ITALY heard; its every cadence pure music. To^make her talk was the instant impulse, and fortunately it is seldom hard to accomplish that with an Italian girl. She cordially met every subject in the limited range we could call up, and the more she talked the more captivated we became. She smiled, she chatted, and showed no self-conscious- ness, while the melodious voice rippled out with a variety of intonation and range that repeatedly surprised us. It is needless to say that while we stayed in Milan we found fruit a daily necessity and in the end might almost have called ourselves personal friends of this enticing daughter of the people. Whatever may be the faults of the lower class of Italians, as one sees it in Italy, it is as distinctly aristo- cratic as the corresponding orders in certain other nations are vulgar. There is an unembarrassed manner, a self- respect, a cheerful courtesy, and a pleasant sort of confid- ingness that seldom fail, and it all helps to give intercourse with them an ease and charm that renders traveling twice as agreeable and sows it with encounters and incidents, trifling enough in themselves, but which color and warm the retrospect. But besides loitering in fruit-shops there is much to do in Milan. The splendid picture-gallery, with its fine arrangement and admirable care in attributions, offers opportunity for endless pleasure and study; and indeed the city is rich in pictures and frescoes, scattered through various collections and churches. The little Museo Poldi-Pezzoli, for example, is a treasure-house of desir- able things. The Cavaliere Poldi-Pezzoli, who died some twenty years ago, bequeathed his palazzo, filled with the costly collections he had made, to the city, and it is now kept open to the public certain hours in the day. It stands in a narrow street which hardly yields width enough to ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 7 throw back the head for a scrutiny of its unpretentious fa$ade, and when one has entered, it gives a pleasing sense of nearness and personality, due to its compact propor- tions and tasteful arrangement. One is conscious of sub- dued color in some old tapestries on the ground floor, and passes by a mildly gurgling little fountain to mount the stairs to the principal apartments. Here are wondrous things. Armor, antique glass and porcelain, bronze and enamel are to be seen, and not in the fatiguing and end- less variety of a national museum but in a few rare and exquisite examples. There are reliquaries luminous with color and jewels of intricate design, set with precious stones at whose names one must guess and which start the vagrant fancy upon excursions into the romance of the past. Everything is rich and quiet; nothing garish or insistent. But the palazzo itself is not antique, and it is interesting to examine the details of its construction and furnishing in the taste of the Cavaliere's day, and to see the jewel-box which he has contrived to make of it. The sala nera is lined with ebony, the panels out- lined with delicate patterns in ivory, and inlaid ivory also forms the decoration of the ebony chairs, with their cush- ions of pale green embroidered satin. The walls of a bedchamber are a mass of high relief carving in a deep brown, dull-finished wood, the frames of doors and win- dows coming into especially ornamented prominence. The floor of this room is a wood mosaic, but the most imposing object is the bed. Raised upon a dais, and with a carved canopy of wonderful design and workman- ship, it is supported by four demons of terrible aspect, and one is left in doubt as to whether, if the dark hours were ever wakeful, the thought of their presence would bring more of a sense of shrinking or protection. But choicest of all is a tiny salon adjoining the bed- room, and which appears to be a breakfast-room. Here 8 WAYFARERS IN ITALY ingenuity has done its utmost. The ceiling is a diaper pattern of dull gold with suggestions of warm color. More gorgeous are the walls below, and over the mantel is a gold grill set with enamel and precious stones, and guarded by golden dragons with jeweled eyes. A cabi- net in the wall, with door of solid crystal, has its lock and strap-hinges of gold bronze set with coral, and its inner drawers covered with patterns in etched mother-of- pearl, while two cupboards, on either side of the fireplace, hold a few examples of precious porcelain. In all these rooms the imagination must supply the presence of antique rugs, tapestries, and gold brocades, which are unstinted. There is a certain artfulness in the way in which windows are disposed. One is not tempted toward those commanding the stony street; for there are those that look out upon a sweet garden that holds the shade of tall trees, and, though small like all the rest, is so effectu- ally protected as to make its green pathways quite se- cluded. But best of all in this little palazzo are the pictures, treasures such as only wealth and discrimination can bring together, and they call one back again and again, even when curiosity or admiration may have been satis- fied in regard to all the rest. From these walls look down such heavenly mild madonnas, such rapt saints, such searching portraits, and especially, resting by her- self upon an easel, there is the profile head of a girl that one can hardly part from. It is the very irregularity of her piquant face, in which innocence and coquetry seem blended, that renders her beauty so beguiling; but one can only conjecture how every one melted before her charm, for, like so many presentments of the past, be they ever so alluring, she smiles at us from the reticence of that disappointing title Unknown Woman. ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 9 In our researches among the paintings we missed a certain madonna. The little picture should be there, but no effort discovered it. The difficulty of the chase sharpened zest; we appealed to the military-looking old custodian, was there not such a canvas? " Signore, you have the catalogue, and you see that it does not appear there." But we, privileged bearers of the Golden Urn, pointed out in that sacred volume the name. " Signore," repeated the old man, his voice drop- ping to a deeper bass, "this cannot be official/' and he gazed at us sternly, as one who is upon the point of ex- posing those caught in the possession of contraband and pernicious literature. We mildly stood our ground, but he still disclaimed and shook his head. What was our surprise, then, a little later, to see him emerge from a door unopened to the public, and advancing toward us with a somewhat furtive air, expose to our eager gaze the little madonna we sought, murmuring at the same time that it had never been on exhibition never. Having once given way, he indulgently let us look upon her as long as we chose, and softened to our pleasure in her loveliness. And on leaving, what could we do when with tempered austerity he made it easy for us to evade the harsh rules posted upon the walls forbidding indulgence in gratuities? In the late afternoon we drove slowly through the older portions of the city. The brilliant day had faded to grayness ; in the great rock-paved square before the barracks, the sharply clipped trees seemed to fold them- selves more closely together, lest the blandishments of the morning had tempted them to believe too soon in the coming of spring. We were on our way to the old castello, or what remains of it, for at this day only the corner towers and certain portions of the walls date back io WAYFARERS IN ITALY even to the second founding of the city. To be sure, it is being restored, but we meant to ignore the present and dwell for the moment only upon its former glories. More than once has Milan risen from her ashes, so that no traces of the Roman period are left, but as late as the twelfth century, when she numbered within her walls some four hundred thousand souls, she met an almost unparalleled fate. She fought tirelessly against the claims of the German emperors, but the great Bar- barossa was at last too potent for her, and when he at length overcame her he decreed that she should be burned to her foundations and the land sowed with salt. It was done, and out of the hideous waste and desolation thus created stood up Saint Ambrogio and the few other churches spared, as sole evidence that a prosperous, pop- ulous city had ever covered the spot. But after a time, with the aid of sister cities, it was rebuilt, and its tumult- uous changing life rolled on as before; and the huge inflexible old castle, with its deep-toned surfaces of weathered brick, stands there to-day to conjure up before the inner vision the phantoms of the two great families of tyrants that thereafter for two hundred years were identified with it. This very afternoon, against the sombre sky above it, were there not suggestions in the curling mist wreaths of il gran biscione y the great serpent of the Visconti ? Strange, resistless, wicked, ferocious monstrosities many of them were, for that race of tyrants, beginning with indomitable minds, if sometimes .imprisoned in puny bodies, lapsed rapidly to blood-lust and madness. Memorable things have passed within those walls, and certain figures and events leap up with distinctness in the memory. There upon the battlements spectral shapes seem to congregate. First among the Visconti group, in its beginnings encouraging culture, displaying splendor ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN n in its court, showing military power and diplomatic abil- ity, Matteo, the temperate ruler, and his brutal, uncon- trollable sons. Then Galiazzo, whose beauty of person eclipsed that of all other men ; vain of his magnificent height, his perfect bearing, he stands, his long blond locks confined in a net of gold thread and wreathed with rose garlands, and crowding about him the fair women and gallant youths he entertained at his court, blazing with color, glittering with gems, babbling of banqueting, hunting and hawking a pleasure-drunk rout. And next, in contrast, the hesitating form, the pallid countenance of Gian Galiazzo he of the cowardly, shrinking flesh but the powerful mind, the inexorable will, the fathomless craft ; who never led the armies with which he subjugated all the north of Italy, who cloaked the poisonings and poignardings with which he came to ascendency, but who knew how to become yearly more opulent and more dreaded. At the last, flying with terror from the plague, yet unconsciously bearing its seeds with him, he died in a remote fortress, pointing out to his attendants a comet which appeared at that time as the signal ordained of God to be the memorial of the pass- ing away of his puissance from earth. But, behind him, who is this slender girlish figure that comes riding upon a sleekly groomed palfrey ? It is Gian Galiazzo's daughter, Valentina Visconti, one of the most pathetic figures in history. Dearly cherished, richly dowered, reluctantly yielded up to a princely mar- riage, she has parted from the strange father who adored her and made her mistress of untold learned lore to fare forth toward France ; her sumptuous robes are stiff with embroidery of precious stones, her neck and arms weighted with costly jewels, and thus she goes to lavish all the passionate devotion of her fervid nature upon the young husband who never gave her his undivided love, 12 WAYFARERS IN ITALY but for the loss of whom, still young, brought in to her murdered and mutilated, she died of a broken heart. And now, the ground about him strewed with dis- membered corpses, Gian Maria, surrounded by his hounds, their fangs dripping gore, but their brute natures not so savage as that of the master who fed them on human flesh and trained them to hunt down the victims whose torture he afterwards gloated over. Then the skulking misshapen Filippo, his deformity muffled in a heavy cloak, meeting the eye of no one, emerging unwillingly from the spider-like lurking-place whence, almost unseen by the eyes of men, he plotted and pulled the strings which moved the affairs of his duchy; fitly the last reigning prince of his name, to such a thin poisonous fluid had the blood of his family declined. He passes, but he is followed by a stalwart forceful figure Sforza, the great condottiere, who turned from tilling the soil to commanding armies and ruling multi- tudes. Beside the cowering Gian Maria he stands a hero, with all the nerve and brawn that had dwindled in the Visconti to a thing with scarce the shape of man- hood, and if he crushed again the ever-renewed aspirations of the Milanese toward freedom, he at least ruled them justly and plunged them into no bloody wars. Yet even he could leave them no worthy successor. The degeneration of his race accomplished itself in even a shorter time. His son walks next, who for his infamous crimes met death by the dagger-thrust of conspiracy. Over his shoulder, with eyes flashing fire, one can see the faces of those three youths whose families he had dishonored, and who hesitated not to devote themselves to sure death that they might rid the world of him. Within the sacred precincts of the church, before the altar of the ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 13 saint whose aid they had just invoked, they struck him down and his blood gushed forth, defiling the conse- crated pavement. Many other more or less clearly defined shades huddle on the ramparts, but among the last are three that most tempt the dreamer's musings, a dark, subtle- browed man, a child-faced, imperious woman, a gentle, confiding youth, Lodovico il Moro, who ruled Milan with dignity and made it the home of artists and the resort of scholars ; Beatrice, his youthful idolized wife ; and the nephew whose rights he usurped, yet could attach to himself with a tenacious affection. Was it pure lust of power or worship of a fascinating capri- cious wife that caused Lodovico to hesitate at no duplic- ity, to avoid no blood-shedding, to stop at no dishonor, in the end to calmly poison the boy who trusted him, that the ducal power might not be wrested from his hands ? And after? Having set the coronet upon the curly head of his Beatrice, to lose her in a moment and at last to languish out his days in a French dungeon. A grisly phantasmagoria the life of that day presents itself to our sober onlooking ! Theirs indeed was no colorless existence ; they lived deeply and died violently, for the most part; intemperate in their love and hate, sinuous in their cunning, ungovernable in their rapacity, and few are the pages of Italian history that picture it more vividly than those of Milan. BERGAMO. On a certain sultry summer day, we two, among the latest reluctant travelers to retreat from Italian heat to the snows of Switzerland, were carried swiftly past this picturesque little place, gazing up wistfully at it with the impulse to make it a pretext for one more delay before i 4 WAYFARERS IN ITALY leaving the soil of Italy. But time, that claims its inev- itable toll of us, sometimes grants us compensations, and so, three years later, the loss is made good; we have so- journed in Bergamo, and it has become one of our pos- sessions ! Prudent friends shook their heads at the idea of a pilgrimage to unfrequented towns under the very eaves of the Alps in March. We should be subjected to deadly chill in comfortless little inns ; there was no knowing what might happen to us. But fate is kind ; an almost premature warmth and mildness makes every- thing easy. It does not even rain, and we can loiter in the open air all day. Bergamo is divided distinctly into an old portion, the Alta Citta, which broods upon steep hills above, and a larger, newer one, which spreads out upon the plain below. From the lower level one may reach the upper by a steep enough carriage ascent with many turnings, or by a little black half-hidden funicolare, or cable-tram, by which you are pulled up in no time; but returning it is pleasantest to walk down at sunset, making long pauses on the different terraces, and finally taking an abrupt plunge downward through little lanes lined with stone all but overhead, the tall gray garden walls meeting the big uneven paving-stones on either side. In the morning, however, we gave ourselves to more systematic sight-seeing. It being King Humbert's birth- day, a military parade caused us to dodge about and take long detours as we searched out certain churches where lurked pictures we wished to see, and we were alone in our occupation of the public gallery for as long as we chose to remain. As we left, we asked the custodian whether he thought strangers were ever admitted to a certain private palazzo. He opined that they were, and we decided to apply, for we were reluctant to go away without seeing a collection of pictures so often referred ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 15 to. Our driver drew up before the usual broad entrance directly upon the street, which leads to an open inner court, and just within we found a small gray-haired por- tier y with a manner so full of courtesy and deference that we explained our wishes quite courageously. He asked for a visiting-card to carry up, and disappeared for a few moments. We had not waited long when he came back and cheerfully invited us to proceed upstairs. At the top we should ordinarily have been met by a second servant, who would have taken us to the picture-gallery ; but what was our surprise to find standing there some one whom we could not doubt to be the lady of the castle herself. She saluted us with a pleasant smile. Her face was luminous with gentleness and sweetness, and her manner full of a cordial and simple hospitality; over her soft gray hair fell some fine old lace, but the mild blue eyes below had a spent look, partly from age but more from feeble health. Her breath was somewhat labored, and she moved lan- guidly, but she told us we were welcome to see the pictures, which she would be happy to show us herself, as she was nearly alone in the house, and we inferred that most of the household had gone to see the demon- strations in honor of the holiday being celebrated out- .side. She led us first to the drawing-room, where she made us sit down for a while, talking cheerfully all the time, and calling our attention to all she thought would interest us. She spoke in French, with a slightly foreign accent. When we had looked at the pictures there, and she had also shown us some in portfolios, she took us to the next room, and so on through the private apartments of the Palazzo, even to her husband's study and her daughter's boudoir. The pictures, rare and valuable ex- amples of some of the old masters, were scattered through the different rooms, and in some almost covered the 16 WAYFARERS IN ITALY walls. There was no segregation of them in a chilly gallery. The family loved them and lived among them. Of some she could tell us interesting things, of others she confessed she knew little. She encouraged us to stay, and at last even fell to speaking with feeling of her own life, and of the loss of a dear daughter whose only boy she was bringing up as a precious legacy. Just then the door opened, and a bonny, rosy-faced lad of perhaps eleven years stood on the threshold. Without a moment's hesitation he walked rapidly forward, and took both our hands, bending low over them in the prettiest way. He spoke a few words to his grand- mother to prefer some request, and she then dismissed him. Then she showed us photographs and books, an autograph copy of the poems of Carmen Silva, whom she admired and was fond of as a friend, and whose pho- tograph she proceeded to show us, taken in a group with her own family. In short, if we had brought credentials with us we could not have been made more warmly wel- come, and we left with a cordial pressure of the hands on both sides that quite wiped out any uncomfortable feel- ing we might have experienced at first, as of having asked to be admitted where we had no right to demand it; and though it may not usually fall to one's lot to be treated quite so intimately, it is true that throughout Italy the most generous feeling exists with regard to the proprietorship of valuable pictures in private homes, and on the simple presentation of a visiting-card one can usually be permitted to enter and spend as much time before them as one pleases. We had made a long morning, and so went to the hotel for luncheon and a rest afterwards in the empty grandeur of an upper banqueting-hall, in whose cool semi-darkness we lounged for a while, and amused our- selves with inspecting certain cabinets of china and big ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 17 carved ornaments, used on great occasions. We had engaged our driver of the forenoon to return and take us in the afternoon to visit a castle in the country, and when the time neared for his appearance we pushed the shutters apart and sat on a little balcony overlooking the street. Everywhere in Italy there is much prepara- tion for gazing out of windows and leaning upon the railings of balconies. Soft cushions embellished with bright fringe are ready for lounging elbows and pro- voke to shameless idleness. If a sudden shower comes up, a servant flies from room to room snatching them in till the danger is past. Punctual to the hour our vetturino appeared at the front door, and we went down to begin our drive. We were on our way to the Castle of Malpaga, favorite abode of the great Colleone, famous warrior and commander-in-chief of the forces of Venice, in his day the highest military position in Italy. There he lived in the quieter intervals of his stirring life and held a court almost regal in splendor. We left the shadow of the mountains and struck out upon the plain the great Lombard plain of upper Italy, quiet enough now, with its fertile land lying tilled in the golden sunshine, but once the bloody battle-ground of nations. For us of the Western frontier, where leagues of land lie idle, there is something wonderfully interesting in a country where every foot of the soil is so cared for, so coaxed and nursed, as it is here, and where the high- ways are never deep with mud in winter and with pow- dery dust in summer. Here the question is not asked, " Shall we have good roads ? " but roads perfectly con- structed and maintained exist everywhere. So well drained are they that even after days of rain one need not hesitate to start on a drive of any length, and at intervals upon the margin of the roadway lie little symmet- 18 WAYFARERS IN ITALY x )iled heaps of stone broken to the size of walnuts, ready for instant use should a rut or hollow appear. Not a bit of rough, neglected, carelessly tilled earth was there anywhere in sight this afternoon, not an unsightly wire fence, not a building that was not pictur- esque in its own way. There is no such thing as a wooden shed or outbuilding. Everything is of stone, cement and tile, and the barns especially are many of them delightful to behold. Those for the protection of the harvest are built quite open to the air. A heavy roof of great extent is supported for its length upon brick pillars. On one side the spaces between are left open ; on the other they are built up in panels of brick or tile lattice, each panel being of a different design, like pretty open basketwork of varied pattern. A drive of an hour or so brought us to Malpaga, now given over to farm uses upon the vast estate of the Martinengo family. How it seems to link the present with the past to think that the descendants of those very Martinengos, to one of whom, five hundred years ago, Colleone married his daughter, still occupy the land ; but one cannot but sigh at their indifference to the posses- sion of such a priceless relic as this castle, it and its out- buildings being used as granaries and habitations for the various families of laborers of the farmer tenants. In the moat grow mulberry trees, and the stately rooms of the interior are heaped with grain. The best preserved of these apartments are on the ground floor and still show their frescoes in tolerable preservation scenes from the adventurous life of Colleone, his hunting and hawk- ing parties, his great battles, the honors done him by the city of Venice, and the visit paid him by the King of Denmark. We were shown all over the building, and in our explorations were followed by two pretty peasant girls ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 19 full of undisguised interest and curiosity. Their wooden- soled shoes, in only the toes of which their feet seemed to be at home, clapped briskly along the floors after us, and how they did not fall off at every step was a mys- tery unsolved by us, but evidently causing no embarrass- ment to them. After we had descended from the battlements, where we tarried longest, and passed below the portcullis and out into the spacious yard, the most primitive and pictorial of ox-carts labored in and took up its position near the drawbridge ; and when a score or more of idling women and brown, unkempt little children approached it and fell unconsciously into such a group as satisfied even our yearning desire for the picturesque and mediaeval, we were indeed content, and left Malpaga with a feeling of happy security that filled the present nor feared disillusionment in the future. BRESCIA. Early in the morning I pushed open the casement window in the thick wall of my room at Brescia and looked out with the eagerness of discovery, for arriving after dark the night before there had been little oppor- tunity for observation on the way to the hotel, trans- ported hastily as we were by a little omnibus that jerked us unceremoniously from side to side in a thick darkness that was now and again shot through by a flash of light from the infrequent lamps that dotted the way. To have been given clean and comfortable quarters on arriv- ing unannounced and late in the evening, we took for undeserved good fortune. It must be allowed that we do sometimes encounter curious sleeping accommodations ; for example, the pillows in Brescia appear to be stuffed with potatoes. I scorn exaggeration and do not say paving-stones, for they are 20 WAYFARERS IN ITALY not so unyielding as that, but potatoes of various sizes, tough, resisting lumps. I petitioned our chambermaid to produce a feather pillow if the hotel yielded such a thing. She shook her head ; her mind could not rise to the com- prehension of such unreasonableness. She remarked that she could furnish me with a cushion for my feet ! The sheets, too, they are linen, of vast extent, thick and stiff, clammy-cold, and heavy as the leaden copes of Dante. When we have blankets we count ourselves fortunate ; sometimes there are Canton flannel ones, or board-like cotton quilts of great age. But these things are not mentioned in a spirit of complaint, but merely of passing observation ; they are but a part of the by- ways of Italy. But to return to my casement. The sun was shin- ing, everything looked fresh and lustrous. I glanced down and saw the rain-washed arcaded street. Opposite, gable windows peeped out from under scalloped red tiles, and roofs were piled one over another in irregular lines. Long tendrils of grape scrambled over trellises. Were their roots in pots, or were they absolutely in the earth below, and the vines lured to this height ? The splash of a fountain could be heard not far off. How sweet it all was ! I could not forbear kissing my hand to the beauty and charm of it, and instantly afterward discov- ered a youth gazing toward me from a window hard by. It is to be hoped that if he observed this foolish demon- stration he merely put it down to the unaccountable behavior of foreigners, who must be rare in Brescia, for we have seen nothing resembling a tourist. Indeed, the expression matto inglese y accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders, grants resigned indulgence to many a vagary of the mad English, incomprehensible to the Italian imagination. Breakfast we had been warned not to take in the BRESCIA. TILE LATTICE. ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 21 hotel; meals were to be sought in a caffe near by, and we repaired to it, and sat gingerly at the end of a long table as far as possible from the cigarette-smoking frequenters of the place. The coffee, of course, was bad, the butter mere tallow, but the rolls were crisp and good and we ate them contentedly, and later strolled forth to explore. Brescia is called the city of fountains, and an unlim- ited supply of cool clear water from the Alps gushes and gurgles in every direction. The fountains are cen- tres of social life ; the women surround them in the morning to wash their clothes in the marble basins and at all hours of the day come with their buckets to draw water and chat. No guides assailed us, that precious immunity gained by being where tourists are infrequent, and becoming involved in certain unexpected turnings and intricate passages through and under buildings, we in- quired our direction of a sweet-looking Italian lady. She was all helpful interest at once, and offered to walk with us, as she was to pass the street we desired to go to. As we went, we told her of our distant home and long journey, and she smiled in a pretty surprise ; America appeared to be a hazy unreality to her, but she chatted pleasantly for the few minutes it took to put us upon the right way. At the corner of our street we parted with quite a ceremony of shaking hands and exchanging good wishes. In another country we should, to be sure, have been directed civilly, and we should have separated with thanks and a polite bow, but here we seemed some- how to have been made free of the city, and even if we had been inclined to feel lonely orjinfriended, after that it would have been impossible. Perhaps it was this little encounter, together with the delicious morning, that made us think Brescia so livable and homelike, and imbued us with a cordiality 22 WAYFARERS IN ITALY for all the inhabitants from the barefooted urchins play- ing hide-and-seek who pattered over the solemn courts where we went to gaze at historic architecture, to the occasional old beggars in their costumes of appropriately arranged penury, who sat at convenient angles for trade. In quieter corners of the town, where the clean flagged streets only resound to the step of an occasional passer- by, we found the two little picture galleries, the founda- tions of different great families. The adventure of searching out a small, seldom- frequented gallery is sure to be a pleasant one. There is first the old custodian who issues from his narrow hiding-place on the ground floor to gaze at you over his spectacles and consent to let you inspect his treasures. Then perhaps you pass through a sunny little inner court, where a bit of green grass smiles up at a dislocated old fountain, and a tossing vine throws flickering shadows down between the cloister columns; and then up various flights of stairs and through resounding passages, till at last a big door is unlocked with a key of pounds' weight, and you are admitted to the society you love. If he is an undesirable custodian he then stays, giving you super- fluous information and calling your attention to the pictures you least wish to see, with the aim of slightly enlarging that fee which will terminate the visit. In this case he must be kindly but firmly discouraged. If, on the other hand, he is of the order we best like, he observes that he has an errand downstairs, and then leaves us to range about at will, to find what we are there to seek, perhaps to neglect all the big canvases and spend our time in some corner with treasures which we like to look upon as discoveries of our own. Blissful, satisfying hours these; tranquillity and peace pervade them; unquiet memories, teasing thoughts vanish away in the atmos- phere of these beloved retreats. ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 23 It is hard for the lover of early Italian pictures to give a measured reason for his feelings. He has little to offer to the scoffer who gains a cheap compensation for an arid state of mind in the ridicule of what is sacred to the believer. The latter only knows that he loves to stand before these canvases, looking down at him to-day with all their reverential purpose, their unapproachable beauty, their heavenly simplicity. They hold the spirit of another age, which has perished out of ours never to return, and yet whose hallowing presence still hovers in the art it has handed down to us and whose influence will penetrate the heart that is open to it and fill it with a pure and unalloyed happiness. In the afternoon we were prepared to go to Paitone, a hamlet lying some miles out in the country, and hav- ing found a driver who knew the way we started forth. Can anything be pleasanter than leaning comfortably back in a little victoria, so low and so open that you are at once brought into intimacy with the roadside, jogging along through a new and beautiful country, sweet with all the sights and sounds of spring? Our faces were turned westward so that the mountains lay on our left, and we followed the curvings of the foothills while on our right spread the great plain. Ditches bounded the road on either side but alas! why is there not some endearing term for ditches? These were miniature canals, full of clear water and bordered by flowering weeds and tortured old pollards whose ever-renewed efforts to grow had been so often pitilessly suppressed that the most fantastic and knobby contortions were the result. At intervals we passed through little villages, awakening a passing interest in the rural inhabitants and feeling even more in them. At length we approached Paitone, and I began to explain to our driver that our goal was a certain chapel in which was the most famous madonna of the 24 WAYFARERS IN ITALY region, which we had come from America to see. He was quite ignorant of any such sanctuary, but would make inquiries, which he proceeded to do of the inhabi- tants, who proved to be as unconscious of it as he. At length, however, the church was pointed out, a little edi- fice some distance away on the rocky ledge of a hill, and we crossed the fields toward it. Below it we gave the driver leave to go back to the public house, there to rest his horses and refresh himself while we paid our orisons, and as the little carriage cheerfully rattled away a great quietness seemed to settle upon everything. Not a human being was in sight excepting the bent figure of an old woman descending the irregular steps above the church, with fagots upon her head. " Let us take a picture of that dear little place against the sky before we climb up to it," said my com- panion, "for when we come out the light will be gone." We did so, reverently, and then mounted the steps and entered. It was empty, but that was all the better, and our eyes roved in search of the picture. It was not in sight, but a picture there was, wkh a curtain drawn closely over it, as is the custom where there is one too precious to be exposed excepting on special occasions. We now found the need of a custodian and began to search for one. We knocked at doors, we walked round the outside of the building, but all to no purpose. Dared we with profane hands draw that curtain, and perhaps be caught in the very act ! We hesitated before temptation, but we yielded, and stealthily pulled the cords that rolled up the silken barrier. Alas, our madonna was not there! This poor insignificant canvas was but a mockery of what we were looking for. Hastily we attempted to cover it again, and oh, horror ! the cords became entangled, the curtain stuck fast half-way down and all our efforts to dis- lodge it failed. There was no concealing our profanation. BRESCIA. ON THE WAY TO PAITONE. ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 25 Dismay seized us. Two guilty beings hastened from that church door looking fearfully to be met upon the threshold by an enraged priest. But fortune sometimes favors the evil-doer; all was as solitary as before. Our spirits rose as we discovered over the edge of the terrace a little stone building and high-walled garden, wherein a priest was pacing up and down, and our instantly ripened plan was to ascertain from that priest the real location of the chapel and then escape before he had discovered our crime in the church. We descended to the level of the door in the wall and knocked boldly; after a time it was opened and the pleasant-mannered ecclesiastic listened to our questions. The chapel? Oh, that was it, high up above us, half an hour's walk away ! We were dismayed. Night would soon be upon us. What was to be done? To go away defeated was not to be borne, however. We thanked him, and hurried off in the direction indicated. We passed a few goats and children upon the way. The path climbed and twisted between rocks and scrubby bushes, and we drew nearer and nearer to the little chapel, so much more charming than the small Renaissance build- ing we had been mistakenly sent to. Some three hundred years ago when the plague was sweeping away the population of this country, and terror and suffering spread far and wide, the pitying Madonna appeared upon this hillside to a deaf-and-dumb boy, so, upon the site of the miracle this little votive chapel was built, and for it was painted the finest work of one of the greatest North Italian masters, Moretto. It was this that we were eager to see, and at last we reached the elevation of the entrance, upon the shelf hollowed out for it against the declivity. But here the door was fast, and no rapping evoked an answer. Panic seized us again was all our effort to be for naught? We held our breath and listened, and presently heard the cracked 26 WAYFARERS IN ITALY notes of a ditty interrupted by measured jerks and grunts as, apparently, some rural implement struck the soft clods of a garden-bed. We ran to the parapet at one side to look over, and there beheld an old man thus musically lightening his evening labors. We hailed him, and he started and looked up in great surprise. Could we, might we, be allowed entrance to the chapel ? He cordially consented. He had expected no one, he had not heard the Signore knocking, and he hastened from the little vegetable-bed and disappeared, presently to reappear at the door of the chapel, which he threw open for us. The valley below was already in shadow, but the last rays of the setting sun entered with us, and lay along the floor, as we stood looking toward the high altar. It was all dark above and the altar itself was already obscured, but a wonderful and unearthly presence seemed to be there, poised in the air, and floating down toward us. The form was of the size of life, the cloud- like folds of pure white drapery melted into the darkness behind, and the face was full of ineffable tenderness and compassion. It was inexpressibly beautiful and touching. There was something sacred in the hour, the loneli- ness, the withdrawal of it all to the solitude of this remote spot. It was strangely moving, and sterner heretics than those who stood before it silent might have yielded in that moment to a feeling strongly akin to the devotion of its humblest worshipers. MANTUA. Primus Idumseas referam tibi, Mantua, palmas Et viridi in campo templum de marmore ponam Propter aquam, tardis ingens ubi flexibus errat Mincius et tenera praetexit harundine ripas. VERG. Georg. III. ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 27 The slow-flowing Mincio almost surrounds Mantua and broadens out till it embraces the town with a chain of lakes. The clear shallow water as it lay blue under the sky this afternoon was very lovely. An occasional boat drew long ripples across it, sedges grew up through it at intervals, and a golden haze seemed to hover over its pure, still reaches. We hung upon one of the low bridges whose marching arches span it, and wondered if the water at least looked just the same to that " courteous Mantuan soul " whom Dante apostro- phizes, and afterward to the great Florentine himself. Where the lakes leave off marshes begin and so complete the boundary. The town is busy enough in the crowded arcades of its center, but out here was silence and a far level horizon, and one could contemplate its strange his- toric past, so great and various, from the time of Vergil down to that of the mighty Gonzagas who held court here for generations, and have left a castle and a palace that alone would house the population of a town. The castle abuts upon the river, and when we left the bridge we passed beneath and around it into a spa- cious gravel courtyard, full of dignified trees and ancient stone benches. Here again we loitered and as we sat, letting our eyes wander over the immense extent of roofs and walls, we were tempted to wonder where the palace ended and the other structures began. But presently, when we had entered it and wandered through what appeared to be miles of stately rooms, suite after suite, floor after floor, court after court, we could have believed that not only the quarter of the city we had just seen was all comprised in the palace, but that nearly all Mantua was. The most captious traveler might here acknowl- edge that he had at last seen something which in extent and magnificence satisfied his ideas of royalty, and yet this was not a kingdom but only an Italian duchy of 28 WAYFARERS IN ITALY extent that to-day seems toylike to have been of such importance. Of course, much of the palace is ruinous now, and it fills one with speculation that rivers of wealth should have been poured out to line it with such a luxury of marble, mosaic and fresco, and then that it should have been allowed to go to decay. The ceilings, ponderous with carving and warm with the rich subdued color and tarnished gilding that adhere to them still, are wonders, and even the walls of balconies and outer courts are en- riched with painting by the first masters of that day. In one place a sort of hanging garden had been constructed upon the level of the second story, in which still flourish sturdy shrubs and a large magnolia tree. The guide offered to spare us certain wings of the building, but of all that was shown we were determined to leave nothing unseen. In a smaller place we might have felt fatigue, but here the very vastness spurred us we would explore every possibility. At last we found the strangest suite of apartments that surely ever was fashioned drawing-room, bed- rooms, a chapel, even a long staircase, and all adapted to the size of dwarfs. " The Gonzagas kept a breed of them," the chronicler crudely remarks. We sat upon the doll-like seats niched in the walls ; the small windows admitted but a half-light from an inner court. What was the existence like that went on here among these poor little fragments of humanity that lived their lives and reproduced their kind to be the playthings of the giants they served? In the few frescoes by the great Mantegna that remain and still look down from the walls, carrying the conviction of true delineation, there appear among the plain, unflattered faces and square figures of the Gonzaga family some of these grotesque pigmies, large-headed, abnormal, with something stolid ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 29 and patient about them, like certain pet animals, which indeed they resemble. It will give some idea of the almost boundless extent of the Castle of the Gonzagas to add that beyond all we explored there was still room in it to form the spacious barracks of Mantua. At its outer boundary it forms one side of a great stone-flagged parallelogram, the Piazza Sordello. Piazza Sordello ! how the words fire the fancy, as the name of this splendid and obvious square seems to put reality into the tantalizing and elusive personality that Browning teases us with ! On the opposite side an even more ancient-looking edifice attracted our attention ; very hoary and time-gnawed was its fa9ade, and from the line of its top, in a long row, soared the Ghibelline swal- low-tails. I asked our driver, as we went away, what it was, as the guide-book made no mention of it. " Palazzo Buo- nacolsi," he replied. Then I remembered that the fortune of the Gonzagas was founded when the first one of their number who became prominent murdered his master, the head of the Buonacolsi family, and became para- mount in the city. So, for the four hundred years that the Gonzagas ruled, there before them for all those gen- erations stood the reproach of their beginning ! Did any of them wince at it? Perhaps not. Those were strange and terrible times and compunction found little place in them. Out of the mass of the Buonacolsi palace rises a square brick tower, many stories in height, but unor- namented, and with very few openings. Such a tower is inviting anywhere, for from its top one may study at leisure the topography of the country, but in a flat city in the midst of a wide plain, it is invaluable. We asked to be allowed to climb it, and through the waste and lumber-encumbered places at its foot were made free of it. Part way up, above all the tall roofs near it there is 30 WAYFARERS IN ITALY a small window, and outside it hangs a square iron cage. At the sight of this sinister-looking object vague memo- ries of grewsome tales stirred in the mind. It was not high enough to stand up in nor long enough to lie down in. We asked and found our conjectures confirmed. Into that horrible thing criminals were forced, there to be left, in the view of all the city, to die of hunger and thirst or the fiery heat of their summer climate, a climate where no laborer can work upon the streets in the middle hours of the day, as stone and iron from the mere effect of the sun's rays scorch the hands. What sights and sounds must men and women, and innocent children as well, have been witnesses to in those centuries! The mind shrinks from dwelling on it. One goes also to the Palazzo del Te just without the city gates, but it need not keep the traveler long. It has no attractiveness of site or of architecture and its ugly frescoes, enormous in size and uninteresting in sub- ject, mark a stage in the decline of art that may well weigh upon the spirits. Memory, if it returns to Mantua, will hardly pause there ; but will rather roam through the untenanted vastness of the ducal palace, or dally beside the quiet reedy lakes. FERRARA. " Ferrara, su le strade che Ercole primo lanciava ad incontrar le Muse pellegrine arrivanti, e allinearon elle gli emuli viali d* ottave storiando la tomba di Merlino profeta, come, o Ferrara, bello ne la splendida ora d* aprile ama il memore sole tua solitaria pace! " CARDUCCI. Alia Citta di Ferrara. In order not to make a long detour we took a local train directly across the country to Ferrara, lured by the great saving in distance which our map showed this route ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 31 to offer. Afterward, however, we were left in doubt as to whether the longest detour in express trains might not have taken less time than we spent upon this guileless little railway, which wriggled about across the fertile unhealthy plain, stopping incessantly at hamlets whose appearance seemed to make its calling at them utterly superfluous. It was a warm afternoon, but at least the train was not crowded, and we could spread ourselves over all the space it was possible to occupy and monopo- lize two windows apiece. The shadows were beginning to grow long by the time we paused at the station for Ferrara, which is far enough away from the town to make arriving at it seem an experience as rural as those we had just passed through. We were glad to get down and take the first little carriage in sight, while a blue-bloused facchino went to find our bags. This immunity from lifting luggage is one of the comfortable things about traveling here. There is no need to carry so much as a hand-satchel unless one pleases. When you stop, a motion from the window of your car brings a uniformed porter instantly to your compartment, who shoulders everything you possess and precedes you to the carriage-stand outside. There he deposits it and you, and if you have anything registered takes your check and goes to find it for you, while you wait at ease in the carriage. In the same way, when you are taking a train a porter steps forward and receives all your belongings from the driver of your carriage, so that you may travel without trunks if you please and with everything you need in the form of hand-luggage with no inconvenience or burden to yourself. From the railway station of Ferrara one drives through broad avenues bordered by trees to the bound- ary of the city and then through a pretty parklike garden, straight to the famous old ruddy brick castle, 32 WAYFARERS IN ITALY with its four big towers and its deep moat still full of water ; a fine example, and almost too scrupulously kept in repair, so perfectly preserved and restored is it. One of the buildings in the circle surrounding the castle at a proper interval of separation, we found, much to our satisfaction, to be our albergo, the Golden Star, and a smiling young waiter assigned a room to our use which had several windows looking out directly upon it. Being but one flight up, we shook our heads at the prospect of a night's sleep broken by street noises, but we were assured that this was really the best apartment and the only one unoccupied, and so accepted it, though we never afterwards discovered evidences of a crowded state of things nor did we from first to last come upon more than two other people in the dining-room where we took our meals. To this cool dining-room, with its floor of umber tiles, we had but to pass by a single door from our bed- room, and we liked the look of it, arranged with small tables, one of which, in a corner next a window, we chose as exactly suited to our needs. Having refreshed our- selves a little we made haste to save the remaining day- light, and ran downstairs and across to the edge of the moat. It was such a comfort that it was still there ! Up in the castle, where once that most brilliant and witty- court of the Estes had its seat, are now municipal offices, and impertinent telegraph wires launch themselves at these walls that have looked down with disdain upon battle and siege. We pictured the beautiful and fasci- nating Eleanora d' Este, in the great salon above, the centre of a willing homage, and in the background the sombre figure of Tasso. And then, reaching a little further back into history, imagined the notorious Lucre- zia Borgia arriving, a somewhat battered bride, to the husband at first so reluctant to receive her. ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 33 At this hour everything was so silent and deserted that we had hard work to find any one who could open doors for us, for we had decided to penetrate the dun- geons before we slept. At length, however, an old crone was unearthed whose appearance suggested her having been handed down from an earlier century, and with her we descended to the very roots of the Lion Tower, and stood in those two dismal cells where, out of hearing of each other, Hugo d'Este, in all the splendor of his youth and strength, and the beautiful but frail Parisina suffered worse than death for the eight days before they were be- headed. What, for that terrible week, were the rumina- tions of the injured husband in his gloomy chambers above, whose youthful second wife and idolized son had wrecked his happiness? The old historian of Ferrara says his greatest grief was for the faithless son, whom he adored, and whom he had taken such fatal pains to throw into the society of Parisina, that the young stepmother should love him as dearly as he himself did. He adds that after Hugo's execution the wretched father gave himself up to the wildest transports of agony and in a burst of vengeance decreed that if there were any other wife in high places in Ferrara known to be guilty of the same crime as Parisina she should forthwith suffer death. In consequence of this, he avers, more than one exe- cution of ladies of rank took place, over against the castle. In the semi-darkness of these horrible dens filled with odors unspeakable, the idea of a speedy beheading must have offered itself as a release. We hastened up into the air with a sudden panic of infection upon us. For purposes of thorough ventilation and purifica- tion we wandered in the open air till dinner-time, and found entertainment for eyes and imagination on all sides. Close at hand stood the superb old Lombard fa9ade of the cathedral, with its intricate ornamentation and its 34 WAYFARERS IN ITALY inexpressibly alluring grotesque beasts patiently uphold- ing the weight of the portal. These bloodthirsty griffins and nameless monsters exercise such a fascination upon my companion that she can with difficulty be torn from their society once they are discovered. Their hooked beaks, their terror-striking expression, the unfortunate warrior or bull who usually writhes beneath their claws, all, all are captivating, and many are the portraits of them that we bear away with us. Conformably to our misgivings the night was a dis- turbed one and the ever-recurring question presented itself anew, When do Italians sleep ? I remember a trav- eler's once remarking that the population of a certain Spanish city could be divided into two classes, those people who went to bed at four and those who got up at three, and so, I surmise, is it throughout Italy. At no hour of the night does silence fold its wings over an Italian city. At two, at three, at four, extended cheerful conversations may go on just below your window, exu- berant youths pass down the streets, tuning their voices to high-keyed songs, wagons crash and rattle over the stony pavements, and even the street-cleaner finds some one abroad to exchange compliments with, and they keep it up in stentorian tones as long as they are within hear- ing of each other. "Looking up the house of Ariosto" has a sound of perfunctory sight-seeing, and yet it was a charming little episode, a rare pleasure. There is a seclusion and sim- plicity about the small edifice that make one love it at once, and it had slipped from my mind that the pretty motto, "Parvased apta mihi," was the one he composed for this retreat of his later life. Small it is, for, like other poets, his greatness did not save him from living and dy- ing poor, but it is more attractive than many a larger abode. There are four rooms upon the ground floor, ON THE LOMBARD PLAIN 35 two upon either side of a hallway where the sunlight falls through tiny panes of glass upon ancient woodwork, polished and deepened in color by wear and time, and beyond lies a little garden protected by its high walls in a privacy as complete as that of the interior of the house. It is fragrant with old-fashioned flowers of perhaps the very same kinds that blossomed for the poet. A gentle- voiced, patient woman accompanied us through it and seemed pleased with our pleasure. As she told us what she could of the past of the building, which indeed was not much, she stooped and gathered a flower here and there, and she tried conscientiously to make the collection include every variety in the beds before giving it to us; so that when we think of Ferrara, the memory of it is still sweetened with the odor of Ariosto's flowers and quickened by the warmth of his sunny garden. SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE Arno gentil, fiorenti Prati delle Cascine, Leggiadre palazzine Superbi monumenti, Blanche ville ridenti Sparse per le colline, Vezzose Florentine * . ,.. Dai musicali accent! Bella citta di fieri Piena di glorie sante, Cinta di eterni allori, Culla immortal di Dante Che P universe onori T* amo come un amante ! E. DE AMICIS. A FIRENZE. WONDER if any place in the world has the charm of Florence to those who love her. The re- turn to her after years is a keen delight, and simply to tread her streets, to stand upon her bridges, gives a thrill so moving that tears are not far from the surface. To explain a statement thus verging on the sentimental, to analyze the charm that is so consummate, and at the same time to avoid emotional 36 SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 37 exaggeration would not be easy. I might dwell upon her exquisite situation, her marvelous treasures of art and architecture, and the wonderful, the stupendous history of her past, that seems to breathe life into the very stones of her streets and to rise up and envelop one who passes along them; but how could I transfer to those who have never seen her what can only be felt here on the spot and even then not every one falls a victim to her fascinations ! I met our good Doctor C yesterday on the famous corner of a certain street, only to pass there on the smallest errand fills me with visions. And what said he ? Why, glancing about with a sort of provisional impa- tience, he remarked that it was wasting time to be here when one might be stopping in Rome. I quoted to him a saying adapted by a friend of ours, cc See Naples, visit Rome, live in Florence," at which he merely looked scornful and changed the subject. And so will I, and tell the homely details of our arrival and establishment here. The first night was spent at the Anglo-American, an excellent, quiet hotel, a little too far up the river, but with many advantages, including that of an unusually agreeable proprietor. This was but a stepping-stone, however, to what we meant to compass, which was to become inmates in an Italian household where we should hear no English, and, if possible, see something of the life of a Florentine family. We had the address of such a place, and, searching it out promptly, found we could be received at once, and what was better, that we should be the only strangers in the house. So we moved directly and became dwellers in the street of the Holy Spirit, and entirely comfortable and contented. The Casa T comprises our handsome, cordial hostess, a widow, and her five children, from the Signo- 38 WAYFARERS IN ITALY rina Maria, who: may be twenty-three, 'down to little Pierino, aged ten,' a beautiful child, the moulding and coloring of whose charming face it is a pleasure to . gaze upon, though all the family are well endowed with good looks. The two eldest are daughters, already busy teach- ing, the three youngest, sons, still in school, though rather irregularly so, for the Signora is a somewhat too indul- gent mother, it is easy to see. As for our surround- ings, we occupy one floor of an ' old palazzo y which, as every one knows, is the custom here where a family does not have an entire house to itself, the different floors being let to different people, and the entrance and stair- way serving as common property. Our stairs, by the way, are of evident antiquity ; the lift of each one is quite beyond the altitude of ease, and the tread is a ponderous slab of stone, worn to a sort of bevel at the edge, by the passage of centuries of steps, no doubt, giving one a slightly giddy feeling as of pitching forward while one descends. On our ground floor is a large hall, now the prop- erty of a society, which keeps much gaudy regalia there ; the next floor has a more imposing front door than ours, and the dwellers therein appear to keep rather finer com- pany. I observed that carriages bring gayly dressed people to it, and yesterday I saw an example of a curious and rather undesirable fashion, fallen out of use in America, but evidently still in full force here, that of dressing sisters exactly alike, so that they suggest a brood of fledg- lings. In this case three brunettes, ranging perhaps between twenty-eight and thirty-five, with fatigued, indif- ferent faces, appeared in three showy gowns of what is known as electric blue, with three hats of bizarre shape and bewildering variety of color. The conspicuousness of this effect thrice repeated seemed to render the mode all the more objectionable. SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 39 However, no matter what elegance stops at the first floor, we rest satisfied that our own secondo piano is the really choice location, as so much lighter and more airy, nor do we hear even an echo of the high life below stairs or the proceedings of the humbler menage above us, the thickness of the stone floors preventing all discomfort from -noise, that great objection to living in such close proximity to others in our own less thoroughly con- structed houses. There are many unlooked-for possibili- ties of space and privacy in old buildings such as these, perhaps once the centres of a wealthy patriarchal life, but now fallen to the uses of a humbler housekeeping. The effort of the present day is to so plan a house that every foot of space has its immediate use, and thus to the prac- tical and economical American the big corridors and lofty rooms, which perhaps serve merely as separation or en- trance to certain others, and often enjoyed by families in very small circumstances, are a fresh surprise. Yet this space, which may be regarded as superfluous, saves the necessity of all occupations, sounds and odors being shared at once, so to speak, by all the members of a fam- ily, and one is apt sooner or later to incline toward drop- ping the compact as a standard of desirability, and adopting that of the spacious, as affording much advan- tage of restfulness and quiet. For ourselves, we have but one room between us, it being so large that we find it easy to regard it as equal to the two we at first demanded. Its stone floor is covered with a sort of enamel, laid on to represent a granite centre tastefully relieved by a green border! Rugs are spread beside the beds and tables. We have two iron bedsteads with little stands beside them bearing tall candlesticks, two broad washstands with a towel-rack between as big as a donkey, a dressing-table, a chest of drawers, an extensive wardrobe, a roomy table for books 40 WAYFARERS IN ITALY and writing materials, and several chairs. But perhaps the most important piece of furniture is a tall, circular earthenware stove, much embellished and surmounted by a Parian bust swathed in white gauze. The effect of it is so imposing that when it is lighted we almost seem to be deriving warmth from a historic monument. But it is not often brought into use. Of a chill evening Gina brings us each a cassettina, a little object that in shape might be a jewel-casket somewhat worn and blackened, with handles like an old-fashioned basket. This is filled with hot charcoal and packed with ashes, and used as a footstool is most comforting. When Gina comes to announce dinner she catches them up and carrying them out to the sala deposits them under the table, that we may dine without resting our feet upon the frigid stone floor. All the furniture mentioned, however, does not crowd our apartment, in which there is plenty of space besides. It is lofty enough to make two stories of the common height, and has a beamed ceiling painted and decorated in blue and white. There are also two great arched casement windows, furnished with outside and in- side shutters, and large enough for a procession to march through. High on the wall over them are huge yellow canopies. Gina, the little maid who waits upon us, is most assiduous. Instead of walking, she runs at full speed to do our bidding. Although almost overcome by bashful- ness in our presence, she yearns to serve us and invents things to do for us. She is grieved if she cannot have all our various garments to brush and our shoes to polish every day, and she bids us good-night each evening in a little set speech in which we are first implored to permit her to assist us further if possible, and then commended to the Powers for protection and blessing during the in- terval till she sees us again. FLORENCE. FOUNTAIN OF BACCHUS. SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 41 When we are ready for coffee in the morning we pull a long, heavy bell-cord suspended from the upper regions, and in a few moments breakfast is prepared for us in the adjoining salon, where we have it alone, the family being already dispersed to its various occupations, after which we go forth, perhaps first for a walk and then to study the galleries, keeping the freshest hours of the day for the pictures. To these peaceful and congenial haunts we carry our handbooks and wander about or sit on soft divans studying at our ease. At noon we go home, and the Signora lunches with us. The food is good and delicately cooked, and there is only too much anxiety that there shall be a choice of dishes to suit our taste. Luncheon, or colazione as it is called, will perhaps consist of the following courses: first, macaroni, then shirred eggs, cutlets with fried potatoes, fruit, nuts, etc. Crisp rolls and good wine accompany the meal. Bread, by the way, is an article upon which American and Ital- ian tastes differ. The white flour rolls which are taken for us do not find acceptance with the rest of the family, who prefer cuts from the big loaf, darker, coarser in tex- ture, and unsalted. Butter is a comparatively unim- portant article of diet; we do not see it excepting at our early coffee and then it is a concession to foreign taste. It is sometimes served with cheese and biscuit as a course at colazione. The afternoon is left for more diversified occupations, wandering through the old streets to verify historic sites, exploring churches, and driving to the suburbs. At seven the whole family is assembled, and we dine in a big sala in another part of the establishment. Here a lively conversation goes on, and the harassed Americans follow what they can of it, but as the young people talk with fearful rapidity and in general at least three at a time, it is a breathless pursuit. It is said that one of the daugh- 4 i WAYFARERS IN ITALY ters speaks a little English, but if so she is too shy to try it. We, on the contrary, plunge into the conversa- tion in the most reckless way. When we get into a hope- less entanglement the whole family rushes impetuously to our assistance, guessing at what we wish to say or sup- plying missing words. At this meal the usual courses of meat and vegetables follow one another, but pastry and sweets are uncommon ; instead of the latter, fresh fruits, figs and nuts are served. All the children drink wine freely, down to the youngest, but add a good deal of water to it. The wine is brought to the house at inter- vals and poured into a tall red jar, a true Greek pithos in shape, which stands in the hall. From this it is drawn into decanters for the table. Many other details of house- keeping differ from ours; things which we are accus- tomed to see done in the house are sent out, and vice versa. For example, the clothes are taken away to be washed but brought back to be starched and ironed, and fastidious housekeepers often have the macaroni made at home, where, upon a large table, you may see a vast, unbroken sheet of it spread out, reduced by tireless labor to the thinness of paper. In a small family in Florence a cook receives in the neighborhood of five dollars a month ; a waitress about three ; if, however, the family that employs the latter is a fashionable one, and she is also capable of acting in the capacity of lady's maid, she may even demand ten dollars. The rent of an apartment such as this, of fourteen rooms, in a locality convenient and good but not fashionable, is upwards of a hundred and sixty dollars a year. In that quarter of the city where foreign residents most do congregate, and the buildings are more modern and less interesting, rents are much higher. While upon domestic subjects I