A Roman Holiday Twenty Years Ago

I.

As the spring comes on in Rome, and the world without grows green, and the trees put on their leaves, it is impossible not to accept the invitation that the mountains hold forth. Artists begin to pack their portmanteaus and portfolios, to store their portable boxes with colors and canvases, and thus armed and equipped to set off on a mountain tour to hunt nature in her wild fastnesses, and to seek man and woman in their savage beauty amongst the Apennines. The long, laborious winter has used up their sketches, and they are off to “fresh woods and pastures new.” Most of the forestieri also begin to make excursions as far as Albano and Nemi, or give a couple of days to Tivoli, taking Hadrian’s Villa on the way. There you may see them lunching in the Sibyl’s Temple, or leaning over the balcony of the Villa d’Este to look back towards Rome, lulled by the plash of the fountains that sing under the giant cypresses in the garden below, where Leonora may once have walked. Few, however, venture further than Tivoli; though, stimulated by artist friends, some there are who extend their excursions to Subiaco, and then wonder that all the world does not follow their example. Yet it can truly be said that no one knows how beautiful Roman Italy is who has not traveled in the mountains which girdle the Campagna; and no one can form a just estimate of the people who has not set his foot off the dusty highway of common travel, and sought them where they are uncontaminated in their primitive country life. In the cities the Italian is bastardized by foreign habits and customs; in the mountains he retains the old hereditary qualities of his ancestors, and wears the ancient costume of his people. There he may be studied in his natural state, little differing from what he was in the times of the great Colonna, and still showing in his character and customs vestiges of the ancient days. Rome has become the watering-place of Europe, and the stream of foreigners that pours annually into its hotels and overflows its houses has washed away much of its original characteristics. Its old customs and its picturesque costumes are wearing away daily ; the civilization of the courier and valet de place—worse than the malaria — has infected it with foreign vices; the occupation by French soldiery did not improve its morals; the Gallic bonnet and hat have invaded its streets; and the Rome of fifty years ago scarcely survives even in the Trastevere quarter. Day by day the sharp Roman traits are wearing out, and within the past ten years much that was picturesque and peculiar has been obliterated. The Rome of to-day is no more like mediæval Rome than Pasquin, with his rubbed-out features, is like Lorenzo de’ Medici. Much of the life which Pinelli etched exists only in his admirable sketches. But in the mountains there is little change; the same habits and customs and dresses which charmed the traveler hundreds of years ago survive to delight the artist and form subjects for his canvas. If mankind were not for the most part pecorine in its propensities, one following another in a stupid routine, these pictures would not be solely for the painter’s portfolio, and no one would dream that he had seen Rome when he had followed the dusty track of the main highway from Florence to Naples, and known the mountains only as distant acquaintances.

I know no better way of presenting them to you than to give you a few notes of a little excursion which, in the spring of 1857, I made with four friends as far as St. Germano, and I offer these simply as a card of introduction. They will be much more like a passport, perhaps, and I fear will give you no more definite an idea of the beauty of these charming mountain towns than the personal description in the document they resemble would give an exact portrait of the individual who bears it. However, I will honestly set down what we saw, and you can verify or contradict my statements by going over the same ground.

It was early in the morning of the 26th of April, before the sun had dried the dew from the Campagna grass, that two horsemen — I beg pardon! a large cabriolet, drawn by two stout horses with bells on their necks and cockades on their crests, “ might have been seen ” passing through the Porta San Giovanni. This was the carriage which our party, consisting of five persons, had hired, for fourteen scudi, to take us as far as Frosinone, where we were to pass the night. The day was charming, with a warm sun and a cool air. Cloud shades printed themselves over the fresh Campagna, now painted with the various hues of spring, and wandered along the distant mountains, on whose summits rose-colored snow still lingered. Larks were trilling in the high air; flowers peeped from the hedges to greet us; contadini stopped plowing with their great, gray oxen to lift their hats to us, and we interchanged " Buon giorno ” with them and with nature. The drive was delightful, and after an hour and a half we pulled up at a little osteria under Colonna to breathe our horses. The old, dilapidated town above us, which was ruined five hundred years ago by Rienzi, offers nothing of interest to attract the stranger save its historical association, dating as far back as the days of Coriolanus, by whom it was captured and sacked, and its magnificent view over the Campagna. We contented ourselves, therefore, with surveying its ruined houses from a distance, and seating ourselves on the wall beside an enormous basin of flowing water, where the cattle came to drink, listened to the nightingales that were bubbling and singing by hundreds in the little grove hard by. Here we read up Murray, and had all the appropriate historical associations. And for myself, I sent a warm wish and a sigh over to a dear friend across the water, who once lingered with me beside the fountain and listened to the same nightingales in the days of long ago.