must revert for a moment to our little maid, Gina, of whom we have been SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 43 growing quite fond. It appears that she is the centre of a little drama of love and jealousy, in consequence of which we are to lose her this week. Nunzia, the servant who preceded her, was incorrigibly dishonest, and in the end the Signora was obliged to dismiss her. She went away wrathful, and has now managed to stir up trouble for her innocent successor. Gina is a contadina and lived with her parents in a little village not far from Florence. Not being very strong she was unable to accompany her brothers and sisters to their work in the fields, and her part, therefore, was to remain alone at home, attending to the indoor affairs of the family. This she found very lonely and so preferred to earn her living as housemaid here, where she has a good home and labor not beyond her strength. Gina, however, has a lover, and to work upon his jealousy became the aim of the wicked Nunzia. She therefore wrote to him in a spirit of friendly warn- ing, and told him that his Gina had an admirer in Florence, which was the reason she was so much fonder of staying with Signora T than of remaining at home. This terrible accusation fired his Italian heart and he has written to say that Gina must return. If she persists in staying away he will conclude that she no longer loves him and renounce her. At this Gina's parents are in a state of mind, for the lover is a merchant, comfortably off, and a most advantageous match. It is to be hoped that Gina has a sincere affection for her fidanzato ; indeed, she may well be devoted to him and yet prefer to earn her trousseau here ; but be that as it may, when she leaves to spend Holy Week at home, as is the custom here, she will not return and we shall miss her. Another member of the family of whom I have not yet made mention is a small, white, curly dog, the property of Maria. Stellina is her name, and she is a dog of marked personality. There is obstinacy in the 44 WAYFARERS IN ITALY inflexible curve of her tail ; there is cynicism in the corner of her sharp little eye, and the air with which she patrols the front hall is nothing short of domineering. She is devoted to her young mistress, but chary of her favors to outsiders, and though she occasionally accom- panies Maria to see us in the evening, she allows no familiarity from us but sits by in dignified silence while the visit lasts and retires sedately with Maria at its close, no blandishments inducing her to remain with us or to unbend while in our presence in the smallest frolic. In short, it will be seen that reserve and sobriety are features of her character, and yet Stellina is not invulnera- ble ; there is a weak spot in her armor a subject that is unendurable to her. Naturally, the part of good breeding would be to avoid this painful topic, and yet such is human nature that we cannot refrain from bringing it up occasionally just to see her cool superiority ruffled, her haughty indifference broken down. It appears that some time ago another dog, by name Diana, absorbed part of the affections of the family. Of this rival she was madly jealous, and, though Diana has long been dead, the emotions she awakened in the breast of Stellina are as lively as ever, and I confess it is an experiment approaching vivisection in cruelty to play upon the sensibilities of this tiny animal, as I have owned that we now and then do. On a first mention of Diana's name Stellina sits up straight, her little body stiffens, her eye flashes and she seems to make an effort to keep her feelings well in hand. But it is useless ; at a second she loses all control of herself and flies into a transport of anger and fury, in which she darts wildly about, apparently looking for the hated being whose presence she dreads. She searches in every hole and corner, barking frantically ; she roots under the furniture ; she even scratches at doors and listens at the FLORENCE. VIA DI BELVEDERE. SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 45 crack underneath, ever and anon flying back to her mis- tress* side, lest in her momentary absence Diana should have usurped her place. It is a good while before she can be calmed on these occasions, and for some time thereafter she is nervous and uneasy. She glances rest- lessly about, emits a short yelp now and then, and as she gradually grows quieter gazes up at Maria with pleading eyes and a low whine, which tells her suffering so speakingly that we one and all resolve not again to be the wicked means of her torture. The weather, which has been capricious, is now mild and warm again, and out-of-door explorations are more tempting. The flower market is a very pleasant resort on the days when it is held. It takes place at the Mercato Nuovo in the heart of the city, a fine structure, in form an open square, the roof of which is supported on columns. To stray into it is to find the air loaded with fragrance and thousands of cut flowers lying in heaps for sale, their tempting masses offered so cheaply as to fill one with the desire to carry them all away at once. The next day, however, all will have been changed, and the Mercato Nuovo have perhaps become a depot for the sale of straw hats. In the centre of its stone floor is a disk of white marble, quite inconspicuous, and yet in the past it must often have supported keen misery and mortification ; it is nothing less than the spot upon which bankrupts were obliged to sit exposed to public humiliation. It is needless to say that even in Florence that usage passed out of date long since, and now I fear too little obloquy is attached to failure to meet business obligation here as elsewhere. Not far from this spot sits a merchant presiding over a tub nearly full of yellow lupine seeds in salt water, a delicacy only to be appreciated by local palates, and failing to tempt us even upon the warm recommendation of the 46 WAYFARERS IN ITALY vendor. At this point we emerge from the market- place, passing the great bronze boar who presides over its fountain. From here it is but a step to the Piazza della Signoria, the core of the city's present life and past history. There towers the old town hall, the Palazzo Vecchio, that superb pile, with its nobly mounting tower, old enough to have looked down upon a long succession of events. What brilliant and glittering spectacles has it wit- nessed, what noisy and picturesque festivals presided over ! And yet those associations that most haunt the memory are the terrible ones the cruelty, the torture, the agony that it has witnessed. Strange and dreadful memories these, and yet, perhaps, in the midst of such recollections one's eyes light upon an object close by which starts another train of thought. If in this place human life has been held cheaply, how reverently has beauty been regarded, for here stands a famous statue upon its pedestal of elaborate workmanship, exquisite and fragile carved marble, and here it has stood in the open air for three hundred years, perfectly accessible to all the mischievously disposed urchins of the city, and yet it is unbroken. In the neighborhood of this piazza cluster memora- ble buildings, and streets lead from it to history and romance. Much has been torn away, sacrificed to the too progressive spirit of the modern Florentines ; but though one must not insist that they shall remain in mouldering, unsanitary buildings for the sake of pilgrims in search of the picturesque, they might have been less uncom- promising in the fury of thoroughness with which they have wiped away whole quarters. We, for instance, are too late to know the pictorial decay of the Mercato Vecchio, but photographs not many years old show us that delight of artists as it then was, and we cannot but SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 47 regard it with a fond regret. To-day, as the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, nothing could exceed its substantial propriety, but its charm is gone. Within its precincts we have watched with much curiosity the working of one of the institutions of the Italy of to-day, the periodical lottery. It was quite an exciting scene. The great square began to fill at five in the evening, and gradually it became black with a solid mass of thousands of people facing the pavilion where the drawing was to take place. It looked as though most of the population of Florence had assembled. All purchasers of chances held their tickets in their hands and had supplied themselves with pencils, so that shortly something very like a gigantic game of lotto began. Each ticket had fifteen figures printed upon it and as fast as a number was drawn and exposed, if it corre- sponded with the one upon your list, you at once marked it off, the first card filled taking the prize. This, it will be seen, keeps everybody eager and excited, with the hope of winning, till the last moment. The person next me had all but five numbers marked when the winner was announced. This drawing proved a short one, occupying only about twenty-five minutes. At intervals some portion of the crowd swayed and shouted, but when at last one man had filled his card, it seemed somehow to be communicated to the whole mass at once, and a general hubbub took place for a short time while the winner made his way to the plat- form to receive his thousand lire, a goodly sum to write or speak but in reality amounting to something less than two hundred dollars in American money. The crowd began to flow away through the streets leading out of the piazza, and we watched the winner walk off, a well-to-do looking man of middle age, leading a sturdy little boy by the hand, numerous stragglers skipping 48 WAYFARERS IN ITALY about and before them to have a look at the hero of the occasion. It is said that the lottery is an important source of government revenue, and the whole spectacle is a rather uncivilized one and an undignified method for a government to resort to, as, of course, it impoverishes the poor and ignorant of the people most. With the happy inconsequence of those who, when in Rome, enjoy doing as the Romans do, a day that begins in the shadow of the sanctuary may end in the glare of the theatre, and so one morning we dutifully carried our guide-books and our Ruskin to Santa Croce, there to look at some celebrated frescoes which are very hard to see, and only to be puzzled out early in the forenoon of a day when the sun rises clear. The weather is so variable that this is not an easy condition to secure, and we grew rather cross with straining our eyes to discern almost invisible objects, for the sun would come out for ten seconds and then retire behind a cloud for ten minutes, and at last we gave it up for that day and walked down the nave, as directed by Mr. Ruskin to do, so as to inspect a certain one of two funereal tablets in the floor. There lies a forgotten worthy, whose features have long since been trodden into smooth blankness by the feet of careless worshipers, but three folds in his cap remain, and likewise the tassels of his marble cushion ; and if you can see why these, in comparison with the adjoining tablet, are so supremely right, you are worthy to study the art of Florence; otherwise, says Mr. Ruskin, you may as well depart from the city at once, as nothing here will ever do you any good. My two companions refused to lend themselves to these pious investigations, and railed at Mr. Ruskin and at those who weakly submit to his tyrannous exactions ; but that dear man's testiness and petulance should but elicit an indulgent smile, while for all his great and FLORENCE. VICOLO D ORO. SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 49 endearing qualities there is room for love and reverence, and one likes to try sometimes to put oneself in his mood and see with his eyes. Determined, therefore, on behaving with decorum, I was just beginning to discover the immense superiority of the folds and tassels, when, oh, horror! I found I was examining the wrong ones. Conceive my feelings. Humbled and chastened, I meekly left the church and repaired to the Pitti Palace, where there were pictures in the full light of day with the names of the artists upon the frames, so that one could not make the mistake of admiring the wrong ones. On the evening of this day we were induced to go to the theatre, to see a wonderful spectacular ballet. We understood that it was to come on at the beginning of the performance, but found on arriving that we must first listen to a mediocre little opera in two long acts. The singing was not very good, and it was surprising to find the audience no more discriminating than one in an American town might have been. It did not appear to matter whether the singer was exactly on the key ; as long as the note was loud enough and long enough she was applauded to the echo. The orchestra was full and good, and the theatre a large one, but less well fur- nished and handsomely finished than might have been expected. The opera at last drew to a tragic close, and after the heroine and her lover had been satisfactorily stabbed, and the husband had gone mad, the curtain rose again on the famous ballet, and truly there could scarcely have been a more bewildering display. The immense stage was one blaze of light and glitter and appeared to extend into infinite distance. This effect was cleverly carried out by having children to rep- resent the people in the background and on the heights, thus aiding the perspective. One could hardly imagine anything prettier or 50 WAYFARERS IN ITALY more captivating than the first effect until the second part, when the three hundred dancers came out in white wigs and the daintiest court costumes, of course short- tened to the necessary brevity. The color effects were managed marvelously, swaying lines or masses of pale pink, intertwined with others of pale-blue and silver, sea-green and gold, snow-white or shaded lavender. It was really enchanting. The premiere danseuse was young and pretty, with a charming slim figure, and was evidently a great favorite. At the right moment, when she had nearly danced her little feet off and her glossy hair out of curl, there arose a murmur in the audience and a procession appeared, bearing the floral tributes. I thought I had seen tributes of important size before, but these were colossal, and their magnitude and number became absurd. It took a round dozen of men to carry them in and heave them upon the stage. There were easels ten feet high, stars of prodigious magnitude, wreaths that could hardly be lifted, with many other devices of graduated size, and there they stood, disposed in a towering semicircle, as a background to another sprightly passeul, executed in the midst of the vocifer- ous delight of the audience. Such occasions as these we indulge in rarely, for the fatigue of the late hours which are the custom here is apt to interfere with the next day's pleasure. Beginning at nine, one is usually kept out of bed till two. One of the charms of Florence, as every one knows, is the beautiful variety of villas for which its situation is so favorable. Lying in a somewhat narrow valley, which it nearly fills, its lovely forest-like park extending itself along the river beyond, the wooded declivities of Fiesole are on the south and the more gradual slopes of the Oltrarno opposite. Little steam trams bustle out into the country, making it possible to have a very accessible SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 51 home beyond the city's noise, or if one desires a more perfect seclusion he may be as peacefully retired among gently rolling hills clothed with vines and olives as he pleases, and yet within easy driving distance. Between two villas we visit, occupied by American friends, it is hard to choose. One has a location of the latter sort, and dreams away the days among the sweetest of peaceful outlooks over cultivated rounded hills. The rooms are large enough for spaciousness but not for empty vastness, and the house has been furnished gradually with beautiful and tasteful things found in Florence. A certain simplicity prevails; nowhere is there any overcrowding of furniture or overloading of ornament. It was the abode of a famous family, and the little chapel which forms a wing adds greatly to its attractiveness. On a certain festa of the Virgin Mary there is a service in it to which the neighboring contadini flock, and they are allowed to prepare it and deck it with flowers, according to their own ideas, which they do with the utmost reverence and care. This year a part of the preparation was to cover the whole pavement and the path outside for some distance with a carpet of rose petals. The other villa of which I spoke is on the south side of Florence, and from the little tram which plies below it you may walk up easily in a few minutes. It is where the first hills rise toward the heights of Fiesole, and the suburbs of San Gervasio and Maiano lie along the heights. This villa also must have had a history, though the details of it, I believe, are not known, for it was a Medici house, and among the frescoes of its open court it is easy to recognize Lorenzo's ugly face. Against the wall is a fine old well, and through the hall beyond you may see out into a sunny garden. Beautiful views spread themselves before every window the city, the 52 WAYFARERS IN ITALY river, the mountains and at the back a group of fine old cypresses brood over the lawn. There is a large open belvedere upon the roof, and in the four corners of it stand four great red jars, large enough to conceal the thieves of Ali Baba. To these the water is conveyed that is afterward distributed over the house. At the foot of the hill upon one side stands Vernon Lee's house, marked by its one great stone-pine, which stretches its circular shady parasol over the little enclosure. Close by is one of the rarest domains near Florence, and it is for sale. On a commanding point of the hill stands its villa, upon a wide graveled terrace, solid and spacious, and I am told handsome and in excellent order within. From it stretch down to the lower ground on the west acres of shady woods and open glades, among which paths wind, to be sure, but otherwise the look of an almost untouched bit of nature is preserved. There one may make discoveries among the tall grass and tangled vines of some bit of ancient stonework, some fountain or well now overgrown, and there birds live and nest in a security undisturbed. And all this dream of beauty, with its comfort and accessibility, may be bought for twenty-five thousand dollars. When one thinks of a prosaic city house, with a few feet of clipped lawn, for which more than this is demanded, it seems almost incredible. Within sight of it is another little estate, also for sale, at less than half the price of the first, beguiling to a somewhat humbler aspiration and a shorter purse. This lies lower than its lordly neighbor, but still sufficiently elevated for a vista which is the perfection of tranquil loveliness, ending with the gently folding curves of hills that close in the distance. Besides the comfort- able house, with its broad front, there is a little podere or farm, which is worked upon the tenant system which prevails here and which makes Tuscany the province of SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 53 all Italy where one would choose to live in the country, because there is less misery among the peasantry. The system is explained as follows, by some one who knows more than I do of it : " The mezzeria or metayer system generally prevail- ing in Tuscany induces a patriarchal feeling between landlord and peasant which is very pleasant to see, but is not conducive to agricultural progress or a good thing for the landlord. He pays all the taxes to the govern- ment, which are enormous ; he provides the house-rent free, and keeps it in repair ; he buys the oxen, cows and horses, bearing half the loss if they die, and, of course, getting half the profit when they are sold. The peasant gives his labour, the landlord gives the land and the capital, and the proceeds are divided between them. In bad years the landlord advances corn to his peasants, which they repay, when they can, in wine, oil, beans, etc. Where there is a large family of young children the peasant sometimes accumulates a load of debt that crip- ples him for years ; in rare instances the landlord turns him out at six months' notice, and puts another family on the farm ; but, as a rule, the peasants remain for generations on the same property, and always talk of themselves as the gente [people] of their landlord." Janet Ross, Italian Sketches. About and beyond the villas I have mentioned lie endless possibilities for driving or rambling, for it is a region well nigh inexhaustible. One such excursion we took after having arranged it telescopically, so to speak, as our eyes ranged over the surrounding country from the top of the Palazzo Vecchio tower one morning. As we leaned upon the parapet of that commanding summit two castles that had long tantalized us in their green dis- tance seemed to beckon us irresistibly and we began to talk to the custodian about them. Soon we had made our 54 WAYFARERS IN ITALY plans and warmed to excitement in the spirit of adven- ture and later we carried them through successfully. We began by taking the tram up to Fiesole in the afternoon, carrying provision with us for a meal al fresco. Arrived at the piazza where it sits securely in its saddle upon the hill, looking down on either side to valleys below, we made our escape as quickly as possible from the vendors of straw fans who project themselves upon all newcomers, and directed our steps westward, along the spine of the ridge. Beyond the confines of the vil- lage we came out upon scattered trees not yielding much shade, and thence to slopes covered with low-growing shrubs an almost wild bit of country with farmhouses at long distances apart. On reaching the first of our two castles, Poggio Cas- tello, we found it inhospitable, for a printed notice warned trespassers away, so we could only circle round it and admire its dark solidity and the tall pines that profiled themselves against its gray walls and battlements. A restless wind played about it which suggested its being cool and comfortable when the warmth of summer set in, for Florence is said to become almost unbearably hot from July to September. At this place the descent began and we strolled downwards, seating ourselves now and then to look at the valley spread out before us and rec- ognize the different clusters of roofs between the trees ; so we approached at last our second trastle, first passing the little church and the handful of buildings that lie below its walls. Vincigliata is a sort of phoenix, which rose from its ashes about forty years ago. It had had a long and varied history as tumultuous as the times in which it existed, ending at last in its complete demolishment. How long it remained a mere heap of ruins I do not know, but at last it was purchased by an American, Mr. SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 55 Leader, with the idea of rebuilding it. It seemed a gigantic undertaking. The outline of the exterior was hardly traceable and all that remained standing was a fragment of wall which had formed part of the principal tower. It is said that, given a single bone, Mr. Agassiz could reconstruct a whole primeval fish, and perhaps in like manner archaeologists can project a whole building from the most insignificant remnant. At all events, whatever secrets archaeology and his- tory yielded up, Vincigliata took shape again, its walls and towers, its battlements and fortifications became tangible, cypresses grew up about it and took on the look of age, and with the completion of the exterior the interior was not neglected. Old armor and weap- ons hang upon the walls, relics of antiquity are col- lected everywhere, and much modern reproduction helps it out. Decades ago wealth could command much more than it can to-day, when every corner of Italy has been ransacked for such things, and the treasures of carved marble and stone one comes upon here are not now to be found. We lingered fascinated by the medi- aeval kitchen with its interesting contrivances, its cavern- ous recesses, and its huge copper vessels; examples of majolica in a row just above our heads lent a glowing band of color to the dusky apartment, for when showers of arrows were liable to enter at the windows light had perforce to be curtailed. In the courtyard a row of mar- ble tablets in the wall commemorated the reception of many parties of titled visitors, and certain rooms were furnished to receive the family when they wished to stay there, a thing which the custodian says does not happen now. It is open on Sundays and Thursdays to those who bring the required permit, and although it was neither of those days we dared to ring at the postern, confiding in the good nature of the custodian (who of course gains 56 WAYFARERS IN ITALY some profit from visitors) and were not refused admit- tance. When we had climbed to the top of the tower and peered fearfully into the black depths of an oubliette which afforded heartfelt satisfaction to the youngest member of our trio, we took leave of Vincigliata and proceeding a little beyond its boundaries chose a favorable situation for our out-of-door feast, which of course was more or less frugal in its elements as we had been obliged to carry it with us during our long ramble. On our travels we never waste the smallest remainder of these repasts, how- ever. In America what would be the surprise and dis- dain of a passer-by to whom you offered a few mouthfuls of food, but here there is always some one to whom you may proffer it, sure of a smile and a ready acceptance. Such an one we encountered soon after our repast as we walked on, a ruddy-faced man a little past middle age, trudging homeward from his labor on the roads, his clothes powdered with the dust of the light stone used. He had a good, intelligent face and a cheerful expression, and accepted our small offering with an acknowledgment so pleasant and at the same time so self-respecting that he put us quite at our ease, and left us wishing it had been much larger. Passing some delightful villas and gardens as we neared the foot of the hills, and reluctantly leaving unex- plored the path that would have taken us aside to Setti- gnano, that alluring little nest, we reached the group of houses at the terminus of the tram, whose infrequent trips seemed to be supplemented by a light cart which stood by the roadside and whose proprietor offered to set us down inside the barriers of Florence for a sum that but slightly exceeded the tram fare. We disguised our surprise and joy fully accepted, and having the little vehi- cle to ourselves jogged home in the utmost comfort and SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 57 4 good humor, enjoying the sweet fields and hedgerows and the ever new beauty of the delicious valley in the oncoming twilight. At the barriers we bargained with our handsome vetturino for an extension of the drive could he not take us across the city and set us down at Doney's? For we had concluded that a luxurious, nay almost dissipated climax to our day of pleasure would be to have ices and confectionery upon a little table outside that celebrated caffe. He agreed at once and volunteered to leave any extra compensation to the generosity of the Signore. Artful being ! how well he understood the softening effect of such confidence! How could we do less after this than to part leaving him with a satisfied smile and a cheery tone in the voice that wished us good night? The preparations for Easter are going on. All the pictures in the churches are covered, many windows are darkened, and even the figures of Christ on the small crucifixes have little bits of purple cloth fastened over them. Between Thursday and Sunday no bells will be rung, but at noon on Sunday all the bells of Florence will resound at once. On Holy Thursday, after the manner of good Roman Catholics, we visited churches to see the various representations of the Holy Sepulchre prepared in each one. To do your duty properly on that occasion you must go to seven ; we overdid ours and, first and last, visited ten ; and yet when all was over we were cruelly informed that we had omitted the one we should have seen above all others that of San Giovenino. There is of course a wide choice as there are eighty important churches in Florence, besides I know not how many smaller ones. For the representa- tion of the sepulchre a chapel in the church is chosen, decorated with flowers and greenery, and lighted by 58 WAYFARERS IN ITALY scores of candles, from the height of a taper to that of many feet. As you enter some churches the fragrance of fresh blossoms meets you ; in others the flowers are mostly of paper fastened carefully upon stems of real green leaves, but everywhere a great feature is the pots of sprouting wheat. These are prepared eight days beforehand and placed in a cellar or other nearly dark place, so that the grain as it sprouts and seeks the light shall remain white. It grows to a length of six or eight inches, part of it drooping over the edges so that the outside of the pot is nearly concealed, and numbers of these pots are placed among the other plants and arranged as borders upon the floor. In some churches the flowers, plants and burning tapers form the total preparation, but they all vary in the arrangement of their effects. In the Miseri- cordia, the most interesting one we saw, the church was hung with black and there was no light excepting what came from the altar of the sepulchre. A life-size figure of the dead Christ lay there, terribly real, and covered with wounds ghastly in their verisimilitude and crimson with streaming or coagulated blood. A silent crowd coming and going filled the church. Women and children pressed up to kiss the body and babies were raised in their mothers' arms that they might touch their lips to each wound separately. Above the bier, and appearing everywhere among the flowers and lights, were the emblems of the Passion the crown of thorns, the nails, the sponge, the sword, the dice, the red robe, the ladder, the hand which buf- feted, the pillar to which He was bound, and the cock that reminded Peter. The people stream from one church to another to pray at as many as they can during the day. The parishes, of course, differ much in the amount and cost of the decoration which they can afford. For SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 59 example, San Giovenino, the church we failed to see, belongs to a rich parish whose wealthy inhabitants send such masses of exquisite hot-house flowers that there is said to be nothing like it in Florence. However, there is an artificiality about this which one regards as hardly more than curious. The true spirit of the thing is to be found in some little village where the rural popula- tion, full of sincere feeling and unquestioning faith, deck the sepulchre with field flowers and the simple offerings they are able to bring, and something like this we saw in the little village of Grassina, whither we went to see a procession which takes place at this season yearly. I Under the guidance of the organizer of the expe- dition we carried our supper with us, and started upon our hour's drive out into the country late in the after- noon. The sun was near the horizon when we entered the long street of the little village and all the population was abroad, together with many visitors who had come on foot or in vehicles of every description to be present at the ceremonies. Booths were set up on either side of the way for the sale of sweet-cakes and other eatables and we stopped to purchase some wafers special to the occasion. The thrifty dealer, noting the fact that we were foreigners, gave us less than half the quantity the same money would have purchased if offered by a native, but when we had tasted the cakes we were satisfied with the quantity, as they were strong of anise, a flavor which they here like carried to a point far beyond what we find pleasant. Participants in the procession were collecting, and ever and anon a knight with pasteboard helmet and long rose-colored or blue cotton cloak came pricking by, hastening to the rendezvous. The church stood a little above the village on the long, gradual slope of a hill, and we mounted to it and afterwards chose a position a 60 WAYFARERS IN ITALY little above it where was a stone-terraced garden, giving us a position overhanging the road by which the proces- sion would approach, so that no group of village lads could cut off our view at the last moment. Here, upon a carpet of grass next a border of blue iris, we seated ourselves to enjoy the sunset and our supper while waiting. Placed as we were we overlooked the little basin-like valley ; the village lay at the bottom, and the grass-covered hills curved away and upward from it on every side. The sun, almost disappearing over the rim, sent down long golden shafts, accenting the shadows on one side, while it glorified every growing thing on the other. The tufts of grass, the clumps of shaggy bushes, gilded in its rays, seemed to round themselves to more harmonious mouldings, and the waved outline of the hills above was almost fluent against the pale blue of the sky. Softly but quickly the changes of light take place at this hour ; very soon the sun had dipped, but it was not till twilight was upon us that the head of the procession turned the corner of the church and began to mount the slope in our direction. Leading it were several musi- cians playing dirges and requiems, whose lingering meas- ures floated out upon the air of the little pastoral valley with a curiously mournful effect. Following the musi- cians were the Roman knights whom we had met singly earlier in the afternoon. They were more impressive now; pasteboard and cotton turned to steel and velvet in the half light, illuminated by the flare of the torches, and the dignity with which they sat their chargers was all that could be required of them. Then came a num- ber of little boys bearing the emblems of the Passion, and following them the Apostles, clothed in loose robes and turban-like headgear of white. They preceded a bier bearing upon it the dead Christ, and as it came all the SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 61 peasantry gathered upon either side of the path, dropped to their knees and remained with bared heads till it had passed them. After this appeared a troop of little girls in white frocks and black sashes, their rosy faces filled with the seriousness of the occasion and the importance of their share in it, and after them paced the older girls, also in white and with white veils. Very charming and virginal they looked, in spite of a slight self-consciousness in the air of some of them, and behind them towered the Queen of Heaven, carried upright under a swaying canopy managed with some difficulty upon the steepness of the hillside. A band of older women walked behind, dressed in deep black, and the procession closed with a large number of people in every-day dress, representing the populace sure to be present upon all public occasions. Some halts and hesitations gave us the opportunity we wished, to examine details of emblems and costume, and to note the sincerity and gravity with which the whole ceremony was regarded by both participants and spectators. Then the cortege slowly withdrew and grad- ually became a long, undulating line, marked by the luminous dots of its torches, twinkling and dipping as it followed the irregularities of the path where it mounted and dropped among the folds of the hills. Long we gazed after it and then reluctantly left our garden perch to return to the village, mount our carriage again and drive back through the light of stars, whose broken reflections we watched in the ripples of the Arno as we followed its banks toward Florence. In the afternoon of Holy Thursday there is a great emblematical ceremony at the cathedral, the washing of feet. We went early to secure favorable places, but as the high altar is surrounded by a screen of glass in heavy panels, it is not easy to find them. After we had waited for a while a procession came slowly up the church, and 62 WAYFARERS IN ITALY ' from it twelve old men from the almshouse, dressed in long white robes and with their heads bound round with white, filed into the chancel and sat upon a high settle covered with brocade, before which was a foot-rest. The space around was filled with priests and choristers, and presently the archbishop mounted his throne. Then, as the ceremony went on, there was much dressing and undressing of the feeble old archbishop, almost buried under his costly robes. They changed his habiliments, they put on and off the mitre, they gave and took away the crosier; but at length he slowly descended the steps of the throne and proceeded toward the beggars, whose shoes and stockings were removed by this time. A great silver basin was presented, each old fellow's heels rested in the basin in turn, while a little water was poured on them and a slight drying with a towel followed, after which the great dignitary bent forward as if to kiss the feet; but this was done symbolically, as on the stage. Not so very long ago, before the unification of Italy, King Carlo Albertus used also to perform a ceremony something like this, but more agreeable. Twelve little boys, up to the age of twelve years, the prettiest that could be found among the noble families of Italy, were taken to the palace, the King washed their feet and after- ward they remained to breakfast with him. He gave to each a costume of velvet and a silver knife, fork and spoon. But the most remarkable result of this event was that none of the children so honored was subject later to capital punishment, no matter what crime he might commit when grown up imprisonment, if neces- sary, but not execution. All day long on Holy Thursday as you go from church to church you see for sale outside each one num- bers of rods bound spirally with colored paper. These have to do with a service which takes place about sun- SOJOURNING IN FLORENCE 63 down. At that time we repaired to Santa Maria Novella and edged our way slowly through the thousands of people already assembled till we reached the lighted sepulchre, or rather stood within sight of it on some steps which raised us above the surging crowd, for it never remains stationary but sways and moves perpetually. Out of sight, the choir chanted the penitential psalms, with inter- vals between. Just as the singers are finishing the last one a noise suddenly begins, and in a moment swells to a thunderous volume of sound. This is the flagellation, and it lasts a few moments only, till the rods with which the people are supplied have been broken, as they furi- ously beat the stone floor, the steps, the columns anything nearest them. Originally perhaps there was a solemnity to this observance, but now it appears to be mostly confined to the children. I did not see any grown people assisting at the beating. On Good Friday at noon there is a famous musical service at the same great church, called "The Three Hours of Agony," in commemoration of Christ's suf- fering on the cross. For these three hours singing and exhortation alternate. The church is darkened and the high altar concealed by a representation of Calvary as large as the scenery of a theatre, with life-size figures of the people standing about the cross. We stayed only about an hour, for the crowd was so great that we could not get near enough to hear the exposition of the priest, and we found that there were twenty minutes of preach- ing to five of music. This virtually closed those ceremo- nials in Holy Week which were of any note. It is not now as it once was. "As black is to white, so is the Holy Week of to-day to that of Pio Nono's time," said an Italian friend to whom we ventured to intimate that we had looked for a little more pomp and circumstance in its observance. DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY O silent walls that once with chants resounded, Girt with your mournful cypresses and yews, Do ye in prone forgetfulness but slumber, Or on your sad decay, desponding muse ? Ashes to ashes ! So shall yours return To those of this gray soil, or else be cast To the harsh winds that nightly beat upon And long to rend and level ye at last. T. M. B. A Tuscan Monastery. IT Siena good fortune in weather seemed to desert us, and we began almost to despair of carrying out our cherished plan of driving to Monte Oliveto and beyond. Two days we waited anxiously while it poured continuously, our good hosts, full of kindness and solici- tude, watching the clouds with us, in the meanwhile helping us to make a provisional arrangement with one Antonio Gracci, the owner of a pair of stout horses and a comfortable carriage. Sum- moned to an audience, that proprietor appeared, and after a preliminary skirmish with our hostess in the hall, during which she endeavored to discourage his overcharging us, we had an interview in the little salon. You are not to DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 65 suppose that this was a simple inquiry as to terms and a direct reply, with the whole affair, bald and unexciting, over in three minutes nothing of the sort. The padrone having settled himself solidly upon one chair, I should have leaned indifferently back in another, while we discussed terms. But I am comparatively new to these affairs and prone to become too early heated in discussion, so that I am conscious now of having sat much too far forward upon the edge of my chair and of having allowed matters to come to a focus too rapidly. He, having proposed a price, I gazed at him with con- sternation depicted upon my countenance and suggested another. He feigned despair and resorted to trans- parently flimsy pretexts for his overcharge, while I triumphantly exposed them. We both talked animatedly, and I must modestly chronicle my own subsequent surprise at the gift of tongues which seemed to descend upon me on this occasion. My halting Italian appeared to clear itself up for the encounter and I became almost voluble. We ended amicably, I paying for the two days more than I had intended to, of course, but not dissatis- fied, since Antonio is known to have horses strong and reliable for a long journey, which is not the case at all the stables in Siena. Fortunately for us, in the night the weather changed, hat in the morning our chariot with its two good, fat rses and a fresh-faced young driver, drew up at the door about nine, and our light luggage being packed into it we established ourselves in great comfort. We like a youthful driver, for at that age they are not apt to dom- ineer, but are modest and submissive and willing to take suggestions. Our cordial hosts waved their hands to us till we were out of sight, and we set off in high spirits. The roads were perfect in spite of the long rain, early flowers were sprinkled along each side of the way and 66 WAYFARERS IN ITALY the vines were beginning to come into leaf. There were patches of snow on the mountains here and there still, and the air was cool and bracing. We trotted on to the cheerful accompaniment of our jingling bells, and cast many long looks backward as our dear little Siena made tender adieu to us, showing us a different aspect at the summit of each hill and finally melting into a thin fringe of slender points and towers up against the horizon. From the valley of the Arbia we made a long, gradual ascent to the monastery of Monte Olive to, perched on a sort of mountainous promontory among rugged ravines, with an outlook over miles upon miles of plains and ridges ; a great silent edifice of purplish red brick, which once housed nearly three hundred monks but now shelters only four, with two students and two servants. It has been suppressed since Napoleon's day and now belongs to the government. To visit it you must go to the authorities in Siena and get a permit, which you send on by post ten days beforehand to announce when you may be expected, since you are warned that otherwise there would be nothing to eat. We entered the enclosure through a great battlemented gateway which raises itself above rows of sombre, pointed cypresses, and in a few minutes reached the entrance. We were received by one of the two servants and ushered into the cloisters, where presently the father highest in authority, Don Giuse^B Fabbri, came to speak to us, in his long cream-wn^ robes, a most picturesque figure. He asked us how long we wished to remain, ordered a younger priest to show us over the building, and left us. We first studied the cloisters which Signorelli and Sodoma have lined with scenes from the life of St. Bernardo, who in the four- teenth century came to this lonely infertile region to begin his monastic life. The miracles which attended his career are delightfully portrayed by these two great DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 67 masters, many of them such innocent and childlike little miracles that one smiles perforce, as, for example, where a brother engaged in carpentering work lets an iron tool fall into the water, and St. Bernardo's holy power causes it to float to the surface again within reach of his hand. Such smooth, smiling, round-faced brothers, such clear, light colors, such fair, green gardens as are depicted ; it is wonderful to think that the centuries have passed over these lovely frescoes and withered them so little. After a tour of exploration to those parts of the monastery that are shown, and a luncheon served to us in the refectory, we were taken upstairs through long, empty, resounding corridors to our rooms. We passed rows of doors to cells of monks long gone, and at last reached the place assigned to us, a sort of little suite, which I fancy must have been intended for a higher church dignitary. The salon had a groined ceiling elab- orately frescoed ; opening from it in succession were two bedrooms, each with a narrow iron bed, a chair and a table, and at the end a bit of a dressing-room with the most primitive of bathing appliances. These cells were guiltless of the vanity of mirrors, and one must dress by imagination ; but there was a Madonna over the head of each bed and a crucifix at one side, with a vase for holy water below it. We spent the afternoon taking a Jong walk around and beyond the monastery and getting views from many points of vantage. A still higher ridge rises above this one, and crowning it is Chiusuri, one of the tiny Italian hill villages that one wonders over. It would be easier to guess why it was originally perched upon this height and indeed it was of importance in its day than what keeps it still in existence. Incredibly little as the peas- antry must be able to live on, one can hardly see how or where that little is wrung from this soil. It caps 68 WAYFARERS IN ITALY the very summit of the ridge ; steep earthen cliffs and ravines fall away from it, composed of a soil that has been the despair of the husbandman for its chalky, shifting quality. St. Bernardo made it his life-work to reclaim parts of it and render it fit for the support of human life, but labor can never have compelled much of a return, and season after season avalanches of gray mud precipitated themselves upon vineyards and olive plantations, sometimes completely destroying them. At seven o'clock we repaired again to the refectory, and there at one end of the long table our meal was served to us dimly lighted by an old Roman lamp. But indeed we would have wished no brighter light ; a partial obscurity suited far better the age in which we were living, and who knows but this flickering lamp may have served here for centuries. I talked to our waiter and found him very communicative. I asked if he were not a little lonely here, and he acknowledged feelingly that he was, that it was desolate and he had no one to speak to. The other seven inmates, including the cook, were all in holy orders, he being the only lay- man. He held that the wind always howled round the old building as it did that night; and perhaps ghosts walk there is vast space and emptiness enough for anything. I could not help feeling that the padres must still harbor resentful feelings toward intruding women who come to invade a retreat once closed against their objectionable sex, but to my surprise when the last course, of small sour raisins and tough cheese, was served, Don Giuseppe came in, seated himself at the table with us and affably entered into conversation. I proffered various questions about the establishment and he politely explained, so that we sat quite a little while over our slender dessert. It seems that ordinary visitors to the monastery are MONTI OLIVETO. CHIUSURI. DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 69 not allowed to remain more than two days. Each one pays five lire a day, no more, no less. Of course, one may make a donation to the establishment, but it is not asked or hinted for. On special application it is possi- ble to stay several weeks, and Don Fabbri was proud of an English scholar who, he told us, came every year, to make an extended stay, for the purpose of studying in the great library. I must confess that the food is such as to suggest mortification of the flesh, and while one may easily find enough to satisfy one's hunger at dinner- time, breakfast is not very sustaining. At that time coffee of an undrinkable kind is served with crostini, that is, fragments of the unsalted bread of the country dried in the oven to a fossil-like hardness. No butter is offered at any meal and the water has a strong earthy flavor, possibly harmless but certainly unpleasant. The wine is good. In our comings and goings we now and then en- countered Andrea, our young veffurino, hanging about the monastery yards and stables with an air of such settled melancholy as awakened our sympathy. He, as well as the cameriere y appeared to find no companionship and to experience a depression hard to endure. It was therefore with an air of cheerful alacrity that he prepared to resume the journey on the second morning, and hav- ing bidden Don Fabbri a cordial farewell we turned our faces eastward, meaning to drive through San Quirico and Pienza to Montepulciano, San Quirico being a conven- ient stopping-place for luncheon, besides being in itself interesting. After descending from the altitude of Monte Oliveto one travels through a country of valleys and low hills, smooth with cultivation, among which, at noon, one reaches San Quirico. At the sign of " The Two Rabbits " our chariot drew up and we had an interview with the fat landlady, 70 WAYFARERS IN ITALY who promised to prepare colazione while we went to visit the old Chigi garden, and we started at once in search of the key. To live in a castle or palazzo in Tuscany where there is no space for a garden is not necessarily to be deprived of one, only to be separated from it by a short distance, and so when the key had been given us we proceeded to an entrance in a high gray wall, and when it had grated in the lock and the ancient gates had swung back on their hinges, we beheld the garden indeed, a tranquil green wilderness, but no villa, only a slender stone tower that sprang up at one side from a carpet of untrodden meadow-grass, and beyond, whispering ilex woods mounting an irregular slope which had once been carefully tended terraces. Never could this lovely solitude have been so beauti- ful in its prime as it is in its decay. We were at liberty to loiter here as long as we liked and we rustled across the field-flowers and bending grass-blades to the shade of glossy deep-green leafage that sheltered a moss-grown stone bench. This bench interested us from its quaint form. It was circular, and the slim column around which it turned ended in a Janus-like head whose disintegrated features bore the appearance of having been originally carved in sugar and then partly melted away by rain. A little higher there was a beautiful old stone table with seats on opposite sides. It yielded a possibility of places for four, and yet it suggested harboring only two ; not two lovers, who would have chosen the circular bench, but two friends, who, content to be opposite each other instead of side by side, might muse and talk, leaning idly on the stone slab between them, while from the roof of their cool retreat only an occasional flicker of sunlight dropped through to touch them. The more open parts of the garden were commanded by the upper windows of a line of houses looking almost as old as the wall they DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 71 peeped over, so that on a fesfa, when the nobility in gala array disported themselves upon the terraces, excel- lent opportunity for enjoying the spectacle must have been afforded to the humbler townsfolk. On our return to the inn the old padrona, who was also cook, came up- stairs and hovered about, to see how we liked our pranzo, and wrung her hands when she observed how little soup we took. At this meal we had a new dish, small dark-red arti- chokes, eaten raw, dipped in olive oil and salt. The young woman who waited at table instructed us how to prepare them and encouraged us in our efforts to appre- ciate them. In the course of conversation we told her that we were from America, and she exclaimed that she longed to go to that country. We told her that she would hardly find anywhere in the world a fairer land than her own, but she only shook her head and repeated: "Ah ! you say that because you are foreigners. I do not value it so much. I was born in San Quirico, but I don't like Italy. It is my dream to go to America." And indeed it seemed possible that her life at "The Two Rabbits " might lack the elements of novelty and variety. The emptiness of such inns as these ever and anon sur- prises us afresh. It is as though they were kept open for us alone. Not a sound comes from the different apartments, not a chair but ours is occupied in the din- ing-room. It had rained during luncheon, and while we waited for it to cease we leaned from the window and looked down into the little street where the gray of the sky seemed to be reflected in the paving-stones, which glist- ened silvery clean and sent tinkling drops into tiny clear pools between their uneven edges. I suppose there is hardly an inhabitant of San Quirico who does not know every other; certainly the occasional passers-by greeted 72 WAYFARERS IN ITALY the inhabitants of the opposite house, or stood a few moments, regardless of the rain, to chat together. How weighty may the affairs of such a tiny town be ? But then human interest never lacks where even two or three human beings are gathered together, and who knows what thrilling emotional dramas may be enacted in San Quirico ? At length the last slow drops had ceased and our carriage came to the door. Our departure was an event participated in by a crowd that seemed to have suddenly collected as by magic, and when our artist decided to walk a short dis- tance guided by the driver in order to take a photograph of a little church near by, the fact seemed to be generally communicated in a twinkling and the street filled from wall to wall with the populace of San Quirico, marching after her to watch the operation. After it was over they respectfully fell apart and allowed her to pass back, filling up again solidly behind her and streaming after her to the carriage. Here I incautiously gave the driver direc- tions aloud to go to another church, and we started off at a brisk trot. This was too much for the younger por- tion of the male population, who broke into hot pursuit and caught up with us promptly at the next sanctuary ! The last look at San Quirico was one of the pic- tures that a moment seems to stamp upon the memory a remembrance that winds itself about the heart to carry always. It was as we paused after having passed out of its heavy gateway the gate itself, with its tower and its diminishing line of walls and roofs, the single cypress that stood up silhouetted against the sky, and the beauti- ful pair of slow-moving oxen issuing from its arch, draw- ing their primitive cart and guided by a curly-locked youth, who enjoyed our appreciative glances at his charges. Through the same quiet country as in the morning, we drove to Pienza and descended from the carriage in DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 73 its empty, wind-swept little piazza, that somehow left with me the most melancholy impression that I ever received from a town in Italy. Perhaps it was partly the gray afternoon and the bleak gusts that fitfully whist- led through it and seemed to buffet the twin columns of its beautiful fountain, but the inhabitants looked pinched, and poverty clings about the old buildings that were once so sumptuous and are now so forsaken and so fast crumbling away, while grass and weeds sprout from the walls, and not a footfall echoes in the solitude of the once magnificent courts. Nay, there was one in that of a palazzo into which we strayed, a purblind old cus- todian lay in ambush, and my conscience smites me now that I thoughtlessly shook my head and refused his offer to show me the interior, when I should have given him the coveted fee and been grateful that I had been allowed the opportunity to yield him that small solace. Pope Pius II expended great riches to render this, his tiny native town, renamed for him, magnificent, and it must have been so in his day. One can fancy the pageants in the little streets, and the importance and bustle when the piazza with its four noble buildings was filled with the papal court. I believe the mitre of the great ^Eneas Silvius Piccolomini still rests in the cathedral, with its precious jewels glittering coldly in almost undis- turbed seclusion. It is to be hoped that the mighty prelate cannot now look down to see the sad abandon- ment of the place he loved, lest it should even somewhat embitter Paradise. One cannot but wish him peace and satisfaction, for first as a scholar and wit and later as a devoted and single-minded pontiff, he commands one's respect. His was a many-sided character, and to the lover of nature his passionate attachment to its aspects renders him doubly sympathetic. Toward the close of his life, when he could no longer walk, he had himself 74 WAYFARERS IN ITALY carried on a litter to the different points which com- manded the views that he loved, and tears filled his eyes as he gazed upon the beauty which ravished his heart, and yet which he knew would soon fade forever from his vision. From Pienza it was but two hours more, climbing higher and higher, to reach Montepulciano, where, even more than Siena, it " sits and towers " upon its isolated mountain pedestal. And even when we had entered its gates and drawn up before the Albergo Marzocco at the foot of its lion-surmounted column, we did not cease ascending, for the inn had many floors, and we were bent on securing its finest outlook. We chose windows that looked over half Tuscany as it seemed to us, where we could discern many a little town perched upon neighbor- ing hills, with mile after mile of fertile tilled ground on the plain below, and beyond all a circle of mountains. Three lakes also we could count from our windows, and with such a wide horizon it was pleasure enough to sit there and watch the play of sun and cloud over it for that evening. Our rooms were quiet and retired. We had been given an unrestricted choice, and on our journey of exploration we had seen a little dining-room in one of those unexpected locations not uncommon here. This we fastened upon at once and declared we must be served in. A round table not too large stood in the centre and its glass doors opened upon a terrazzo y or broad upper veranda, that pleased us much. It inspired us to order dinner at once, but later, when we returned to eat it, the weather had turned too cool for the terrazzOy and a cheerful little blaze leaped upon the open hearth, and our landlady's daughter, a comely, black- eyed girl, waited upon us. She took a kindly interest in our likings and dislikings, praised this dish and was doubtful of that, and when we approved the celebrated vintage DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 75 of Montepulciano, went to fetch some wine which she declared to be older and better. She lingered beside us at the window after dinner was over, to chat, though modestly declaring her conduct in so doing to be too presuming; but when she had, on further encouragement from us, talked animatedly for a while, she suddenly checked herself with the remark: " The Signorina," indicating the youngest member of our trio, " thinks a great deal. She thinks more than she talks, does she not ?" I assented to her observation. "Ah ! " she said, lightly sighing, " I am not seri- ous myself, but I always admire serious people." In the morning the sun shone brightly and only enough soft white masses and streaming ribbons of cloud were left from the heavy sky of the day before to make the blue vault overhead perfect. We dawdled over our coffee, took an interest in the garden of the convent school opposite, and breakfasted as well upon the delic- ious view spread out before us in all the freshness of its recent rain-bath. Even the asperity of the heraldic lion on the column outside our entrance was softened by the beauty of the morning, and we thought he glanced at us indulgently as we wandered forth and began to mount the main street as it takes its upward course, following the irregular comb of the ridge on which Montepulciano is built. Fine old palaces line it, and each short cross- street leads out to the low parapet of the city wall and an enchanting view. It is interesting to study the fa9ades of these homes of old historic families, and we explored as far as we thought we might venture to, the palazzo of Poliziano, famous humanist and poet, which is however one of the least conspicuous. Passing for some distance beyond this palazzo one comes to a flight of stairs and makes the last 76 WAYFARERS IN ITALY ascent to the Piazza Grande where stands the cathedral. There is an inexpressible charm to the whole progress and we gained a certain familiarity with it by making it fre- quently, even though our stay was short. Wandering breeze and open sunlight are the characteristics of this high-hung, hoary old square, with its rugged cathedral, its fine fountain and its noble palaces. The latter, once abodes of the proud and wealthy, are now, though still retaining their external impressiveness, evidently divided within for the use of various families much humbler in rank. Loth to leave the open air, we sat upon the broad steps of the cathedral, which are of the width of its whole front, and let our eyes travel over the mellow fa9ade of the Palazzo Tarugi opposite, with its graceful corner loggia opening on the street, just outside of which and fashioned of the same warm-tinted stone, stands the fine fountain with its quaint symbolic beasts poised on the crossbeams surmounting its pair of pillars. Before an open casement on the second story sat an old couple with gentle, placid faces, enjoying, as we were doing, the clear sunlight and the balmy air. Were they happy in the mild, uneventful evening of their days ? They looked too frail to be often tempted forth into the town with its rugged streets and byways. What were their pleasures, what their musings, so limited and tran- quil ? Could wanderers, such as we, divine the simplicity of their lives, the narrow bounds within which they were probably content, the slender means that sufficed for their unambitious wants? For a long time no other human life appeared in the piazza, but then a figure of quite another type entered it and crossed toward the cathedral entrance. It was a priest, tall, erect, handsome, young in spite of his white hair, with a face which indicated a high degree of intelligence and a bearing which showed ease and polish. At the foot of the steps he met a man who DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 77 had meanwhile turned a near angle of the building, and stopped to speak with him. I could not overhear the interview, but by the rustic embarrassment of the second and the mischievous smiles of the priest it was easy to guess at the good-humored banter that was inaudible. It was a diverting and characteristic little scene and it ended in a playful grasp of the man's arm by the priest, who, as the other pulled awkwardly away, laughed jovi- ally and in a tone loud enough to be overheard exclaimed, "Oh, come along, and let me convert you a little !" There are delightful rambles about Montepulciano, and in the afternoon when shadows begin to grow long it is well to descend to San Biagio, the imposing church designed by Sangallo, and to sit on the great sweep of soft turf that stretches about it, thickly sprinkled with ' white daisies, and see opposite the colonnaded house of the famous architect and all the sweet country that spreads beyond, climbing up again to the eyrie of Monte- pulciano by a winding road partly shaded by arching trees, as the evening coolness comes on. In little towns like these one speaks to the rural people one meets in taking a walk, and they have so many pretty ways of returning salutations. " Good evening," we say. "Good evening to your ladyships in return," they reply. "A happy night sweet rest to you!" And all with such a cordial courtesy. The pleasure we had experienced in traveling by carriage induced us to continue our journey in the same way, and a conveyance was found in a stable close by to carry us on to Cortona. The morning was warm and sunny and we made the transit in much comfort, after which we lunched poorly in a little restaurant where importunate cats reminded us of their presence by pain- ful clawings if we did not bestow a share of our food upon them with sufficient frequency. As the steep streets of 78 WAYFARERS IN ITALY Cortona are ill calculated for driving, we obtained the services of a rather forbidding guide, but though at first our spirits were a little clouded by his uncongenial com- panionship, we soon forgot it in the delight of the pic- tures he conducted us to, and when we had looked at these and dismissed him we could stray at will wherever inclination suggested. It was a wild afternoon, with a fitful wind coming in sudden gusts and a sky full of mighty billows of gray cloud. From the steep side of the mountain upon which the little town clings we could look down upon the plain which was misty purple in the weird light that seemed to rest upon everything. In the distance toward the south a bit of Lake Trasimeno lay in sight, with a perpendicu- lar shaft of white light descending upon it, while about us all was blackness. I could not help thinking it all looked like a preparation for the end of the world. Highest and last of all above us lay the ruins of the forfezza. Climbing toward it we found an old man standing in the path, and on our asking him if we could be admitted he called to a girl who was tending a few goats not far off and bade her fetch the key and accompany us. She came running with it presently, a wild creature, almost as sylvan as her goats, and led us up. For all the chilly wind she seemed but half-clothed. Her scanty dark wool skirt came a little below her knees, beneath which her legs and feet were bare. A bit of drapery was drawn over her shoulders, and a kerchief knotted about her head confined her blowing hair. The