Meantime the horses breathed and drank, and then we set forward again, on foot, over the old Via Labicana, plucking the wild flowers by the way, and indulging the echoes with songs in a strange tongue. Here we left the road which leads to Palestrina, and saluting the old, gray town which crops out of the mountain’s side turned our horses’ heads towards Frosinone. The hills now began to close around us, and the Campagna was lost to sight. We soon passed the wretched, tumble-down village of Lunghiana, which, I doubt not, was once the scene of some wonderful event, but of which I only find recorded in my notes that it seemed utterly deserted. The sole signs of life I saw were an old crow hovering over the town, and a black priest wriggling along among the houses. So I set it down as a fact that wherever there is a Roman town there is a priest, and wherever there is a priest there is a crow.

At Val Montone we lunched, or rather we pretended to lunch, for the osteria proved to be an exception to the common run of Roman osterias. It was so filthy, the wine so sour, and the food so bad that we soon had enough without getting a feast, thus disproving the old proverb. While this repast was preparing, we strolled around the town. It is pleasantly situated on a hill, and, as usual, guarded by a huge baronial palace, which like a giant parasite seemed to have sucked all the blood out of it. But let those who enter its precincts hold their olfactory organs, for it is preeminent for filth. Everything is in decay, and it would seem as if no scavenger for centuries had swept its streets, which are chielly tenanted by pigs, that trot about with nicely curled tails and grunt welcome to the traveler. On the slope of the hill, however, is a picturesque portico where the inhabitants wash, and a terraced slope of grass, surmounted by ruins, on which they spread their clothes to dry. Here were congregated some fifty or sixty girls and women, laughing and screanning in altissimo, while they slashed the clothes in the fountain, and carried them, piled in baskets and mounted on their heads, up and down a broad flight of steps into the valley below. Here was picture enough for any one who had an eye for color and character, and the younger traveler, Cignale, improved the opportunity, and transferred some of the figures to his sketch-book; while the elder and his companions leaned over the wall near by and looked into the lovely valley, and visited the little chapel near the portico, and interchanged chaff with the washerwomen.

On returning to the osteria, lunch being not ready, in consequence of its having been served to the diligence passengers during our absence, we sat on the stone bench outside the place and discussed the weather and the crops with the conducteur, and assisted at the faint efforts of an old woman and her son to remove some of the offal from before the door, — assisted, bien entendu, in the French sense. A boy, of about ten or twelve years of age, prematurely developed by necessity, was digging it up and throwing it into the panniers of a melancholy, drop-eared ass, while the woman poured out a stream of very high-toned invectives upon his obstinate little head, by way of encouraging him in his exertions. At last the boy, after listening for some five minutes to her diatribe in sullen silence, looked up, and with an air of magnificent contempt uttered, with a sneer, the single yet expressive word, “ Chiacchierone! ” which being interpreted signifies “stupid old babbler,” and continued phlegmatically his occupation.

Lunch over, we continued our route through the loveliest of valleys, watered by the winding Sacco, and skirted by noble mountains, around whose breasts low chains of snowy clouds hung like necklaces, or drifted from their peaks like smoke from a volcano. The afternoon lights and shadows striking athwart their rugged sides were delicate and pearly; and as the sun descended they put on those rainbow hues of rose and purple which no brush has yet been subtle enough to catch. We were rather jubilant in our delight, and even Orso declared that, considering we were in Italy, the scenery was not so bad. Nor were we alone jubilant; for, just after passing Ferentino, where we did not stop, and a description of which I will spare you for the present, we passed a troop of pilgrims from the Abruzzo, numbering some twenty persons, men, women, and children, who had been on a pilgrimage to Rome for the holy week, and were now returning to their mountain homes, splendid in their rich costumes, the men bearing the staff and cockle-shell, the women carrying on their heads their bundles of clothes, and all singing together a chorus of Psalms as they went. Handsome young fellows there were among them, and reverend old men with white beards, and black-eyed maidens that looked up and smiled, as we passed, under their even brows. This roused even the enthusiasm of Orso and Carlo, who cried out, “ That is what poets and painters and romantic travelers, who never can be trusted, led us to imagine we should see everywhere in Rome! ” “ Well, be thankful that you see it anywhere,” Cignale replied; “and be thankful that you live now and not a half century hence, when all this picturesqueness will have disappeared.”

One or two of the clouds whose shadows we had tracked over the mountains and valley came sweeping down upon us now, and dropped over us an illuminated veil of rain; but in a few minutes it passed away down the valley, and left us in sunshine again. One of the party, — I will not mention names, — but one of the party who had always opposed the expedition on account of the earliness of the season, and had prophesied rain, at this juncture, being sorely tempted by the evil spirit, exclaimed, “ I told you so! ” But he was immediately suppressed, and it was at once agreed that if he dared to use that phrase again he should be summarily ejected from the carriage. Thereupon he repented, and promised to be more decent for the future.

Toward night-fall Frosinone appeared, looking down upon us from the summit of a somewhat steep hill; and under the orders of Campo, who as guide, philosopher, and friend undertook the marshaling of our party, we drew up at a rude, barrack-like house, which he declared to be the Locanda di Matteis. After beating at the door and loudly screaming, we finally roused a man, who, to our inquiry as to whether this was the locanda in question, nodded in the affirmative. “ And can we have beds and a supper here?” we cried. To this the man responded by shutting tight his eyes, opening his mouth, and having, as it were, a little private fit of his own, in the course of which certain dislocated words were jerked out at us, which we vainly endeavored to understand. “ How? ” we again inquired, rather taken aback. He looked round, had another little fit of stuttering, spitting at us unintentionally, and then gave it up. “ Verol dire,” said a friend who now came to the rescue, “ raa non pud, capisce, che lette c’è sono, e farfi quel che può per rernediare la cena.” This remedying a supper did not promise much, but we all agreed to run the risk; and the stuttering landlord having promised to send to the town for " una biftecca di vitello o majale ” (“ a beefsteak of veal or pork ”), we established our luggage in our rooms, and then set forth to climb the hill leading up to the town. Up and down this steep declivity women were coming and going, with great copper jars poised on their heads, which they had come to fill at a fountain halfway down. Groups of peasants returning from their day’s work on the Campagna now and then came by, and in one of them was a woman bearing on her head a large wicker basket, in which her little child lay peacefully sleeping. As is very common in this country, the poor woman, not having any one to leave it with at home, had carried it with her to the fields, and was now bringing it back, covered with her colored apron.

The landlord, good as his word, gave us a bad dinner and a clean bed, where, having nothing to disturb us, we slept peaceably all night, in rooms as empty of any furniture as barns.

By five o’eloek the next morning (Sunday) we were up, and in a few minutes had engaged a caretta, with a little rat of a horse, to take us over to Alatri. Into this, as soon as we had breakfasted, we all crowded, our stuttering landlord sitting on the shafts, and vainly struggling to answer our questions as to the road and country; and in this way we rolled along. Our road led through a flat table-land extending to the mountains, covered with elms which, Laocoön-like, were clasped in the embraces of huge twisted vines that clambered to their summits, and dropped in summer from one to another in picturesque festoons, or stretched forth their sprays, in search of further support. Over the road, through the vineyards, and under the trees and pergola upon either side the figures of contadini in festal dresses might everywhere be seen, moving along to mass in groups and processions, or strolling to pay visits to their neighbors. Long, snowy, starched panni, doubled and pinned flatly on the top of the head, projected like stiff eaves over the forehead, and fell almost to the waist behind, ending in double rows of fringes. As they moved along among the green vines nothing could be more picturesque than these figures, with their busti of scarlet purple and Chinese vermilion; their blue aprons with orange stripes and rich borders; their scarlet or linen sleeves; green, blue, and purple skirts; broad woolen cinctures worked in various patterns and colors; and above all the snowy masses of their panni that Hashed in the sun. Rows of old olives, with their faint smoke-like foliage, contrasted with the fresh yellow green of the young elm leaves that lined the road. Here and there were cabins thatched and covered with mosses, or brown farmhouses with porticoes and loggie, under which groups of contadini lounged. Heaps of brush-wood were everywhere stuck up in the trees to dry, and over all was an exquisite Italian sky, and the pure, dewy air of morning. After a drive of nearly eight miles, we began to ascend the hill-side to Alatri, which is celebrated for its remarkable Pelasgian remains, and for the beauty of its women. Campo was more interested in the former peculiarity, and I in the latter. Neither of us were disappointed. The day being a festa, the world of Alatri was out and dressed in its best, and we all agreed that we never had seen so handsome a people. Something of this effect may perhaps be attributed to the costume, which is eminently picturesque, but independent of this the type of the Alatri faces is very remarkable. The noses are invariably long, thin, and finely cut; the eyes large and almond-shaped; and the head of a noble and refined character. The men are as handsome as the women ; two heroic-looking fellows, who with great good-nature and stately politeness had offered to conduct us up the rugged streets to the citadel, were as noble specimens of physical humanity as could anywhere be found. As they marched rather than walked before us, with a large, easy stride, their legs bound about by the cioce bands, and a deep scarlet cloak folded over their shoulders, they seemed like worthy descendants of the “gens togata,” — Romans, Pelasgians, or Saturnians. A peculiar dignity of figure was observable in most of these people; even the old women looked like Fates, — though their faces were like a baked apple in color, and covered with seams and wrinkles.