sombre bulk of the old castle was brightened by masses of golden wall-flower that hung from crevices and sprang from the tops of crumbling walls. I had never before seen it in the habitat from which it received its name, and its warm color and familiar sweetness brought a touch of warmth into the bleak surroundings. DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 79 Our goat-herd conducted us within the walls, and clam- bering lightly up the remains of the outer bastion showed us a favorable perch where we could rest and gaze out over the country spread below us. She told us the few facts she knew concerning the castle, and when we ques- tioned her a little readily talked of herself. She was alone in the world, she said. The old man and his wife below were no relatives of hers but she lived with them and minded the goats. That was her life. She added that she was not strong, and touched her chest the trouble was there. She was thirty years old now, but could not work hard. She had no one to love her and she loved no one perhaps it was better so, for there was no pain of parting for her, " And when we love, Signora, we must suffer." She spoke gravely but not sorrowfully, and yet her solitariness touched one's heart, and we lin- gered with her and almost forgot the waning afternoon. When on parting I gave her her fee, divided in such a way that she might, if she were called on, hand over a small sum to her old master, but keep the larger for herself, she thanked us civilly, and yet appeared to set light store by the money, and ran from us toward her goats with a quick adieu when we had turned downward over the brow of the hill. AREZZO. " Over the roofs o* the lighted church I looked A bow-shot to the street's end, north, away Out of the Roman gate to the Roman road, By the river, till I felt the Apennine, Aiid there would lie Arezzo." . . . BROWNING. The Ring and the Book. It was nearly seven when we reached the station of Arezzo, and as we descended from the train an aged 80 WAYFARERS IN ITALY porter begged to be allowed to carry our handbags. They were not burdensome, but at his renewed solicita- tions we yielded them up to him, since the earning of the four cents appeared to be such a vital matter. He car- ried them across the station. " We are going to the Inghilterra," said I. "Oh very well, you won't need a carriage to go there," he returned ; " it is but a step, and I will go with you myself. It would take five minutes to get a car- riage." " But there are two larger pieces of luggage regis- tered," said I, " quite too heavy for you." He took the checks and hobbled off, presently reappearing with another old man. Number Two had the heavier bags on a large handcart, but the small ones were still borne by our first porter. I began to be amused and checked the inquiry as to why one porter could not easily carry the four bags on a handcart of that size, or half that size, for the matter of that. So we took up our line of march, forming a little procession, with the handcart leading. We passed out of the station door, and behold, there were plenty of carriages, though our porter was unabashed before this proof of his misrepresentation. The drivers fairly yearned to secure us. They did not shout and vociferate as in America, but approached us with a confidential manner, a secret, furtive air. They made bids against one another for our patron- age, and as we started away one cried, "You and all your luggage for one lira ! " When we failed to accept this offer he groaned aloud and whipped his horse away, for there appeared to be no other pas- senger that night. We were aware that our old f act M** had checkmated the cabmen, and it became evident that we were included in his victory, for it was not BORGO. A STREET. DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 81 one step, but a great many, to the hotel. I forgot to mention, by the way, that, as there had been a shower, we stopped just before leaving the station to put on our overshoes. This attracted universal atten- tion, and some ten or twelve men in the station hastened up and with a simple and single-minded curiosity they took not the slightest pains to disguise formed a respectful semicircle round us and solemnly watched us draw them on. At last we reached the hotel and at the door our two porters had a misunderstanding, accom- panied by some vivacious swearing. Neither, however, appeared to triumph, and they followed us upstairs, going from room to room with us as we inspected the various ones offered and made a choice. When we were estab- lished I inquired, " How much do you expect ? " "Only two lire, one apiece for us," the first re- sponded cheerfully. " That is too much," said I. " Very well," he rejoined promptly ; " one and a half." We paid it, having derived sufficient entertainment from hisjinesse to amply repay us for a small outlay, and as he contentedly departed we agreed that we were strongly reminded of the old tale of the Irishman and the sedan- chair, to be adapted in our case as follows : " Drive up to the hotel for twenty cents, or walk up for thirty." Our already cheerful frame of mind was further pro- moted by finding no lack of comfort in this hostelry. Like many of those in the smaller places it bore a name of magnitude and importance, to wit " Grand Hotel Royal of England, formerly The Golden Key." It afforded us spacious rooms, an excellent dinner, and good service, and we recked little of the rain which beat against our windows that evening, as we sat with our books be- 82 WAYFARERS IN ITALY side a sociable little fire which chirped and crackled in a way to keep any traveler in spirits. For so small a town, Arezzo enjoys the distinction of having given birth to an astonishing number of celeb- rities. Here the oft-quoted Micsenas flourished, Pe- trarch, the bard of faithful lovers, first saw the light in number twenty-two of the Street of Gardens, as a long inscription upon its front informs the passer-by, but he has waited now some six hundred years for the monu- ment which it is said the citizens of Arezzo fully intend to erect to him near this spot. Pietro Aretino, that foul-mouthed satirist and impassioned lover of beautiful sunsets, grew up here, and besides several well-known artists, Vasari, the biographer of artists, here came into the world. It will be easily seen therefore that Arezzo has abundant claims to consideration, and yet it failed to attract us as did the beautiful country that lies about and beyond it. Perhaps our minds were now too eagerly bent upon rambles in the mountains at whose very gate we stood, and we were impatient to traverse the wooing distances of the Val di Chiana, climb the heights and draw deep breaths among the lonely swelling chains of the Apennines. The Apennines ! there is something in the very name that lays a grasp on one and sets the imagination groping among the sensations and suggestions that stir at the mention of it. Are they mournful, those wide- stretching, often treeless and infertile ridges ? Are they desolate, those wind-lashed clinging trees that grasp the steeps ? Do they but frown, those cliffs and battlements of inflexible rock ? I do not know. They seem to hold the key of every mood. They can meet intimately the spirit that is stricken, they can stimulate fortitude in the soul that is tried, they can clear the vision of eyes that are obscured, and in their hidden folds are quiet valleys DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 83 and the murmur of streams. And so Arezzo did not hold us long. We slipped from her gate and journeyed onward and upward. BORGO SAN SEPOLCRO. We started toward Borgo San Sepolcro at five o'clock in the afternoon, in the pigmy omnibus train, pulled gayly along by a droll little teapot of a locomo- tive. It was a very democratic company and there were no divisions into class compartments, but the whole car open, which is not common here. A man with Venetian glass toys for sale walked sociably about showing them to interested groups of contadini. Opposite us sat a sweet-faced young woman, evidently hardly able to travel. We fancied her as having been to a great city like Arezzo to consult the doctor, and now the young farmer-husband was taking her home to the mountains. It pleased us to see how tender he was of her, and how carefully he supported her with his arm and tried to keep her from feeling the jarring of the train. She had a smiling happy expression, and gave him glances of loving appreciation in return for his protecting care. We made our way upward through narrow ascend- ing valleys, the woods and hedgerows, the little farms and villages all looking so fresh and sparkling in the sunset light, as the rays were caught and reflected in the drops left hanging by a recent shower. In two hours we had reached Borgo. It was dark, and we sought the little Albergo Fiorentino with some misgivings. We lean upon our trusty Baedeker, and when there is a starred hotel in any town we feel secure, but when a bare men- tion in brackets is all that is accorded, it leaves a painful doubt in the mind and lands one at once among the uncertainties of exploration. When, however, things 84 WAYFARERS IN ITALY turn out as well as they did in Borgo, one has a feeling of triumph. The smiling landlady took us through the dining-room to a large clean bedroom, of curiously irregular shape, to fit the crooked line of the street its boundaries followed, with many colored Scriptural prints on the walls and an abundance of furniture and orna- ment that suggested its being the only apartment of consequence in the house. In a short time a good supper was prepared and we had it by ourselves in the dining- room, which became exclusively ours upon our arrival, after which we went to bed, with great satisfaction in the comfort and neatness of our surroundings. In the sunny morning we sallied forth to explore the town and see the Piero della Francesca frescoes. There was no disillusion in either one or the other and we felt more than repaid for our pilgrimage to the home of this great master, of such noble originality even in an age when genius unfolded itself everywhere throughout Italy. We sat long before his fresco of the Resurrec- tion, which is the finest and most dignified representation of the Christ I have ever seen. Afterwards there was time to become acquainted with the outward aspect of his native town, as we strolled about, unmolested by guides or beggars. Although a long way from Rome, which somehow seems to claim the whole river, Borgo is in the upper valley of the Tiber, which instead of being a murky yellow flood, as it is when it passes through the Eternal City, is here a clear beautiful stream, winding through flowery meadows, with the peaks of the higher Apennines in sight above it. Lying in this valley, Borgo is flat, although its altitude is considerable. Its gray stone walls are in many places overgrown with vines and a bit of vineyard or olive grove often borders them on the inner side. In a quiet garden-like piazza before the principal DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 85 church, where old men sat contentedly sunning them- selves and babies played quietly and amicably, rises, on a tall pedestal, the statue of Piero. Opposite it stands the most important palazzo of the place, belonging to Count Collacchine, where we were allowed to enter and see the figure of the youthful Hercules painted by the great artist upon one of its walls. The house was silent and so was the respectful man-servant who showed us over it, and though everything was in perfect order we could not help wondering whether the Count found little slumberous Borgo attractive enough to keep him often within its walls for a length of time. In the main piazza of the town, round which at the roots of old stone edi- fices little shops clustered, stood a tall detached tower, solid and square, the Tower of Bertha, they told us. The entrance was closed, but on asking whether we might mount it we received ready permission. We loitered about for some minutes and then began to be much sur- prised at the important preparations being made for our ascension. A man with bright red hair and two able- bodied youths of darker complexion were making lan- terns ready and girding themselves as though for an arduous undertaking. We looked at one another in some wonder. We had climbed many towers, often with- out a guide at all, never with more than one. We con- cluded curious travelers were so infrequent in Borgo that the largest possible number of fees was to be made out of us. Presently the big door was unlocked, disclosing a seldom-used cobwebby interior, up whose stairs we began to toil. These solid steps, however, soon ended, and we then recognized the practical need of three guides. Gazing upward through the scantily lighted well of the interior, we discerned wide gaps, crazy-looking supports, and unsteady ladders of flimsy construction. Caution 86 WAYFARERS IN ITALY counseled retreat, but ardor and curiosity urged advance. We faltered but a moment ; there could be no real danger or the guides would not so willingly risk their own safety, and we proceeded. The lantern lighted us across black gaps of nothingness which we had to span, the dark youths tried to hold firm the rickety ladders, and all three encouraged us by word and gesture to persevere. They seemed to experience quite a lively satisfaction at getting us to the top uninjured and informed us that the last party who began the ascent had given out at the top of the stairs ; indeed the Signore were the first ladies they had ever conveyed to the summit ! We concluded when we had recovered our breath that the view was worth the risk, if risk there had been, and found the red-haired man an intelligent and willing informer. We scrutinized the mountain peaks, the distant villages, the nearer suburbs, and he was ready with anecdote and ex- planation upon them all. But in the end our closest attention centred itself upon the clustered houses di- rectly below us. I do not know whether the roofs of Italy have ever been greatly enlarged upon, but for charm and beckon- ing mystery and provoking conjecture what minor feature can equal them? The infinite variety of colors and shadings with which time has painted the old tiles, the absolute irregularity of line everywhere, the pots of flowering plants that peep from attic windows, the bird- cages that cling to the walls, the wild blossoming growths that spring from eaves and cracks, and the frequency of little unexpected roof-gardens, where, up beyond observa- tion from below, much of the family life goes on, all combine to create an impression of oneness and intimacy that strikes the foreigner, unaccustomed to a contact so immediate. The narrowness of the streets, with their inconsequent twists and turnings, brings the roofs to- DRIVING THROUGH TUSCANY 87 gether and crowds them into one focus, so that from a height they appear hardly divided by more than unim- portant cracks ; and seeing them thus, their warm, red, uneven surface seems to close down upon and hold together the collective life of the town, and make its existence as that of one large wide-spreading family. A woman's head appears at a window and a merry voice casts a greeting across to a neighbor, a girl steps out among the potted plants in the roof-garden and ex- amines their growth and their needs, a cat slips swiftly along the eaves and disappears noiselessly within a tiny open casement. The minutest evidence of life seems full of meaning a sentence, a phrase suggests a history that might be warm with vivid interest if one could but seize the volume and fasten upon the page. Many an hour of happy idleness may one spend, leaning from the top of a tower like this and dreaming of the past or speculating upon the present of a tranquil, immutable little place such as Borgo San Sepolcro- APRIL IN THE MARCHES Qui dove arride i fortunati clivi Perenne Aprile e Paure molli odora E ondeggian messi e placido d* olivi Bosco s 'infioriva. . . . CARDUCCI. T rained hard all the morning and had not abated at noon when we took the train for Ancona, to trav- erse the remainder of the way through the Umbrian Apennines and at the end of the day sweep down to the very shore of the Adriatic. Oh what tantalizing little towns did we not see upon the way ! It well nigh tempted us to cast ourselves forth from the car windows in despair at being whirled past them. Hanging upon the sharpest ridges, or piled street over street on hills above us, these clusters of brownish stone walls rising out of the soil seemed more like growths of nature than habitations evoked by man. The com- Eact mass is always presided over by its church, or rather y its churches, for however inconsiderable a place may be, there are many. In one hamlet, so small that it looked as though one could make the circuit of its walls on foot in fifteen minutes, we counted five in sight, and there is no variety of denomination no disagreement 88 APRIL IN THE MARCHES 89 as to the true faith they are all of the one mighty Ro- man sect, not as powerful as it was but ever present still. As the afternoon wore on the rain stopped and though the sky was still black we left the train at Jesi to spend a few hours among its antiquities. Choosing one of the well-worn little carriages at the station (it is well to observe whether the horses have straight legs and the driver an intelligent face), we drove across the intervening space and mounted to the city walls, their irregular height showing deep red with the warm tones of old brick wet with recent rain. To say they were of brick instead of stone seems at first to lessen their im- portance, but after seeing that the Baths of Caracalla, the most prodigious and imposing ruins of Rome, are of brick yet nearly two thousand years old, one realizes that their indestructibility hardly falls behind that of the eternal rocks. Besides, the walls of Jesi are not now mere fortifications, but in the upper reaches of their sur- face display the most enchanting irregularity of line and projection. Windows have been cut at different heights, roofs crop up in varying altitudes, so that the wall itself seems thickly populated, every few feet illustrating the tastes and necessities of the various families who look down upon the passer-by like bank-swallows from their cliff. Now and then a massive round tower forms an oriel for this extended family mansion, whose united base sweeps outward in a fine curve toward the foundation. It was Sunday, and all the world was taking advan- tage of the respite after the rain to walk abroad ; and as usual there was complete division of the sexes. The girls and women strolled together arm in arm, in twos, threes, or even fours ; the young men were in groups by themselves. The women, even when they are very well dressed, wear no hats unless they are distinctly of the upper class. What a saving in the expense of millinery ! 90 WAYFARERS IN ITALY The babies are swaddled tightly just as they were a thou- sand years ago, and can be handled as though they were unjointed wooden dolls. One is at first inclined to pity their discomfort but I never see one crying ; indeed it is remarkable how seldom one hears Italian children cry, even when in the neighborhood of dozens. The life of the place seemed to be all at the entrance of the town and just outside the walls, for the city had overflowed a little and there were buildings beyond the gates. Once inside and threading the narrow streets, it became a solemn, dark gray solitude. The damp stone walls took the color of the sky overhead, and the noise of our wheels upon the wet stones was for some time the only sound. At the left of one side-street a graceful bronze wreath on the second story encircled the name of Pergolese and brought singing to the ear the exquisite simplicity of his eighteenth century music. What a pleasant custom, this of commemorating the former dwelling-places of the great who are gone! It keeps something of their living presence fresh in the minds of those who tread the same places in these later days. Coming out just after this upon the main piazza, we found ourselves face to face with a marble tablet, upon which was another inscription even more interesting. Translated, it read something as follows : " In this place, once the seat of the Holy Inquisition, to-day a hall of secular study to Giordano Bruno, apostle of liberal thought, victim of priestly tyranny, the citizens of this municipality place this memorial" It was surprising to see the publicity of this sentiment in a little town in the interior of a country still stanchly Roman Catholic in its belief. JESI. THE CITY WALL. APRIL IN THE MARCHES 9 1 We had been advised to see Jesi for its beautiful old palaces, and coming upon an unusually extensive one, through whose broad arched entrance we could see a flowery garden, we alighted and asked if we might step inside. Just within the arch was the contrast so often to be met in these places, the emerging from a shadowed street to light, air, fragrant flower-beds, and a widely extended view from a noble terrace, looking beyond the city walls. A courteous elderly man and woman, evidently old family servants, responsible and intelligent, made us welcome in the garden and told us of the great days the palace had seen in the past. We thought its present state of mellow decay, the varied tints of its walls, the crumbling, mossy stone of its balustrades, was doubtless more picturesque, but we listened sympa- thetically as the woman, in a singularly sweet voice, wist- fully regretted that the present members of the family now no longer came to stop in Jesi ; when they visited the neighborhood it was to stay at a villa outside in the country ; indeed part of the palace was even let to ten- ants, and she glanced up at the exterior of it, which enclosed the garden excepting toward the terrace, not squarely but in a finely-curved ellipse. She gathered sweet old-fashioned flowers for us as she talked, and made them into nosegays which she presented to each of us as we came away, adding a pleasant wish that we might come again to Jesi, a sentiment which we shared with her, experiencing a warmth of feeling in regard to it that she could hardly know. ANCONA AND LORETO. Ancona, though one is reluctant to confess it of any place in Italy, was somewhat disappointing. Its situation is beautiful, its two bold promontories sweep finely out 92 WAYFARERS IN ITALY into the Adriatic, Trajan's triumphal arch faces the sea impressively, and yet what interested us most was the tiny Crivelli Madonna in the Museum, like a miniature for size and perfection of finish. We studied it long and admired its exquisite enamel-like color yet con- cluded not to spend a second night in Ancona but to take advantage of the bright afternoon to drive on the eighteen miles to Loreto, that sacred abode of the Virgin and resort of all pious pilgrims. Rolling hills begin to swell away almost from the brink of the Adriatic, and our spirits rose with every rod of the first gentle ascent. Everything was so placid and lovely the turquoise blue of the sea, the soft young green of the grain and grass, the scarlet splashes of the frequent poppies, even the smooth white surface of the winding, mounting road all charmed us. On the last steep rise before reaching Loreto children were busily searching in the hedges, and we asked our driver what they were collecting in the deep cups they carried. It turned out to be snails for eating. " I suppose they are very good ? " I asked. "Signora, they are an exquisite food," said our driver, and then explained with gusto the method of treating them, the number of days they must be kept in salt and water till the shell could be removed, and the way of cooking which would make the most of this deli- cacy when finally prepared for the table. Loreto is little more than a long street of booths for the sale of rosaries, medals and images, ending in a stately piazza where stand its three great buildings, the church of the Holy House, with its bell of eleven tons, the Jesuit's College, and the Apostolic Palace. Their long pillared colonnades frame the cold stone-paved quad- rangle, and a great fountain uprears itself in the centre. The village has a remarkable history, retreating into a APRIL IN THE MARCHES 93 retrospect so remote as to create the liveliest surprise that even its least details are authenticated ; but that they are so, we are assured. Briefly related it runs something as follows: The house of the Virgin Mary at Nazareth having become an object of profound veneration to all Christians, they made it the goal of many a pilgrimage. After a time the Empress Helena, mother of Constantine, had a basilica erected over it ; but later, when Palestine fell into the hands of the Saracens, a miracle became necessary to save it from desecration. Therefore angels lifted it bodily and in the year 1291 carried it to Dalmatia. Three years later, however, it was again removed by the same angelic agency and borne to this spot, where it was deposited in the garden of a woman named Laureta. We are in possession of a little book containing a map and an exact diagram of the route taken by the angels in both the first and second transportation. After it was located in Loreto a church was built over it, houses sprang up about it, and believers flocked hither from all quarters till it has become the great Italian centre of pilgrimage. Within the lofty church and almost lost in its vast- ness is the little rough brick structure, the Holy House, but entirely covered upon the outside by a superb carved marble screen. Through two doors in it you can enter, and within the small space kneel the devout, adoring the little black wooden image of the Virgin in its magnificent shrine, while silver and gold lamps hang from the ceiling, giving light and showing the uneven brick walls polished to a surface almost like glass by the kisses of penitents. A low, broad marble step runs round the outside and in this are two deep rounded ruts, worn by those who make their penitential progress round it upon their knees! Untold riches have been lavished upon the 94 WAYFARERS IN ITALY interior of the church, and work is still going on. One immense apartment is the Treasury, and in this are pre- served as in a museum the offerings of all kinds show- ered upon the Virgin. It is a bewildering glitter of gold and precious stones used in every possible way candle- sticks four feet high covered with embedded coral, golden goblets, a crucifix of rock-crystal set with emer- alds of great size, silver vases, rich robes, banners, and jewelry of all sorts, from objects of almost no value, such as silver watches, up to the costliest that can be found. At one end of the room is a large glass case in which the letters I. N. R. I. much elaborated and embellished are formed entirely of rings that have been given. There are seven hundred in this one case, but these are a small part of what may be seen there, scattered everywhere in ropes and garlands. The case that interested us most was one containing the jewels of a certain marchesa of Genoa, left as an offering in her will. I fear there were repinings among her surviving relatives, for the lady had an unimpeachable taste in jewels and had made a rare collection of them, necklace after necklace, brooches, bracelets, rings and ornaments for the hair, almost all of rubies set with diamonds a blaze of glorious red fire. Looking upon them one was moved to imagine her personality. Of course she was beautiful, with the rich brunette beauty that these stones would have so set off. She had not always been devout, for only a long atten- tion to worldly delights could have assembled these rubies and arranged them with such a coquetry of variety. What had been her career, what her experiences and emotions ? Had a crisis in her life suddenly wrenched her soul from earthly joy to plunge it into dejection ? Was she forced to seek heavenly consolation, thus snatch- ing these trinkets from the altar of vanity to offer them at the shrine of the Virgin's seven times pierced heart ? APRIL IN THE MARCHES 95 We wove a romance about her, but in our pagan minds desired that the jewels might be released to figure again in that world of glitter and luxury, of revelry and beauty, to which they belonged. RECANATI. Now shalt thou rest forever, rest till death, Tired heart. Thy last illusion perisheth The dream thou wast eternal. It is gone. Of all thy fond illusions none remain; The hope, the very wish to hope, is flown. Rest there forever. Thou hast throbbed thy fill. LEOPARDI. Trans, by J. A. Symonds. Wandering through this idyllic country and ignor- 1 ing the railways, we are happy in the independence of little open carriages, which can always be found to suit one's desire when the impulse comes to move on. So this morning, while the dew still lay on the tangled hedges festooned with honeysuckle, and the wild flowers, whose bright faces show themselves wherever an inch is left them, upon the borders of the carefully cultivated fields, we drove away from Lore to. With us we bore a pre- cious treasure not a sacred image of the Virgin, not a blest rosary, but, who could guess ? a tiny wire support for a lamp-shade. How many times in obscure inns have we seated ourselves in the evening beside an un- shaded lamp which made letter-writing almost too trying to the eyes, and how many times have we not determined to invent some protection, and cast about for an idea. And now here it was, complete and perfect, weighing nothing, susceptible of being flattened to lay in the bag, adjustable to any lamp-chimney. Oh happy chance ! I called upon our cheerful little maid, whose name by the way was Pulizia (cleanliness). When I commented 96 WAYFARERS IN ITALY upon this extraordinary appellation, not at first thinking I could have heard it correctly, she smilingly confirmed my pronunciation, and when I remarked that it was indeed an uncommon and admirable name, she admitted it, with an air of modest complacency. " Pulizia," said I, "do you not think the padrone would permit me to buy this delightful object ? " Pulizia allowed that he might, as he could get another in the town. So I carried it down to the door in my hand as we we-nt to take our carriage, and begged him to put a price upon it. He looked a little surprised but in- dulgently consented to part with it for the sum of four cents, and it has taken its place among our most valued effects. This province of the Marches becomes more and more beautiful as one penetrates further into it a quiet agricultural country, whose pictorial farmhouses give such pleasure to the eye. The immemorial vine and olive flourish, the silkworm labors, and amid all the green, last year's haystack stands yellow and brown at the angle of each house, looking like a large round loaf which has been irregularly sliced away with a sharp knife till some- times only a many-sided column is left supported by the pole which formed the centre of the stack. Near by there is often the woodpile, but that is but a prosaic name for the form it takes here, which is circular, pointed at the top, and altogether resembling a magnified pine cone, while the ends of the sticks, all pointing outward, represent the separate scales. It was but two hours alternately ascending and de- scending to Recanati, our next stopping-place, which is loftily situated, as the guide-books say, following the waving line of the comb of a ridge and looking over intervening hilltops to the blue Adriatic. It was an im- portant fortified place in the Middle Ages, but it looks APRIL IN THE MARCHES 97 very unwarlike now, and lies well open to the sunlight and the hill breezes. Our interest here outside of the mere pleasure of happy exploration was divided between Lorenzo Lotto, some of whose finest paintings lie hidden in this remote hill town, and Leopardi, the saddest of poets, and but for the glory of his verse the unhappiest of men, or so it seems when one reads of his embittered life, his many trials, his early death. So we went first to the Leopardi palace, which stands at one extremity of the serpentine course followed by the irregular city. We found it in perfect preservation, built on the simplest lines of smooth brick, buff inclining to pink in tone, its long fa9ade upon the street extended by the still longer high wall of its invisible garden. The severity of the whole was, however, relieved by one thing ; along the fall length of the coping at the top of the wall stood a row of flower-pots close enough to touch and filled with beautiful blossoming plants. Standing in the warmth of the cloudless noon we rang at the portal and were presently admitted. The whiteness, the silence, the purity inside I can hardly describe. A quiet coolness rested there, and we felt the hush of it as we followed the old servant who conducted us toward the library, which is all that is shown to strangers. It was not a house of gloom and vast spaces; one's imagination could picture the life of a family as having gone on there, but somehow mirth and laughter seemed foreign to it, a subdued existence, dreamy or melancholy, was all the fancy could connect with its past. On the stairway exquisite bits of antique carved marble were inserted here and there in the walls. One little square there was, so delicate and perfect that though I seldom covet antiquities I could not help longing to possess it, a St. Jerome with a sleeping lion that might have been cut for a cameo. 98 WAYFARERS IN ITALY From the head of the stairs we passed into the library, a series of connecting rooms or recesses along the line of windows upon the front, not large and with ceilings rather low, books lining the walls as high as the hand could reach, perfectly preserved and mostly bound in vellum. A beautiful order and spotlessness character- ized everything and withal there was no air of an uninhab- ited place ; it was as though the dweller might step in at any moment. The books were classified and catalogued. I took some of them from the shelves, thinking of the marvelous boy who once held them in his hands, and of the cruel circumstances of his life in this house. I pictured the father, a selfish, oblivious recluse shut in his library, the mother, a stern masculine being, absorbed in parsimonious saving that the wrecked fortunes of the family might be re-established both utterly neglectful of the wonderful precocity of the spirit that burned in that frail body, so that before he had reached manhood his health was hopelessly broken. The old servant, seeing that we lingered over the objects in these rooms and were sincerely interested in them, pointed out a window within sight where that sweet- voiced daughter of a stable-keeper who so charmed poor Leopardi loved to sit and sing at her work while he lis- tened at a distance. Alas ! that the love he so passion- ately longed for never came to warm his heart, then or afterwards. He lived like a caged bird in the dullest of Italian towns, refused indulgence, recreation, change of scene, which might have partially restored him ; often for months together cut off from the use of his eyes and the resource of study. What wonder that unhappi- ness breathed through all his beautiful verse and that his has been called the philosophy of despair. Besides the books there were old portraits, richly carved wood in high relief, majolica, exquisite little APRIL IN THE MARCHES 99 antiquities chosen with rare taste, a cunningly wrought cloak clasp, a tiny lamp in the shape of a swan especially attracted us. Much of Leopardi's handwriting was pre- served here, from the age of nine years up, as clear as print and almost as regular. A yearning pity takes posses- sion of one in the contemplation of these memorials a longing to have had the privilege of making life a little more endurable to this suffering soul who so often met with the chill of disillusion or the harshness of rebuff. He found no sympathy in Recanati in his own day, but at present it values him sufficiently to devote a small show-window to copies of his poems, as we noticed in driving past it a little later. Opposite is his statue, in a sombre revery, its unseeing eyes fixed upon the sunny emptiness of the wide piazza in which it stands. MACERATA. Between Recanati and Macerata a great gulf lies, and one spends the hours of the journey from one to the other in making a long meandering descent and then climbing slowly up again, till the city appears, set upon the highest ground in sight, and just covering the plat- form leveled for it upon its mountain-top. A girdling terrace encircles its walls upon the outside, shaded by trees and commanding a marvelous view of miles of sur- rounding beauty. Our patient horses having rounded the last curve and brought us up to the gateway, we entered and clattered along the stony streets, between its high impassive buildings. However slowly an Italian driver may have been conducting you through the open country, he never fails to lash himself and his horses into a becoming frenzy of excitement for the passage through a town, and with bells jingling and whip crack- ing like a volley of musketry, he tears through the ioo WAYFARERS IN ITALY streets, scattering the foot-passengers to right and left, almost grazing the bare legs of the children, and calling to the windows all the inhabitants within doors. Thus we proceeded, and finally drew up at the dingy low-arched door of the Hotel Milano, where we were met by a stout landlady and her myrmidons, and conveyed up- wards, a direction in which things under such circum- stances as these almost always improve ; for whereas one may be filled with misgivings upon the level of the street, the second story is apt to offer reassurance and the third or fourth may break into absolute good cheer. Our rooms, however, proved to be entirely bereft of the beautiful outlook we longed to feast upon during our brief stay, and we expressed discontent thereat was there no room with a view ? The landlady was most disturbed, but she feared not ; she adjured her attendant maids and porters, could these respected ladies be accom- modated with a view ? The house was patronized by the aristocracy, it was ever full. What was to be done? Did any one know, for instance, had the Marquis of Aldobrando any intention of leaving on the morrow? A variety of opinions was offered. But at least, was the Marquis abroad at that moment? Could not the ladies have the satisfaction of seeing his apartment and the view it commanded ? There was clattering over the halls and stairs, and presently from the attendants dis- posed within easy shouting distance of one another came the assurance that the noble Marquis was without, in the town. We glanced at the stern simplicity of our quarters and filled with visions of titled luxury above, ascended with alacrity. But alas for romance ! we had perhaps gone a little too high. The Marquis* apartment looked strangely like an attic chamber, and a small one. Its brick floor, its narrow iron bed, its bare wooden dressing-table were APRIL IN THE MARCHES 101 unadorned, and the Marquis* property, which was repre- sented by a pair of boots somewhat the worse for wear, under the table, and a litter of papers upon it, left little to the imagination. The view, too, proved to be a lim- ited oblique glimpse from the one small gable window, and so, heaving a sigh of disillusionment, we descended to our first choice. It was roomy, it was high, its tile floor had not so very long ago been sprinkled and swept; the coarse linen sheets upon the bed were white and clean, and besides this it proved to open into a large salon, with tall presses against the walls, a heavy sofa, some family portraits of stern, fixed expression and a round table in the centre. This looked encouraging, and we asked if our meals could be served here. It was consented to, for no amount of running up and down stairs to and from a distant kitchen discourages people who have never seen dumb-waiters or elevators, and so we settled ourselves quite contentedly and proceeded to remove the dust of travel. And when, a little later, we leaned upon our broad window-sill in the soft twilight and beheld the old palazzo opposite, with its heavy sculptured coats of a>ms over every window, and presently watched the pretty Italian maid appearing successively at them to close the shutters and light the rooms, we fell a-dreaming of the lingering scion of an ancient aristocracy that must inhabit this stately antiquity, and were happy. Soon after, when we were recalled to things material by the damsel who announced that dinner was served, we sat in much con- tent on opposite sides of the round table, which bore savory dishes of roasted kid and artichokes, and whose tablecloth was made a focus of light by our twinkling candles, which evoked obscure glimmerings as their rays touched some piece of old mahogany or faintly illumined the observant eyes of the portraits presiding over our meal. loz WAYFARERS IN ITALY Macerata being but a few hundred years old, is called modern by a population accustomed to cities whose foundations were laid in the age of myth and legend, and it offers to the visitor rather less than usual of asso- ciation and memorial. In the morning we searched out its library, upon the upper floor of the building that harbored it, and found that it was closed in the middle hours of the day ; and when we returned later, we had still to wait a little outside its door, in company with one of its choleric citizens, whose impatience to be admit- ted and whose disapprobation of exclusion at any period of the day roused him to an apostrophe which might have been heard on the street below. The object of our interest within was the small pic- ture gallery, which occupied a room opening from those containing the books. And here, as at Ancona, it was the Crivelli Madonna that we sought. She was there and stood looking out at us with a serious reflective air, as she absently bent her head a little to one side to meet the caress of the bambino whom she balanced upon her hands held flatly, as though bearing a salver. Her hair was covered with a simple bit of closely drawn drapery but in her mantle the magnificence that Crivelli loved was given free play, for it was covered with a wealth of embroidery in fanciful conventionalized design spiked stars, grape-leaves and fruits. The librarian who had conducted us to it returned several times and hovered about us, whether with the intention of especial courtesy or of inability to understand our spending so much time before one picture without entertaining dishonest long- ings with regard to it, we could not tell, so unfathom- able was the expression of his curious face. At all events he ended by making us a little uncomfortable and he accompanied us to the door upon our departure with an air in which we fancied irony and relief to be blended. APRIL IN THE MARCHES 103 Outside we explored the streets and everywhere found the appearance of the city so thrifty and respect- able that we could not help longing to be met more frequently by a shade of neglect, a little of the rust of age. No doubt it is a matter for just complacency to the inhabitants of Macerata that their municipality contains not only a university but an agricultural college and that their buildings are in a state of such scrupulous repair, though to the ungrateful traveler these are matters of secondary importance and we were almost at a loss to account for the existence there of our old palazzo with the sculptured coats of arms. But even if there were nothing very interesting inside its walls, it would be worth while to go there for the view from its ring terrace. One may stroll round it more 'than once and not have taken a long ramble and the prospect in every direction is so varied and beautiful that it would take long to learn even one of its aspects by heart. Many a high-lying adamantine old town adheres to the neighboring heights like an accretion of time, and many a narrow ravine or open valley lies between, while beyond, such a panorama of snowy peaks unrolls before one as can hardly be matched elsewhere. The tumul- tuous sweep of this heaving upland which, overlooked from the height of Macerata, almost seems to rock under one's feet, appeared, beneath the heavy clouds of a stormy sunset through which lightnings played now and again, hardly less the solitary abode of nature for the watchful eyries of its isolated villages; and as one lingers while darkness comes on, and its salient points define them- selves more sharply against the sky, while its depths veil themselves in purple obscurity, a feeling of creeping estrangement settles down upon one, before the loneliness and silence that seem to wrap the whole earth in that hour. 104 WAYFARERS IN ITALY ASCOLI. " Giu nell ' opima valle, dal Tronto agil bagnata, Ricca d' olive e vino e pur di querce ombrata, Tu siedi, citta bella ; di tue moli orgogliosa, Nuova letizia infondi, dovunque 1* occhio posa. Tu vedi arditi e saldi vecchi ponti romani Opporsi da mille anni dell* onda agli urti immani." The approach to Ascoli is by the long, straight, gently ascending valley of the river Tronto which the traveler follows for twenty-one miles from the shore of the Adriatic. It lies in the fork of two lesser streams which here converge to form the greater and beyond it glitter the loftiest snow-walls of the Apen- nines. Hills rise on either hand, terrace above terrace, with here and there an alluring villa that makes one long for access to it. The town itself one could never weary of; its serious gray stone streets, the remains of the grim towers with which the place once bristled, standing up sternly forbidding here and there, the ancient walls, the arched gateways, but especially the colossal bridges and aqueducts that span both the rivers all are enchanting. It is a matter for surprise that these aqueducts are not more generally celebrated, for they are fine examples, of great size, and in perfect preservation. Everywhere there is beautiful architecture, almost undisturbed by modern alteration or addition, the houses so built, centuries ago, sufficing for the needs of the townsfolk of to-day. Crossing the place from side to side one is charmed by the river banks, where gardens are terraced down to the edge of the water and show the presence of underground passages as a means of descend- ing the steep pitch of many feet. Even the prison, once a castle, would serve the most fastidious story-teller as the scene of romance, and the little bridge which leads APRIL IN THE MARCHES 105 from it, spanning the narrow gorge of the river here, and which one may only look at but not approach, is a picture in itself. From the amount of staring we evoke as we pursue our explorations it is to be inferred that few tourists find their way here, but we like the people, who do not hang about to get money out of strangers, but bear them- selves with independent self-respect. They are a vig- orous, interesting race, with vivid characteristics, and it is their boast that they furnish the strongest, the best disciplined and the most gallant soldiers in Italy to the national army to-day. The sturdy women carry copper buckets of unusual size and antique form to the public fountains and hourly remind one of the delightful col- lection of brass and copper vessels for water, both hot 'and cold, which might be made in Italy, all graceful and all differing in shape in the various provinces. The weight of these Ascoli buckets must be great when filled with water, but a handsome peasant woman this morning readily consented to be model for the camera and swung hers, brimming with water, to her head with perfect ease. She waited some moments with it poised there, unsupported by her hand, but when we afterwards offered to pay her would take nothing. All our questions are cordially and pleasantly answered and we are neither followed by inquisitive children nor besieged by hungry guides, so that with the manners of the native population we have no fault to find; but there is a class of their visiting countrymen who do cause us acute discomfort. We should be very much at our ease in our little hotel, where we have two well-lighted bedrooms at forty cents apiece the day. Meals, of course, are extra and are cheap and well cooked, but in the dining-room, where we have a small table to ourselves, in a position as retired as possible, we io6 WAYFARERS IN ITALY sit somewhat uneasily, for the centre of the room is occupied by the class above alluded to, whose table man- ners it is a pain to contemplate. I refer to the Italian commercial traveler, who frequents even retired Ascoli. Around a large table congregate this week about ten of these cheerful and loudly conversing persons. All of them are good looking and well dressed, one or two strikingly handsome, yet their behavior at table tran- scends in awful ness even that of those magnificent German officers we have all seen, who lightly alternate the courses of the table d'hote with the use of a pocket- comb. That they are quite unconscious of their short- comings, however, and are not without a code of manners, is proved by the way in which they never fail to salute the table of the signore with a respectful and even courtly inclination as they pass out of the dining- room. We gravely return the salutation and do not tarry in the dining-room longer than is needful, endeavor- ing while we remain to fix our attention upon any curious and unwonted viands supplied to us. The dessert which appears oftenest at this season is a tastefully arranged giardinetto or fruit dish containing three things oranges, fennel-root and beans. Though with the best intention in the world of doing in Rome as the Romans do, we have given up trying to enjoy the two latter. The great white roots of the fennel, larger than the oldest onion and almost as high flavored, find great favor here and also the beans, of a strong, coarse variety in thick, succulent pods, five or six inches long. Breaking open the pod the beans are to be taken out and dipped in salt. We never refuse to taste any new dish and indeed enjoy fresh sensations of the kind, but to acquire a permanent liking for it is sometimes beyond us. For instance, chicory salad is a delicacy the bitterness of which custom cannot sweeten, and basil, APRIL IN THE MARCHES 107 used raw as a relish, one can hardly be reconciled to, though memories of Isabella mourning over her pathetic flower-pot make one long to feel a fondness for it. On the other hand, the Italians have discovered uses for things which we wastefully throw away and which are really good. The stalks of artichokes are tied up like asparagus and sold in the Florentine markets, and make an acceptable dish prepared in several different ways. There are certain other vegetables and some nuts and fruits unfamiliar to us about which there may be more than one opinion, but surely all the world would agree in celebrating that triumph of Italian cookery, frit to misto. There are many possibilities in fritto misto ; indeed, guessing would be difficult the first time one sits down to it. A platter is placed before one, heaped up with golden-brown fried morsels of various shapes. Do not imagine a heavy, oily mass. By no means ; all is most delicate and free from fat or grease. Many kinds of vegetables, as well as liver, sweetbreads and other things of the sort may be used, but our favorite combination is artichokes, calves' brains, melon-flowers and squash. The latter is a squash I have never seen elsewhere ; very small, bright green without and yellow within, it is cut into long, thin ribbons about the size of macaroni. When well cooked, and it is very rare to find it ill- prepared, this is a dish fit for the gods, and wherever we are we order it for one course. We enjoy here the ministrations of a young waiter who is pursuing the study of English, and who is charmed with the proficiency he has attained. In Ascoli he natu- rally has few opportunities to exercise this accomplish- ment, and so never loses an occasion to practice it with us. The other day he bore in a smoking platter of fritto misto, and setting it down before us with a fine flourish, io8 WAYFARERS IN ITALY announced "Mingle-ed fried stew!" Polenta also is delicious as it is made here ( I have tried in vain to imi- tate it at home ), corn-meal boiled to a certain consistency, and sometimes served with a covering of grated cheese browned in the oven. Occasionally unexpected surprises meet us. For instance, once it was inquired whether we should like peas for dinner. We at once admitted that we should and wondered somewhat that they did not appear in the natural order of the meal. What was our amusement, however, to have them presented raw and in their pods as a dessert. But to return from the discussion of the food offered in Ascoli to its natural beauty and human interest. Vir- tually ignorant of all but the name of the place before we reached it, we have learned to love it and to study with the deepest interest its present condition and what we can discover of its local inheritance of custom, rite and legend that descends from an antiquity hardly penetrated as yet by antiquarian research. The remnants of a religion so old that the inhabitants themselves hardly recognize it for what it is, yet cling to the villages in the surrounding mountains. The worship of Mars, for example, is still represented at Monte Rubbiano, where, on a certain day, the contadini raise upon a branch the woodpecker, sacred to the god of war, and doing honor to it with loud acclaim, carry it through the village in procession ; and it is touch- ing to learn that the mother still lays in the coffin of her dead child the toys that he has played with in life, and presses into the little cold palm a silver coin for the ferry of Charon. There are strange beliefs in witches and enchanters and lively imaginations people the mountains and forests with a thousand legendary beings, and in the long winter evenings at the fireside both men and women recount in almost Homeric strain tales of kings and queens, of knights and dames, of arms and love; and APRIL IN THE MARCHES 109 veritable epics exist, handed down from father to son by word of mouth. Their Lake Pilato, buried in a valley so high and shadowed that the snow never quite leaves it even in summer, is the centre of much folk-lore, the abode of the fox, the wolf and the dolphin, favorite characters and subjects of a whole cycle of legends. Christian forms are often curiously interwoven with pagan survivals, as, for example, the worship of San Domenico, which is here connected with serpents. A visit to his sanctuary will cure the bites of vipers and on the day of his festa his statue, the interior of which is perforated with holes, is surrounded with living snakes, which are encouraged to crawl through and about it. The feast of Saint Emidio, the patron of Ascoli, comes in the heat of August, a propitious time, as they think, between the grain harvest and the anticipation of a fruitful vintage, and any one who is prepared to sacrifice two or three nights' sleep may enjoy the animated occa- sion. Fifteen days previously the day is announced by the sound of the church bells and this is responded to by all the children in the town, who having secured before- hand toy terra-cotta bells prepared for this use, ring them madly from the windows of all the houses, and youthful peddlers of little lanterns for the illumination of the nouses at night issue forth with their wares, some of which are roughly painted with portraits of the saint, amusingly but unintentionally grotesque. The slow progress of ox-carts toward Ascoli from various directions is a picturesque part of the proceedings. The carts in this vicinity are decorated with careful elabo- ration. Bright blue is a favorite groundwork color, and upon this often appear garlands of roses and portraits of distinguished ladies in low-cut gowns. Striking enough on ordinary occasions, at this time they are fairly dazzling, no WAYFARERS IN ITALY draped and festooned as they are with red, for from all the neighborhood the contadini flock in to take part in the festivities, the lads with jaunty jacket attached to one shoulder and a peacock's feather in the cap, and the girls wearing their fullest and smartest balloon-like petticoats. All circulate through the streets, from which rise a chorus of shouts, cries, salutations, that fills the air until evening, when they assemble in the main squares to listen to the serenades, as they are called. One or two musicians saw more vigorously than melodiously upon violins perhaps fashioned from the wood of their own forests. Another torments a species of violoncello, sometimes painted green and often minus a string, which is apt to have a curious and rudely contrived bridge of fish bone. The singer, with an elbow gracefully bent upon the shoulder of one of the violinists, begins his song and warbles endlessly on till his brow is moist and his throat dry and parched. A contadina loves to boast of the number of seren- ades her lover has paid for in her honor and a part of the affair is that she shall stand arm in arm with him before the musicians while one of them brushes her face lightly with a twig of basil. She meanwhile gazes upon the ground and must on no account allow herself to laugh or even smile, while her lover, assuming a haughty and fixed expression, smokes his cigar vigorously and looks sternly before him. The basil is a great feature of the occasion and everywhere its odor floats on the air. Each lad must wear a sprig over one ear and the girl one upon her breast or tucked into her girdle, and great is the sale thereof upon the steps of the Duomo. Other sports take place on this occasion, for there are lottery draw- ings and races, and by day the wildest and most riotous noise goes on in the open air, while in contrast a hushed and solemn throng fills the cathedral, and those who have what they think to be diseases of the bones struggle APRIL IN THE MARCHES in silently to reach the sacred urn, lowered to the floor on this occasion, containing the remains of the saint. Through the pushing, jostling crowd they slowly make their way toward it, for they know that even grazing the shoulder against it on this propitious day ensures a cure. So the day proceeds, and for yet another night the tireless holiday-makers emulate one another in keeping up the tumult, till at last exhausted but happy they mount their carts and straggle away into the country, to recount the pleasure past and wait for the joyous return of the fete of Saint Emidio. SAN BENEDETTO DEL TRONTO. The twenty miles of gradual descent from Ascoli to the sea are pleasantly taken by carriage and it is not diffi- cult to secure a pair of stout horses and a comfortable vehicle for the trip. There are few windings and turn- ings to the highway which one follows, and from either side of the long lateral valley grassy hills rise abruptly, those on the south being much higher. The eye of a traveler fond of walking, at once takes in tempting possi- bilities on that side, for it looks as though one might follow the backbone of the range for miles, enjoying incomparable views over the country, and pausing at intervals at the fascinating towns, which, as a local guide- book which we unearthed with much pains at Ascoli remarks, "sit astride of the eminences." A smiling country it is, full of fruit-trees, grain and vegetables, and as we passed along we noticed a row of peasants among the wheat, the bright headgear of the women, red, yellow and white, making bits of delightful contrast with the fresh green. We asked our driver what they were doing and he explained that they were weeding. We thought of the Montana wheatfields we had seen, miles in extent, H2 WAYFARERS IN ITALY and of the owners* surprise at having them weeded like a garden-bed. But so it was, and one may assert that the land was producing three or four crops at once. Next the road were two lines of mulberry-trees, these for the silkworms, then in rows all over the fields were trees upon which grape-vines were trained, and beneath these again, the grain. The trees to act as trellises for the vines are put in as saplings, and made to grow with a bare trunk for about five feet. Then they are allowed to branch out, the branches being forced to take the form of a cup and strictly pruned. At the end of each of the principal ones a few shoots are permitted to come out in the spring. The grape vines, planted a few inches from the trunk, are supported upon these and the fruit is easily gathered from below. This sounds like a crowded field, and yet they plough it with a yoke of their big oxen to the very trunks of the trees. Now and then we passed a characteristic villa. It stood at some distance and well elevated upon a hill. From it to the road ran a long, straight, unswerving drive- way, terminating at the highway in a fine stone gateway. And here let me say that this gateway forms one of the marked characteristics of a villa as opposed to a farm- house. A villa may be comparatively unimportant in size and a farmhouse quite imposing, but the latter never seems to usurp the privilege of the stately entrance. These are of the form familiar to us in pictures, a pair of high stone pillars, square and solid, and a second pair of lower ones, the spaces between being left open, or the masonry curving down from the two taller to the two shorter. Neither is it deemed necessary to continue the magnificence of this beginning; two or three fine cypresses break the sudden termination and the enclo- sure continues with a humble hedge, or the gateway APRIL IN THE MARCHES 113 stands as a sort of monumental landmark, with no further division between the road and the field. The villa Piccin- nini, which we stopped to have a better view of, is a youth- ful edifice, dating but half a century back. It has a gateway with modern ornamentation, and the following hospitable inscription carved upon its posts underneath the proprietor's name : Otia ex studio sibi suis et amicis. Between Ascoli and Solmona, our next objective point, we were planning with some timidity to spend a night at San Benedetto del Tronto, a village on the sea- shore, through which the railway passed. Baedeker was ominously silent in regard to it, dismissing it with a men- tion of less than a line, but we had decided to venture it and looked a little anxiously at the inn as we approached. The street was clean and the front of the building looked quiet and unobjectionable. So did the interior as we entered, and at the top of the three flights of stairs up which the landlady conducted us we were shown into a pretty little suite of rooms faultlessly neat, comfortably furnished, and looking from windows of generous size out over the intervening streets to the sea. We glanced at each other with the self-satisfaction of successful pio- neers, and admired the shell ornaments on the etagere of the salon and the Parian statuette of two lovers inter- twined in an ardent embrace. The question of dinner was brought forward, the hour and the viands that the signore would prefer inquired, and having discharged that responsibility we hurried to the seashore, for we could see that the fishing-boats were coming in, with their beautiful golden and terra-cotta sails full spread. If only we could have arrived an hour sooner ! These were but the stragglers, for already scores of the little craft were drawn up on the beach and a noisy and busy scene was being enacted. As fast as the boats were beached two toy anchors were thrown out, one 114 WAYFARERS IN ITALY astern and one on the sandy shore, then the nets were hung up to dry upon the mast and soon the long per- spective of boats appeared to be furnished with sails of fishing net, while the shouting, hurrying fishermen brought the day's catch out upon the sand, whence it was carried in baskets to a large paved court close by, where it was sorted and packed at once to be sent away. We strayed along the shore, looking curiously into the differ- ent baskets and noting the variety of kinds. Of course the cuttlefish interested us most, strange, forbidding little objects, which are yet such a dainty when prepared for the table. Only in shape are they forbidding, however; in color they are various and charming, soft gray, pale blue, or iridescent with changing opaline hues. Stooping over a basket beside which stood a tall, slim girl with her head and shoulders enveloped in a black shawl, I made some idle remark about its contents. She remained gazing out to sea, and returned so slight an answer that I looked up. It is rare that the least con- versational advance is not met with instant cordiality and I wondered a little at her manner. I ventured another question and this time she turned, bringing the great dark eyes that had been fixed upon the horizon slowly back and letting them rest upon the stranger, abstract- edly at first, with the half-bewildered look of one whose attention is unwillingly withdrawn from an absorbing thought. For a moment she hesitated, then a change came over her face, her eyes seemed to search for sym- pathy, her lips trembled, she half whispered a broken sentence, and then with a deep in-drawn breath, a torrent of speech burst from her. She wrung her hands and tears streamed down her cheeks as she told a story so pitiful, so moving, that before she finished my own eyes were wet. It was but one more of those tragedies that end the lives of so many sea-faring folk a brave struggle APRIL IN THE MARCHES 115 with the storm, a prolonged cruel death, clinging to the wreck till deadly chill and washing waves ended all. Even death did not loosen the despairing hold upon the overturned boat, and so they found him. As the girl talked, with tears and vehement ges- tures, the coast guardsman came up, a fine sturdy fellow, and added his calmer explanations. Yes, Nello had been the finest fellow on the shore, so strong, so industrious, a famous fisherman. It was hard, but so it must be. The seas claimed some every year. Lisetta should not stand here every day when the boats came in, it was trisfe, but she would not be kept away. Life must go on and the rest were not hard-hearted that they must keep on with their labor, as though death had not come among them. The hopelessness of lightening such grief saddened the afternoon and sent us home heavy-hearted. In the still evening air on the shore of that tranquil blue water it was hard to realize how close to heart-break lived these toilers of the sea in the midst of what peril, uncertainty, menace, their years are passed ; for they are not an uncheerful folk, and the bustle and activity of poor Nello's companions were no less animated that afternoon for the cruelty of the fate that had just over- taken him. IN THE ABRUZZI. On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow. Manfred. AS any water in the world the surface of pure turquoise blue which the Adriatic showed us as we followed its shore beyond San Benedetto? Here and there a single fishing-boat with magically dyed sails hovered near and seemed to slide over the glassy expanse almost without a rip- ple, but we could see bird-like flocks of them out upon the horizon. Then we turned from the coast-line and began to take our way through emerald green valleys opening out to the sea, and then ascending and leaving these behind we passed through gradations of a less and less lavish verdure till masses of rugged brown rock heaped themselves around us and we knew we were in the Abruzzi and approaching Solmona. One has a feeling of having risen considerably in altitude and yet Solmona is not really high and when you reach it you have gained not much over fifteen hundred feet, but the progress from the smiling valleys below to these gaunt mountains with their brown scarred sides is illusive. These walls, when the vicinity of Solmona is reached, 116 IN THE ABRUZZI 117 retire apart and leave a fine broad valley at the upper end of which sits the town, " my cool home abounding in water," as poor Ovid called it, from the arid waste of his long exile ; and what must be the surprise of that genial poet, if he is conscious at present of the fact that his memory survives in the songs of the peasants here as that of a mighty sorcerer. Solmona is not a walled city and the railway station is something like a mile beyond the town. Between them the Monzu, one of its two hotels, is almost in the country. We had been in doubt where to stop, but at sight of this great untempting barrack we left it behind us and entered the closely built portion of the city where the Italia appeared much more attractive. Since settling ourselves in it we find our rooms assailed by noises of many sorts from within as well as from without, and we can to a certain extent take part in the affairs which pro- voke the latter, as we are not very much raised above the narrow street upon which our windows give. The space is so trifling that separates us from those on the opposite side of the way, and the near view of roofs and balconies as well as the more distant one of mountain peaks is so tempting that we spend considerable time communing with the outer ;world from our casements. We have also sauntered much in the streets. There is a fine, extensive market-place, to which broad, low stone steps descend from the slightly higher level of the principal street. Walking out upon this piazza and then turning for a backward view, a harmonious grouping of unusual architectural points is seen. Across the middle of the stone staircase creeps like a great caterpillar a low- arched heavy aqueduct, and just beyond towers a beauti- ful Romanesque portal with a bit of wall, all that is left of the ancient church which once stood there, while still further away is a background of mounting tiles, a peeping n8 WAYFARERS IN ITALY loggia and a little round tower. The foreground leaves nothing to be desired, if there is always the assemblage of little booths, shaggy donkeys and gossiping crones which we saw. There seems, by the way, an unusual preponderance of old women here, and they appear in brave attire and are especially fond of beads. Around their withered throats are strings of dark red coral or large gold beads, and their ear-rings, usually of gold and enamel, are so long that they frequently sweep their shoulders, while they look too heavy to be worn without discomfort. The matter of beads is a local interest in Italy. Here in Solmona, as I have said, gold beads and dark red coral seem to be the popular varieties, yet when I examined what I had taken to be coral I decided that such long strings, so perfect in shape and uniform in color, could not be real coral at all but must be a substitute for it. The gold beads, which I have no doubt are genuine, are probably handed down from generation to generation and it gives one a feeling of satisfaction to observe that here the grandmothers do not feel it necessary to despoil them- selves of their adornments and retire into undecorated sobriety while the younger generation flaunts in the family jewels. The respect for age, which is such a lovable trait in the Italian character, would consider such a disposition of family treasures entirely unsuitable, so the dear old people keep their importance and the pleasurable con- sciousness of their finery. The little jeweler's shop here contains some interesting engraved seals, looking old and genuine, but I am not wise enough to be certain of their antiquity. I saw no pearls, such as are an almost indis- pensable part of a contadinas bridal outfit in Tuscany. There the vezzo, as it is called, consists of several strings of irregular pearls, and may cost from twenty-five dollars to several hundred, according to the amount which her IN THE ABRUZZI 119 father can afford to give her, or which her own ambition and industry has put by for the purpose. It often repre- sents in value one-half her dowry. In other shops along the way, numbers of sugar rosaries were exposed, a specialty of Solmona, of great size, elaborate decoration and most brilliant colors ! One wonders who buys these things, which must be expensive and are so perishable. Beyond the busier portion of the town we came upon a small bindery, where a few curious tomes of real antiquity were exposed in the window. A bindery of the sort in this little place, where it is safe to suppose a large part of the population cannot read, attracted us and we went in. The binder proved to be an intelligent man, and though his little stock contained but a few volumes, to my amazement and pleasure almost the first I took up was one I had long wanted, and had thought it but a chance to find even in Rome : a small yellowed copy of Cavalca's Lives of the Holy Fathers. I gladly paid the modest price he demanded for the little work and bore it off in triumph, together with an inter- esting old book lacking one of its parchment covers, giving delicately executed engravings of ecclesiastical emblems. Toward evening the air was deliciously fresh, and the sky became a panorama of glorious cloud effects. We found a rickety little carriage with a boyish driver, and bade him carry us into the country where we might command a wider horizon. As one emerges from the confinement of the streets a little structure high up on the mountain-side catches the eye. Clinging against the bare cliff, it looks almost a projection of the rock itself. It is the retreat of that pious hermit, Piero da Morrone, who, snatched from his holy meditations on this isolated crag of the Abruzzi, was thrust bewildered upon the papal throne that Pope who " made the great refusal" 120 WAYFARERS IN ITALY and in the stern poet's imagination is driven endlessly through hell, stung by gadflies. As we advanced we soon came out upon the broad, smooth road, whose even, dividing line runs down the middle of the valley. Green growing things stretched away on either side, and the sweet, pungent smell of some unfamiliar plant tingled in the nostrils. Directly opposite Solmona, at the other end of the valley's long perspective, towering skyward from the converging lines of the lower ridges which enclose it, rose the highest peak of the Apennines, II Gran Sasso d' Italia, the Great Stone of Italy, a fine name, so direct and simple, as though this majestic mountain required no grandiose title. Its pure snow-enveloped outline rose against the evening sky, a sky of that pale, clear green that seems to make distance infinite. It was the supreme moment in which to see it, and words fail to convey an idea of the grandeur and beauty with which it dominated the landscape as the gathering twilight threw the dun ranges below more and more into the shadow and concentrated the light and color above the light seeming almost to emanate from the snow-white mass of the mountain, while the color upon which it was projected grew more vivid and radiant. Watching the wonderful and ever- shifting changes that belong to this hour, we forgot time, yes, and the very hamperings of gravitation, and seemed to be swimming forward through the clear upper air to meet the phantoms beyond us. Our little nag even appeared to taste the intoxication of the moment and tossed his head as he strained forward. Only the warn- ing of darkness made us turn at last to leave the fading glories behind, and, fastened to earth again, retrace our steps to the twinkling lights of Solmona. The following morning dawned bright and beautiful, but before eight the sky was overcast and an occasional OF THE UNIVERSITY OF IN THE ABRUZZI ,21 flash of lightning played among the black clouds. Church bells began to ring. One was answered by another, till at last the whole air vibrated with a multi- tudinous tolling. We inquired of our waiter the reason and he explained that it threatened a heavy hail-storm, and that when one came at this season of the year it sometimes destroyed all the crops of the valley, even the fruit; so the bells were all ringing to beseech God's mercy and avert the danger. I was glad to notice that only a few hailstones fell, then rain came and the storm blew over. We consulted our host about the possibility of going to Scanno, a mountain village some sixteen miles away. He looked dubious, and raised his eyebrows at the idea of trying to spend a night there. He believed that we should fare badly. Would there not be any- thing to eat ? we asked. No, of a truth, it would be nothing short of starvation to attempt it. But, we argued, for a short time we could put up with almost anything. He shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. The inhabitants, we urged, must be obliged to have some sustenance themselves ; we might subsist for twenty-four hours upon local fare. Driven to the wall, he allowed that there might possibly be chicken, but no veal not a morsel ! The absence of veal did not strike us as the terrible deprivation it appeared to him. Indeed, at home we had never been accustomed to regard veal as the staff of life, nor indeed as a valued dainty. In Italy it is different ; there is no doubt that here it is a much prized and respected viand. However, after some indecision, we concluded to compromise on going for the day and carrying our luncheon with us, an arrange- ment which proved later to have been the part of wisdom. After the usual amount of time given to bargaining for a carriage, we sallied forth, and, wheeling to the east, 122 WAYFARERS IN ITALY began to follow a tributary valley, from which we soon struck into a wild, rocky ravine, at the bottom of which babbled the fine mountain stream of the Sagittario. It was a stern defile of surprising length, and from the edges of beetling cliffs above us stony little towns gazed down with suspicious distrust, at least so it seemed to us. They were secure from attack as far as we were con- cerned, for whatever approach they may have had was not discernible from the Sagittario. It must have been at least two hours before we issued from the defile and came into view of Scanno. We began to meet the women and girls of the village, as in twos or threes they descended the long hill which led down from it on the way to a certain distant little chapel which they favored, for it was Sunday. Their demeanor was dignified and their dress curiously gloomy for an Italian costume, for here was really a national costume strictly adhered to by the whole population. The gown with full skirt and close-fitting body was black or very dark green, relieved by a narrow band of white at the throat and invariable in form and finish, even to the number of little white buttons which fastened it at the neck. Broad heelless felt shoes covered the feet, and on the top of the head rested a curious head-dress of black cloth folded to resemble a circular flat cap about four inches high, lined and turned up with white at the sides, leaving one straight, narrow end to fall over the hair at the back. Of the hair, however, very little was to be seen. It was divided into strands, tightly braided and wound with what looked to our careful observation like black or brown worsted. The stiff plaits, in which the natural tresses were now entirely concealed by the woolen cover- ing, were then looped and coiled at the back of the head. This, as can be seen, was a more peculiar than beautiful costume, yet it seemed to become the young women, IN THE ABRUZZI 123 who were unusually handsome and rosy-cheeked. It appears to be a very unmixed race, with a deep olive and rich red of the southern complexion quite unaffected by the German admixture which is so evident in the north. Our driver had stopped at the gates, for the streets of Scanno are not calculated for the entrance of any vehicle, and we advanced on foot under the escort of an ever-increasing flock of children. Twenty-five of the most persevering of these (we counted them) attached themselves to us for our stay and never left us for a moment. And I will admit that the inhabitants inter- ested us more than the town itself, where a condition of dirt and ill odors prevailed, surprising in contrast to the self-respecting and cleanly appearance of its women. The latter carefully banished from their demeanor any apparent consciousness of our presence and their distant manner, together with their beauty and fine clothes, took from us the courage to ask them to pose for us, which we longed to do. Not till we had left the village, and, bidding our driver follow us, had begun to stroll down the hill did fate come to our rescue. Mass was evidently over and the devout were returning. The opportunity was so favorable for look- ing at them that we seated ourselves against a bank at one side of the road to have a pretext for deliberate observation. At last, to our surprise, two substantial elderly women stopped before us and one of them, with a courteous, deprecating manner, said pleasantly : " Do the ladies not find it uncomfortable to sit on the ground thus ? " We assured them that we were quite at ease and only resting a little before beginning our drive home, and from this propitious commencement we had soon reached the point of asking if we might photograph 124 WAYFARERS IN ITALY them, to which they agreed at once, the first one remain- ing always spokeswoman while the other stood smilingly by. Before we separated she requested that we might be so kind as to send them each a copy of the picture when it should be finished, and wrote her address for us easily and in excellent script. Her bearing was so dignified and her voice so agreeable and well-modulated that we left her wondering very much whether she at all represented the average of attainment in Scanno or was a notable exception. In stopping at a town like Solmona it is an excellent plan to choose the hotel frequented by army officers. Whatever disadvantages it may have, there is sure to be good food, and this is the case at the Italia. Service is slow, but then we, as mere travelers, are of secondary importance. A little observation showed us that half past six was a good hour for dining, for, as we were the only women, we could then mercifully remove the restraint of our presence before the army had more than half finished its repast. The most important table, set in the middle of the dining-room, is sacred to the profession, and soon after seven various members of it, tall, fine-looking men, enveloped in beautiful long blue cloaks, begin to assemble. The one who sits nearest our table has placed beside his chair a lower stool. When he arrives he strides across the room in all the splendor of spurs and clanking sword, and with unmoved seriousness produces from an inner pocket a minute dog, which he deposits with decision upon the stool. He starts across the room again in the direction of the sideboard, but if the small dog, imprudently impatient, ventures to spring from the stool and follow him, his master wheels round, replaces and severely reprimands him. He then marches to the sideboard and returns with a lump of sugar, which, with as deep solemnity as before, he administers to his favorite. IN THE ABRUZZI 125 Later the little animal is served with a plate of the best the table affords, and sups contentedly beside his master. By half past seven we have retired to our rooms, and, though great decorum has been preserved while we were present, the noise afterwards is loud and long. Sometimes it indicates pure conviviality, and sometimes swells to a suggestion of hostility, but in the latter case we fear nothing ; with this mercurial people such alterna- tions are rapid and harmless. For instance, in the proximity to opposite neighbors into which you are sometimes thrown by the narrowness of streets, it may happen that on a warm afternoon, through the medium of open windows, you are almost present at a quarrel between husband and wife. Voices rise high, tones become strenuous, you are concerned at the dis- turbance of family tranquility. Alack ! this is but the beginning; with the suddenness of a thunder-shower fury takes possession of this once loving pair, their voices mount to a scream, they storm, they hurl injurious epithets. You tremble, and in fancy see the structure of their domestic bliss lying in ruins at their feet. The clamor augments; there will certainly be blows. Horror takes possession of you ; this breach can never be healed ; it must end in divorce ! But the uproar waxes louder and louder ; blood will surely flow ; there will be murder in another moment ! What is to be done ? The police can never be called in time ; will no one in the opposite building interfere ? ^ In distress you hurry to the window, and, terrified, lean forth that you may hear the better. But what is this? There is a lull. A dead silence ensues. Has something terrible taken place ? Does one stand in pale affright over the corpse of the other ? You shudder ; you become more and more apprehensive as the tension lasts ; your imagination flies from one conjecture to another, and as the hush continues you begin to feel a iz6 WAYFARERS IN ITALY faintness stealing over you. But listen ! Can it be that you catch the sound of a conversational word or two ? With quaking heart you strain your ears that you may not miss the smallest sound. A moment later you glance down, and, hardly able to believe your eyes, see husband and wife emerge amicably from the street door and stroll cheerfully off together for a walk. Thus it may be seen how, even in the comparative seclusion of Solmona, a dull monotony may be eliminated from the lives of those to whom the outside world does not appear to contribute much of an eventful nature. AVEZZANO. Leaving Solmona, we wound our way among the heights and depressions of the Abruzzi and at last crossed the very backbone of the Apennine system before beginning to drop toward the valley of Avezzano. Toward evening we issued from a winding pass, to find ourselves still high up on the side of the mountain wall encircling a wondrous valley a vision of beauty, bathed in such magic color as may 'greet the happy traveler who arrives in a fortunate hour. Far below lay the floor of the valley, level as a tableland all around without the intervention of foothills '- rose , splendid purple shoulders and snow-capped peaksi A sky full of huge masses of dark 'cloud laid deep ' blue and amethyst shadows upon it all, but through rifts and breaks near the horizon shafts of sunlight poured in and touched a glittering patch of snow here and there. On the right as we descended, the warlike little city 'of Celano clambered up the rock where that towered and bastioned stronghold frowned, within which the unfortunate Coun- tess Covella was once besieged by her unfilial son Rugierotto. And this is not the only association with IN THE ABRUZZI 127 Celano. Here also was born the author of that most famous of old Latin hymns, the Dies Ir unencumbered by scruples, hesitated at little in the accomplishment of their purposes. Perhaps, however, the spectral shapes that must have paced these galleries at night will shrink away before the stone-mason and the frescoer and Bracciano be no longer revisited by the shades that must have haunted it till now. ROMAN EXCURSIONS 151 When the shadows begin to lengthen, it is pleas- ant to drive on the banks of the lake, at least as far as the little town of Trevignano which, half way round the nearly circular basin, looks across the water toward Bracciano. Its houses are grouped about and upon a small rounded hill that rises close to the water's edge and mounts so symmetrically to support the ruined castle on its summit, that one is half inclined to suspect the Orsini of having planned and constructed it simply to act as an attractive point in the view from their windows. Whether it be so or not, it is as well not to examine the little place too much in detail, for though fair to outward view it is singularly unclean within. The inhabitants, however, are busily engaged in weaving linen, which when produced is as fair and 'unsullied as though it had not been brought forth in the grime and dirt of Trevignano. Webs of it are spread upon the beach where, stretched tightly and fastened to the ground, it lies bleaching and forms dazzling parallel- ograms of whiteness which can be seen from a long distance, and as an unusual feature of scenery puzzle the unaccustomed eye. At twilight as we stood upon the platform of the railway station, ready to return to Rome, we noticed that we were to have the company of a newly married pair, who were perhaps about to make their first adventurous journey into the wide world beyond Bracciano. The little bride had added a pair of pearl-colored gloves to her rustic finery. Her eyelashes lifted themselves only momentarily from her blushing cheeks as her husband, fairly radiating pride and delight in his recently acquired honors, invited the chaffing congratulations of his friends and gloried in the importance of the occasion. Her happy embarrassment added piquancy to the usual inter- change of pleasantries, whose character showed that the 152 WAYFARERS IN ITALY wit of bridal parties does not differ greatly in whatever language it may be exercised. VITERBO. Viterbo is within easy reach of Rome, and it will well repay any one who can spare the time to spend a day or two there. It is curious and individual even in a country of such infinite variety as Italy, where every place has its own separate and peculiar charm, and it has many claims to interest. For instance, it lies at the heart of the "patrimony of St. Peter," that rich grant made by the great Countess Matilda to the papacy in the twelfth century, and its situation, about twelve hun- dred feet above the sea, in a rolling country of low hills and shallow valleys, is exceedingly pleasing. It is full of picturesque bits and delightful architectural details, while the drives in the neighborhood lead by quiet roads to interesting points beyond. Italian authors of old time call it "the city of beautiful fountains and handsome women." Nothing that we saw would have suggested to us that the standard of good looks was higher there than in neighboring places, but it may have been merely that the beauties of Viterbo did not happen to walk abroad during our short stay ; however, neither did anything occur to illustrate another characteristic maintained of Viterbo that it has an unusually wicked population. Noisy they did indeed appear to be and voluble to a degree, but no indecorum or violence made itself noticeable while we were its guests. Our windows overlooked the irregular main piazza of the town and from it an ever- ascending volume of sound rose to us. At first we rested ourselves from the journey and gazed down, but presently we descended and took haphazard ventures into the nearer streets. BRACCIANO. THE CASTLE. ROMAN EXCURSIONS 153 It seemed a busy place, with much coming and going, and quite an array of shops for the sale of different wares, and if one were unreasonable enough to carp at anything in Italy it might be at the contents of such shops. For instance, after feasting your eyes upon the upper portion of the exterior of some quaint building you become aware of windows upon the street belonging to a botega^ and still with a preoccupied mind vaguely imagining the sort of implements and utensils which would be the harmonious furnishing of such an ancient habitation, you glance at the array in the little show win- dow. Alas, for romance ! Just such meretricious and tasteless frippery, just such cheap and commonplace tin- ware and crockery meet the eye as fill the shelves of " the store " in an American country town. Perhaps this homogeneity is a part of progress, perhaps households which had to limit themselves to a few beautiful hand- wrought copper vessels now luxuriate in the convenience of unlimited tin buckets ; but surely there can be no doubt that the substitution of bad imitations of our modern fashions for the suitable and beautiful national costumes once worn is a misfortune to wearers and beholders alike. In Italian towns of any size one familiar American object, one revered name, is ever present, the Singer Sewing Machine. How it is that this make occupies the field alone I cannot explain, but so it appears to be, and what is still more singular it can be had much more cheaply than in the United States. In Viterbo the agency was combined with the sale of photographs of local scenery, and as we chose a few of these I remarked to the woman in attendance : "I suppose this machine is much prized in Italy. What is it called?" " Oh, yes," she replied readily, " truly most useful, Signora; it is a Seenjery ! " 154 WAYFARERS IN ITALY From the centre of business it is easy to pass to some silent little piazza, where the sun and shade distribute themselves tranquilly upon weather-stained surfaces of gray stone, where close clinging lichens add soft new tones to their coloring, and in whose crevices tender sprouting plants have found a foothold. Perhaps at the jutting angle of a building a column rears itself supporting the sculptured arms of the city, or a fearful stone monster looks down, shorn of much of its first fierceness by the smoothing hand of time. A pot of clove-pinks rests upon a high window-ledge, or a canary pipes from its cage with no loss of cheerful- ness for the lack of listeners. The churches are many and interesting, and we noticed jutting from the facade of little Saint Angelo a curiously carved sarcophagus and learned on inquiry that within it undoubtedly rests the dust of the beautiful Galiana of the Baracozzi, that cherished heroine of Viterbo, about whom the romance of the city gathers. The chroniclers of the twelfth century are agreed that Viterbo was favored beyond the ordinary. They record its possession of treasures as choice and diverse, as, for example, a portable altar which carried victory with it wherever it might be transferred and set up; a jester of irresistible wit and diabolical invention ; a lady half of whose hair was red and half green ; but especially do they dwell upon the matchless beauty of the fair Galiana. They are eloquent over the variety of her charms, of which perhaps the most unusual was the possession of a complexion of such wondrous purity that when she drank red wine its passage down her slender throat showed rosy through the transparent skin. Her story is related something as follows : The founders of Viterbo, having been Trojans, the city still reverently supported in honor of its origin a white sow, and this beast, grown ROMAN EXCURSIONS 155 to a fearful size and arrogance, had sacrificed to its dreadful appetite every year on Easter Sunday a virgin drawn by lot from the fairest the city contained. When the young and lovely Galiana had reached what seemed the culminating point of her bloom the dreaded lot fell upon her. At this all the population fell to lamenting grievously. It was too dreadful that beauty so dazzling must be given over to serve as a repast for the odious monster. However, there was no escape, and amid sighs and groans she was conveyed to the banks of the river Paradosso, where the sacrifices were wont to take place. But at the very moment the voracious sow approached to devour her prey, out from the forest close by bounded a lion which forthwith fell upon the sow, killed it and dragged its body away, thus liber- ating the virgin from death and the people from their bloody annual tribute. Great was the relief, tumultuous the joy of all Viterbo, and Galiana was borne back in triumph to her home. From this time forth she waxed, if possible, more beautiful than ever, and her fame reached so far that travelers came from the remotest countries to gaze upon her. On her account a war was even kindled with Rome, in which the prowess of Viterbo at last won the victory; and indeed toward the close of the narrative details multiply themselves in such a way as to become confus- ing, for while one version tamely chronicles that Galiana died quietly in her bed, another has it that a Roman baron, having sued for her hand in marriage and been refused, decided to have her by force. With a numerous army he besieged Viterbo and succeeded in surrounding the tower of the Baracozzi. When it became impossible for the father longer to hold out, sooner than allow his daughter to fall a prey to the enemy, he killed her and cast her body forth to them from a circular window which 156 WAYFARERS IN ITALY is still to be seen in the tower. Another account asserts that the baron, finding it impossible to take the tower by storm, begged that at least before departing he might be granted a sight of her, the which being considered an allowable indulgence, she was shown him from this same round window. At this, filled with fury and despair at the sight of such unattainable loveliness, he suddenly took aim at her with his bow and pierced her to the heart. Profound were the horror and grief of the people, and the mortal remains of this firebrand of beauty having been duly exposed in public for a last look at the per- fection that had cost so dear, were interred in a sarcopha- gus upon which was sculptured the story of the lion and the sow. This was then fastened aloft upon the facade of the church of Saint Angelo, where it may still be seen. If cavillers object that the coffin is Etruscan and that the tower of the Baracozzi was not built till the fourteenth century, let us regard them with indulgent pity ; there will ever be frigid, inelastic minds ready to brush aside the most enchanting romance if it clashes with a bald, unsympathetic fact. Etruscan remains of great interest and importance abound in this region, which lies well within the borders of that ancient people, and even to one who does not take fire easily at the mention of Etruscan tombs the after- noon's drive to Castel d' Asso may well prove a satisfying and delightful experience. In the first place the Roman roads that seam the ground immediately beyond Viterbo upon the west are more curious and wonderful than any others that I know of. Imagine a tunnel cut in a closely packed gravelly soil of rich color, with the roof left off. Let centuries make the sides somewhat irregular without lowering them, cover the upper edges with every variety of shrub and tree, of drooping, trailing, waving greenery, ROMAN EXCURSIONS 157 tossing down long arms toward you as you drive along below, and you may have some idea of these shady and delectable highways. They have the effect of having perhaps begun upon the surface and then worn their way fifteen or twenty feet into the soil. Through them we passed for some miles and then emerged gradually upon informal tracks among ploughed fields and grassy meadows. We were made aware of having reached the neigh- borhood of the famous Etruscan burying-place, when the road came to an end suddenly in the yard of a farm- house, where our driver explained to us a guide would soon be forthcoming. He emerged presently from a field near by, for conducting strangers to the tombs of Castel d'Asso is probably an incidental occupation to the more regular one of cultivating the soil. We followed him on foot, and nothing can be less suggestive of funereal solemnity than the little path that meanders along at first nearly upon a level and then suddenly drops over the brink of something between a narrow valley and a wide ravine, at the bottom of which runs a brook. Confronting us as we began to descend was the ruined castle which gives its name to the locality, retaining something of its old outline but abandoned long since to solitude and decay. Whether one follows a guide or picks one's own way among the shrubby, flowering verdure of the descent seems to make little difference, and at the bottom the most insecure and slippery of little bridges offers a passage across the brook. With the help of the guide's hand and a cautious avoidance of bog on the opposite bank we sprang over and a little later suddenly came upon the first evidences of the tombs. Forming the upper part of the valley's wall on this side are spaces of perpendicular rock and horizontally along the surface run lines of carving. The simple 158 WAYFARERS IN ITALY severity of these mouldings cut into the face of the living rock has an impressiveness denied to any artificially erected monument. Below panels are indicated, in shape pyramidal, almost suggesting Egyptian forms, and one may trace mysterious Etruscan characters not yet oblit- erated. Solemn, immovable they stand, emerging from the loving embrace of ever renewed, tender green leaves and seeming to gaze impassively forward, brooding over an immemorial past. Below, here and there are unimportant-looking holes in the ground, choked with earth and bushes and appear- ing hardly more than the burrows of some animal. One might descend into them with difficulty, but our attend- ant promised little now to reward such an attempt. Ages ago they were plundered of their bronze tripods, their painted vases, their scarabs and golden ornaments. So without reluctance we contented ourselves with the exte- rior, remembering the Chevalier of Pensieri-Vani, whose conscience never quite ceased to reproach him for having broken in upon the long sleep of a Lucumo and disclosed to the eyes of vulgar curiosity the sacredness of his seclusion. Turning out of Viterbo in the opposite direction from Castel d'Asso, one may go to the Villa Lante, one of the most beautiful and characteristic in Italy, a real creation such as taste and wealth have known how to evoke without the aid of great natural advantage of site or surroundings. It is a thing to make one long to know of its beginning and whether it was conceived and carried out by one person or discussed and planned by several. At all events there is complete unity of purpose evident in it as a whole, to which its details are finely subor- dinated. It is not a long drive to the little village of Bagnaia, and as you enter its open sunny piazza the ROMAN EXCURSIONS 159 warlike towers of the fortress on one side overlook the slope of the villla gardens not far away on the other. The property was once the seat of the bishops of Viterbo but now belongs to the Duca di Lante, who it is to be hoped holds it the fairest jewel in the ducal coronet. The gardens at first level later mount a gentle incline, the entrance being at the lowest point, and as you enter the gate in the enclosing stone wall you may take in the design at a glance. First, the formal garden, perhaps three hundred feet square, with a superb fountain as its central point, and beyond four rises of terrace. At the first, opposite the entrance and against the outer edges of the formal garden, stand two square stone pavilions, the summer residence, while between them the ground begins to mount to the upper terraces ; beyond all is a back- 'ground of woods. The fountain, fine in design, with its bronze figures, stone balustrades and copings, and great terra-cotta jars of growing plants, sends its waters into four connecting basins, the whole occupying a space something like a hun- dred feet square. Around it the garden beds, not over- loaded with flowers, all the plants kept to a certain measure of height, group themselves in geometrical designs, and the boundaries are marked by flourishing box hedges of dense growth. The upper terraces are a series of lesser fountains, waterways, flights of steps and balustrades with such a disposition of hedges, shrubs and trees as leaves the vista open to the eye and yet gives shade and the shelter of arching boughs. Now and then a stone pine sends its slender column aloft topped by the sudden spread of its crown of branches, beautiful accent in a beautiful scheme. As one follows up the terraces by flights of steps, receding from and returning to the central attraction of the water's course, each step is a discovery. The stone 160 WAYFARERS IN ITALY used everywhere is porous, almost coral-like, and time and the lapping tongues of water have moulded and worn it into fantastic irregularities, while all the delicate vege- tation that seeks a foothold in such places finds ample hospitality in its crannies and crevices. Old Neptune reclining in one of the smaller basins wears a most decent covering of shining green moss and water weeds that wave in long fringes from his half-disguised limbs. The third and fourth terraces begin to penetrate into the woods, and the shade of noble trees falls upon spaces of greensward beyond. Down the middle of the slight incline in the former of the two runs a waterway unique in its fashioning, a narrow channel hollowed out in stone, with the edges waving and curling into shell-like spirals, thus giving the water a thousand rippling, swirling motions in its downward course. Higher hedges close this in, leaving a broad graveled way on either side, and stone benches at intervals must invite to pleasant musings on hot summer afternoons, with half articulate murmurs of coolness as their accompaniment. After this the woods stretch away and you follow delicious shady paths thinking of the happy chance that this bit of forest afforded in planning the domain. But if by accident you approach a lateral boundary you sud- denly find yourself looking out over the open grassy country again and realize that the hand of man first planted -what nature seems now to have taken so com- pletely to herself. Once we came upon a little Madonna inserted in the hollow of a tree-trunk. A flower cup hung suspended before her and it was not empty ; we could not help smiling at her fondly as we rested upon a seat opposite and gave way to the speculations she and many other things evoked. Perhaps we were tempted to some expression in the presence of the little figure. MONTE CASSINO. THE COURT. ^SELIBR^ . " OF THE *r UNIV ROMAN EXCURSIONS 161 I am sure a votive offering of thanks would have been consistent with our mood, and as we returned to Viterbo in the face of a saffron sunset, we decided that the Madonna of the Ilex should in future be ours. MONTE CASSINO AND RAVELLO. " Beautiful valley! through whose verdant meads Unheard the Garigliano glides along; The Liris, nurse of rushes and of reeds, The river taciturn of classic song. " The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest, Where mediaeval towns are white on all The hillsides, and where every mountain's crest Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall." LONGFELLOW. Monte Cauino. [OMPARATIVELY few people hur- rying north from Naples turn aside before reaching Rome to visit the town of Cassino and the monastery that lies above it, and yet it is well worth a stay of a day or two, espe- cially if one has the good fortune to happen upon a market-day, when the country people from all the valley of the Garigliano gather into the town and col- lect upon its wide market-place. In Italy it is only necessary to arrive in a place which one has vaguely thought of as quite obscure to be at once convicted of disgraceful ignorance. Monte Cassino was to me hardly more than a geographical ex- pression, and yet I find that its past resounds with great names and mighty deeds, and that its history combines 162 MONTE CASSINO AND RAVELLO 163 all the needful elements for the weaving of a thrill- ing historical romance. Saintly miracles, courts and kings, wars and rumors of wars, earthquakes and conflagrations, all have visited this sacred retreat, and it has survived them all. Popes and emperors have held court here, weighty theological questions have been settled, and the famous interview between Gregory XI and the great Frederick II took place on this spot. It was already some hundreds of years old and the summer residence of many a wealthy Roman family, when Pliny wrote of its fine amphitheatre, built at the sole expense of a Roman lady, Ummidia Quadratilla, the roll of whose impressive name harmonizes with its still imposing ruins. Her wealth may be imagined, and it is said that her interest in the drama never flagged though she lived to an advanced age. It was here also that, in a domain of such extent and splendor as to be called the Home of the Muses, Mark Antony carried on the shameless orgies which were the theme of Cicero's reproaches, so that it is easy to see that Casinum, as it was then called, may awaken august and classic memories. But the magnificence of Casinum and almost its existence were blotted out by the barba- rians who ravaged Italy, and for nearly a hundred years the few inhabitants who survived must have lived ignored by the world outside. It is easy to imagine them as leading a life of poetical and pastoral simplicity such as one associates with the rites of a mythologic worship as practiced by an agricultural people, but no such inno- cent view was taken of their case by the pious church chronicler who discovered their deplorable condition. "In spite of the fact that Saint Peter himself is said to have preached Christianity here," he remarks, " these unfortunate people are plunged in the profound darkness of ignorance and the unspeakable horror of idolatry!" 164 WAYFARERS IN ITALY Deliverance, however, was near at hand, for the career of Saint Benedict had already begun. Born of noble parents, such was his piety that at the early age of four- teen, shocked by the corruption of Rome, he fled from the city with his nurse Cyrilla and for three years hid himself in a cave of the Sabine Mountains, where he was fed by a devoted hermit. The extraordinary sanc- tity of his life attracted a host of followers, and in the course of years Saint Benedict had founded twelve monas- teries. Here he cultivated thorns of a peculiarly sharp and cruel variety, to be used in the mortification and laceration of the flesh, but Saint Francis of Assisi, upon visiting these monasteries some centuries later, converted them all into roses, which flourish in profusion to-day. At length the jealousy of certain priests of that country reached such a pitch that they laid plans to corrupt the monks of Saint Benedict and even to poison the Saint himself. Therefore, in order to be no longer a source of disturbance in the region, and in accordance with a divine message, Saint Benedict, with two of his most cherished disciples, departed and journeyed toward the south. Two angels led the way and three crows flew slowly behind, and Saint Damien assures us that for five hundred years the descendants of these crows dwelt at the monastery, where several tame ones are still kept in memory of the miracle. When Saint Benedict reached Monte Cassino he dis- covered with grief the condition of affairs before referred to. In shady groves and graceful temples Venus, Apollo and Janus were worshiped with unquestioning faith. The summit of the mountain, a fine pyramidal mass which rises steeply from the plain, was crowned by a cit- adel built of those enormous cubic blocks of rock laid without cement which stir the wonder of the builders of to-day, and the remains of which may still be seen. In MONTE CASSINO AND RAVELLO 165 the heart of this impregnable fortress rose their most sacred altar to the war-god, and upon this very spot Saint Benedict instantly determined to plant the cross. Ac- cordingly, he preached to the people with such ardor that they hastened to renounce their idolatrous errors and with their own hands tore down the statue of Apollo. Having thus firmly established the religion of Catholi- cism, Saint Benedict set himself the task of framing a set of rules for conduct which if observed would lead his followers to a state of absolute perfection upon earth, and in this he succeeded so well that the fame of its results spread rapidly throughout Europe. After this he devoted the remainder of his life to presenting a shining example of all the virtues to his numerous disciples, and the miracles he wrought would if recounted fill volumes. After the death of Saint Benedict the monastery was again and again almost destroyed. Pillaged and burned by the Lombards and later by the Saracens, and over- thrown by earthquake, it nevertheless rose each time from its ruins, was patiently rebuilt by the remnant of its monks, and continued its life as before. Saint Benedict had embodied in his rules the order that his monks should occupy themselves with manual labor, music and study, a precept which contained the germ of their future pursuit of science and letters. The library of the monas- tery became famous, and after the invention of printing a press was kept busy in connection with it. Among its publications one may contemplate with awe the work of one of its humble but indefatigable brothers, a Hebrew and Chaldean lexicon, "with perpetual commentary," in ninety-nine volumes, upon which he spent thirty years of uninterrupted labor! But to return to the evening of our arrival. The inn was less pretentious than its name, Hotel Villa Marco 166 WAYFARERS IN ITALY Varrone indicating, of course, that it stood upon the site of the Home of the Muses. Fortunately the clean linen sheets which made the beds inviting helped one to overlook the fact that the sweeping of floors was super- ficial, and the dinner, served upon a very small table in the corner of a half-lighted drawing-room, was passable. In the evening we explored the little town, which begins in the valley and climbs for a short distance up the sudden and steep incline of the mountain. Bits of old Roman pavement can still be traced in the streets, and the views gain in beauty with every step of ascent. The broad floor of the valley stretches away, watered by the pretty winding stream of the Garigliano, and sur- rounding it are mountains of fine and varied shapes. Some hundreds of feet above the village is a castle of commanding picturesqueness, and high above all sits the monastery upon the leveled top of its lofty cone. A perfectly-built road with stone parapet leads with many a curve and zigzag from the valley upward, and low trees and sparse grass cover the slopes. Part way up, the suc- cessive shrines of a calvary surprised us by their ruined condition, not the gradual decay of antiquity, but the result of disregard and wantonness, and gave us an uneasy feeling of inclination to remain in Cassino and see to it that they were restored to completeness and respect. Work upon the road was still going on, and the laborers, who bore heavy burdens of stone upon their heads, were girls and women. The next morning we wakened early, but a continu- ous hum of voices was already rising from the street below, and on looking down a cheerful crowd could be seen chatting and exchanging salutations as they moved toward the open market-place. We exulted as we per- ceived that the women wore the bright skirts, laced bodices, and white head-dresses of their national costume, MONTE CASSINO AND RAVELLO 167 set off with beads and ear-rings; but there was an added touch, quite local and altogether delightful. Upon their heads they carried open baskets containing the produce they had brought to dispose of, and these were covered with gayly striped homespun scarfs. As soon as break- fast was over we went out to enjoy the company and if possible to become possessed of scarfs. Addressing one of the women, we asked if she wished to sell her coperta. She drew back and abruptly refused, we thought with rather an offended air. However, we tried again, and the second woman was not unwilling to part with hers. An officious bystander stepped in to assist at the bargaining, and thereafter constituted himself master of ceremonies. We completed the purchase amid the waxing excitement of the community, bore off the first coperta, and prepared to secure a second. There was a great difference in them, the choice of coloring in some being pleasant and harmonious, while in others it was crude and tasteless. Offers came thick and fast; we were crowded and pressed upon; coper te were waved at us over the heads of the multitude; everybody vociferated and shouted at once, and all in sight ran to join the throng. The second coperta was had for a somewhat less price, and then a third and fourth became ours. We had paid eight and ten lire, which I suspect was considered to afford a desir- able profit, but after all who could grudge such a sum to the patient women who had woven them? It was difficult to convince them that we did not need the coperte of all Cassino, but at last a diversion was effected through the medium of our self-constituted impresario, and the assemblage was given to understand that one of the Signore wished to take a photograph. Our funds by this time having run low, I returned to the hotel, which was not far away, for soldi to pay the models, who meanwhile were to be posed in a favorable position. 168 WAYFARERS IN ITALY On my return, in the course iof a few minutes, there was no longer any hope of approaching the photographer, who was now surrounded by a solid wall of human beings. Through occasional apertures in the mass, as the people shifted and swayed in their efforts to get a better view, we caught glimpses of our aid beating back the crowd, while the artist with undaunted coolness posed and in- structed her subjects. I know not how we should have extricated ourselves from the eager importunities of the populace but for the arrival of the carriage which was to take us up the mountain. We struggled into it and drove away, leaving behind us proffered coperte of every hue. The monastery of Monte Cassino, which has been declared a " national monument," is at present conducted by about forty monks, who devote themselves to the education of some two hundred boys. These, when released from their studies, may be seen capering about its solemn courts and cloisters and tearing up and down the magnificent width of its stone stairways. Upon our arrival we received permission, on presentation of visiting- cards, to be shown the building and to have luncheon served to us, and after walking about for a while unguided we were conducted to a small room opening from one end of a long refectory, where a meal had been prepared for us. We were waited upon by a young brother in long black robes, rather shy but very gentle and polite, who seemed pleased to answer all our questions ; and afterward we were put into the care of another, older and more experienced, and started upon a tour of sight- seeing. There was so much to see that I believe had our zeal equaled that of our cicerone, we might have remained for days. He was a tall, spare monk of about sixty, and his fervid love and admiration for his monastery were so MONTE CASSINO AND RAVELLO 169 genuine and unaffected as to be truly touching. Every stone of it was dear to him, every relic precious, and it would indeed have been a perfunctory sight-seer who could have resisted warming to his enthusiasm. Our sympathy gladdened his heart and he grew more and more eloquent and expansive, while every sentence bris- tled with "Gia!" and "Ecc!" as his long thin arms flung themselves abroad in waving our gaze to glories around and above us. The riches that have been showered upon this foun- dation are almost incredible. The whole interior of the great church, for example, is incrusted to the ceiling with costly marbles, in panel and mosaic of every tint conceiv- able. Numbers of chapels are finished each in different color and design, a rare and beautiful green marble from Africa often appearing. There is also much lapis lazuli, and one altar is enriched with large amethysts. Gilding and fresco are lavished everywhere and the carving is elaborate and magnificent. And to think of all this on a lonely mountain-top, miles away from any city ! But this was but a small part of it ; we walked through room after room, corridor after corridor. The library alone is almost endless and full of rare manu- scripts and valuable old volumes, gifts from rich patrons. That it should have accumulated or retained such riches is wonderful, for no further back than the end of the last century the fiends of the French Revolution, after hav- ing stolen everything possible to carry away, ruined and destroyed what was left until they were sated, taking especial pains to tear into fragments and set on fire archives, precious manuscripts, and books. From the library we were taken down, down, seem- ingly into the bowels of the mountain, to the portion covering the spot where Saint Benedict lived and worked. Here wonders recommenced. What would be the i;o WAYFARERS IN ITALY amazement of that holy man, could he behold the trans- formation which has taken place there ! Everywhere under foot, in pavements and broad stairways, we trod upon a polished stone, so beautiful with its perfect sur- face and warm creamy color that we were tempted to examine it especially. We were surprised to find that it was limestone, and fell to wondering how a substance so much richer in effect than white marble should not be oftener chosen in its place for similar purposes. The walls were covered with never-ending legend and story in modern fresco, and our guide lovingly expounded it all. Occasionally we came to a huge rugged segment of earlier building, containing a lancet window or a heavy arch. A battle-scarred portal had escaped destruction, and there it hung, a thousand years old, bound and clamped with iron, and armed with prodigious bolts, war- like and formidable still. When all was done we had not seen half the extent of the building, indeed hardly two sides of the greater quadrangle. On taking leave there is no such thing as feeing or direct payment of any kind, but one may place an offering in the box at the door, and this, of course, one is glad to make ample enough to be a suitable return for such entertainment. In the late afternoon we drove down the mountain again, lain in wait for at one or two favorable angles of the road by skirmishers with coperte for sale. A last determined effort was made at the station, where just before our departure two persons urged us to become purchasers of a coperta of especial value, according to their assurances. It being particularly new, raw and garish, by a natural course of logic they had reasoned that if an old and worn coperta were desirable how much more so must be a new and unused one of such dazzling colors. Their disappointment almost induced us to MONTE CASSINO AND RAVELLO 171 encourage a low standard of taste in Cassino almost, but not quite, and we departed leaving it behind. RAVELLO. " Where vines carve friezes 'neath the eaves, And in dark firmaments of leaves The orange lifts its golden moons." LOWELL. An Invitation. Of all places in the region about Naples to dream happy days away in, Ravello most steals the heart. I know that no stage-setting can surpass in perfection Amalfi, no fairy-tale equal the old Capuchin monastery, with its proud position, its matchless pergola, and the charm of its interior. But if time at all presses, after a day and night it is better to mount the thousand feet remaining before you reach the heights of Ravello and there for a while fix your abode. Those who drive up the steep mountain road in the heat of the day, swallow a hasty luncheon, take a pre- occupied glance at the view, and a hurried survey of the mosaics in its cathedral, and then are off again, know not Ravello. What could they tell of evenings on the Bishop's Terrace, of rambles in the chestnut woods, of hours of revery in the gentle decay of deserted gardens, of climbs through remote hill villages when morning's energy makes activity easy, and sunsets from the Belve- dere of Cembrone, with the most heavenly prospect in the world spread out at one's feet? No, Ravello is too rare and beautiful to be treated with the disrespect of a superficial glance. Then, you can be so nobly lodged there. You may become a guest at the bishop's palace and enjoy the free- dom of the charming old place without and within, where the dining-table is laid in what was once the private 172 WAYFARERS IN ITALY chapel, and the sacred dove still hovers in the fresco of the ceiling. The red and white wines here offered are far-famed and delicious. From the dining-room you step out upon the stone-paved terrace, enclosed and pro- tected on two sides by the building itself, like a roofless veranda, and opening to the garden on the third, while the fourth overhangs the azure gulf of Salerno far below, and the long perspective of mountainous coast sweeps away in blue and bluer lines toward the sunny plain of Paestum. One cannot from here detect the remains of Greek beauty that spring from that sacred earth, but one is conscious they are there those eternal temples, the perfection of whose soaring columns, golden and sun- warmed, rises ever against a crystalline sky from the deep green of banked acanthus and starry asphodel. But here on the terrace it is restful and beautiful enough for the soul of any mortal, and so it is to pass beyond into the more retired little garden, so small in extent but with its space so used as to outvalue an en- closure many times its size. This knowledge of how to use a space, surely it requires as high a wisdom in gardening as in filling a canvas. This one rears a thick wall toward the side from which might come any inva- sion of its privacy, while a low solid parapet faces the view on the other. The alleys that traverse it are sunk some fifteen inches below the surface of the flower-beds, from which they are divided by broad substantial copings of stone, worn to pleasant irregularities. Upon these copings as a foundation rise in every direction heavy pil- lars which uphold a rough open lattice made of the slim trunks of saplings with the bark left upon them, and yielding support for gnarled and twisted grapevines that, meeting and crossing above, form a leafy roof over the whole garden. At the end of one vista the wafl retreats to form a semicircular recess, and there between stone RAVELLO. A BY-WAY. MONTE CASSINO AND RAVELLO 173 benches stands a little table where in a pleasant shade coffee may be enjoyed and books spread out. Against the mellow walls silhouettes of grape-leaves fall aslant, and gay blossoms look up everywhere toward the sun- shine that sifts down through the rustic screen overhead. Ravello is planted upon the summit of a spur of limestone rock, a sort of promontory with steeply de- scending sides, that juts from Monte Cerrito, pushes out toward the sea, and then suddenly terminates in the precipice of Cembrone. Great was its history in those early centuries when it was harried by pirates and figured in legendary romance, when its nobles lent of their wealth to princes, founded colonies, and filled high positions in church and state. The remains of its many palaces, now sheltering the remnant of its once great population, show what it must have been ; and all through the little town bits of carved marble, pillars, capitals, fragments of inscriptions, are built into the walls of dwellings already old yet young enough to have borrowed from an earlier age. One splendidly constructed road approaches Ravello from the shore by many a turning and stops short before the cathedral. Beyond this point all exploration must be on foot. There are narrow stone-paved lanes, with flights of steps which mount to higher levels or drop to lower ones. A path, for example, will have a few rough stairs of irregular blocks of stone, then a ^few steps of slope more or less steep, then more stairs, and so on. And up and down these precipitous pitches run the bare- footed women and children as easily and confidently as goats, the women often with huge burdens upon their heads. These I have seen of such weight and bulk that they could only be carried and balanced with the bearer in motion. For any pause on the way they must be shifted to the ground. 174 WAYFARERS IN ITALY There is great beauty among these people, and many of the children especially are adorable little creatures, with big appealing eyes and charmingly moulded faces. But it is sad to see how prevalent goitre is among the older women and what a fearful size it reaches. One poor creature, not past middle age, sits and begs just without the episcopal palace. Goitre of a size beyond belief disfigures her, and she was born blind. She greets every passer-by with a monotonous whine, but this is merely professional. She is in reality a thrifty, able, and not uncheerful person. Blind as she is, she walks all over the village alone, she takes care of herself, attends to her own house, even to scrubbing the floors, and when not plying her occupation of begging talks pleasantly and sensibly about her life. From a walk in the chestnut woods behind and above Ravello you descend at first upon the Piazza del Toro, balancing itself upon a saddle of the ridge and overhung upon one side by palaces that once belonged to the most ancient and august families of the region. In- deed the piazza was once the point of extremest aristo- cratic exclusiveness in all Ravello. Only the nobles might live here. Here they built their sumptuous abodes and with fortifying walls dominated the citizens and laid grievous taxes upon them. So steep are the approaches that one marvels how it was ever possible to trans- port thither the marble columns used in its lavish adornment. There is nothing bellicose or imperious at present in the aspect of the piazza. What remains of its walls and palaces is free to a population which looks evenly democratic enough, and all is open to the sun and breeze. In the midst rises a fountain, one of the most delight- fully quaint in all Italy, on whose broad rim stand a lion and a winged bull. As we stood enjoying the grotesque MONTE CASSINO AND RAVELLO 175 proportions of the latter animal, with his surprising breadth of countenance and scantiness of ear and horn, an old peasant came to draw water and complete the picture, for he bore with him a copper water-jar in shape as beautiful as a Greek vase and in color such a rich combination of shaded reds and greens as made its polished surface resemble an agate. In this piazza we had a friendly chat with some daughters of the people who took a frank interest in the cut of our garments, but that part of the population with which we became most familiar was certain groups of naughty, pertinacious little girls who attach themselves to strollers in the base hope of gain and are not to be shaken off. In the beginning a lengthy appeal for alms assailed us from the rear, couched in tones of a woe so artificial that I presently turned and gazed at the little imposter with a frown of the same exaggerated quality, at which she instantly burst into a fit of irrepressible les. We thought it best to have an explanation with her and her companions at the outset, and laid down our principles with great distinctness, throwing in some moral warning in regard to the degradation of beggary and closing with a clear statement of our preference for a walk unaccompanied. This was all received in high good humor, but not with any degree of seriousness, and the young ladies still continued to attach themselves to us, trotting behind or beside us and ever and anon from mere habit throwing in a perfunctory suggestion of soldi. They pattered after us up long ladders of staircased streets, leaned with us over stone walls, and volun- teered information about the bella vista and the gen- eral affairs of Ravello with great sociability, and their sense of humor after a while quite reconciled us to their company. 176 WAYFARERS IN ITALY In leaving the Piazza, del Toro you may proceed through a crumbling arch, the very outline of which against the sky is a pure pleasure, and stop a moment, if you choose to call, at the portal of the great d'Afflitti family. It combines more varied architectural elements than were surely ever before called together in one portal, and as if to mock its own once haughty exclusiveness it now invites the entrance of an indiscriminate public, having fallen to the estate of an inn of but the second class. Passing it you thread your way between lofty walls whose huge stones form bosses and ledges where moss and grass like to cling. Then dipping toward the open piazza of the cathedral and again ascending a little through the roughly paved streets with their frequent turnings, ducking under low roofs and arches, you at last near the end of the ridge and ask entrance at the gate of the garden where the Belvedere of Cembrone waits to show you the boundaries of Ravello under the magic of the sunset. Sometimes the entrance at this wicket is easy, and sometimes grudging, but in the latter case a prospect of soldi usually persuades, and you saunter down the central avenue between the spare fruit-trees and humble vege- table-beds that have succeeded to the splendors of the cardinal's pleasure-ground. At the end you pass under a pretty temple-like pavilion of stone and stand upon the noble escarpment crowned by the belvedere. The wide stone parapet upon the outer edge swells at inter- vals into pedestals which bear up a succession of marble busts. One wonders who they are, these ladies and gen- tlemen of a period not very remote, portrayed with an art so innocent of anatomy and proportion. But the eyes rest upon them but a moment. What are they, in the face of the glorified world unrolled below and be- yond ! A thousand feet down the blue waters dance and RAVELLO. THE FOUNTAIN IN PIAZZA DEL TORO. MONTE CASSINO AND RAVELLO 177 sparkle, and a white crest of foam outlines the rocky shore, where sometimes out of the very billows, some- times from a position a little more elevated, those time-gnawed towers lift themselves that watched for the attacks of the corsairs. On one side of the spur of Ravello the Dragone leaps and foams in its swift descent to the shore, and spanning bridges and picturesque stone mills mark stages of its progress. Upon the other a narrower but quite as turbulent and noisy stream flows down through the little town of Minori, whose white houses and pretty marina peep cheerfully from between the inclining hills. Beyond, toward the east, the jagged peaks of Monte Finestra are penciled against the sky, and on the north- west towers the triple mass of Monte St. Angelo. And then in a sort of magnificently ordered confusion, down- plunging toward the sea in every variety of form, come beetling cliffs, sharp peaks, green hollows, dark red masses of rock, clinging vineyards, and ruins of tower or castle emerging from the soft enveloping green of chestnut woods. On all this imperishable loveliness falls the glorifying radiance of the sunset, and you stand silent before it, while if it dims the eye for a moment it paints itself in unfading colors upon the memory. The cathedral of Ravello even in its present de- flowered state still possesses, from the wreck of its prime, marbles and mosaics of such beauty as to divide one's emotions between gratitude for what survives and indig- nation at the wanton destruction that blighted it. Its foundation, dating from the eleventh or twelfth century, seems to have been due to the Rufolo family, then and thereafter one of the most powerful of Ravello, and as different members subsequently added to its adornment from time to time, their gifts were chronicled in long Latin inscriptions, some of which are now obliterated, iy8 WAYFARERS IN ITALY whose quaintness may be inferred from one which runs as follows: " This work Matthaeus Rufulus ordered to be made in honour of the Virgin and her Son, and for the adornment of his country.