The Cyclopean walls that surround the citadel are still in a remarkable state of preservation, and the massive gateway, with its huge, uncemented blocks of stone, is fresh and solid as if it had been built yesterday. There is probably no more perfect specimen of Pelasgic construction to be found in Italy. The gate-way is a square passage, of great depth, roofed by three enormous stones fitted together with nicety. Here they have stood for thousands of years, and here they will probably stand for as many thousand more, for so massive are they that they may defy the assaults of time. “They were built by the gods,” said our guide, and so in truth they looked. The walls, too, are very remarkable. They are fifty feet in height, and composed of only fifteen courses of stone. We passed in at the gate-way, and ascended to the summit of the, citadel, which is now a broad terrace surmounted by the church of San Sisto. Here we found collected a considerable number of people, who were lounging about, and going in and out to mass. We, too, gave a glance into the church. Rows of contadine were kneeling there, with their great white panni on their heads, picturesque and strangely Egyptian; and for contrast two bonnets were seen above them, looking exquisitely vulgar among these imposing head-dresses.

We had flattered ourselves that here in the mountains we were out of reach of that detestable fiend Fashion, whose sole object it seems to be, not to seek the beautiful and cling to it, but to sacrifice everything to novelty. But it had made its inroads even here. This foolish fetich, to whose peremptory and senseless whims all Europe bows, is essentially of modern origin, a miserable parvenue, a vulgar sham, a Parisian lorette, whom we ought to be ashamed to entertain. In the East she is still unknown, or if known despised. The ancients scorned her: they worshiped Beauty, the divine goddess. We worship Fashion, her base counterfeit. Their dress for centuries remained unchanged. It was graceful, characteristic, noble. Why should they change it ? Ours varies with every season, and if temporarily graceful at any time is so purely by chance.

The view from the terrace is magnificent. All around is an amphitheatre of mountains, rolling up like huge surfwaves, and overhanging the valley. The hill-sides and plains are carefully cultivated, and little gray towns crop out here and there like natural formations of rock. On one of the lower slopes is a church and convent, forming a picturesque group of buildings, and backed by lofty gray mountains whose crests were covered with snow. Here I would willingly have passed the day, but it was otherwise ordered. Before we left the citadel, however, we did our duty as travelers; and surrounded by a group of wondering men and boys we read, for the advantage of all, in a loud voice, the pages of Murray in which the place is described. It seemed greatly to gratify and surprise the audience, and they appeared to prefer it to the mass that was going on in the church.

In this valley has been recently unearthed the remains of an antique aqueduct, which brought underground to Alatri the fresh springs of the mountains beyond; thus satisfactorily proving that the ancients thoroughly understood the fact that water would find its own level. The colossal aqueducts which span the Campagna were not built in ignorance, as many have supposed, but rather for ornament, and in a spirit of magnificence. To them, with their immense treasury, their armies of slaves, and their imperial power, the cost was comparatively nothing. They strove to combine utility with grandeur of effect, and to delight the eye with their mighty architecture. When a private person could build an amphitheatre to divert the populace for a week, the government could well afford to make Rome splendid and imposing with such permanent and noble works. That they should have done this through ignorance of so simple a fact that water will find its level is impossible; every fountain that played in their gardens and piazzas would have taught them this. Besides, there is still another reason for building these aqueducts above ground: though the original cost was greater, it was easier to repair them, and easier to detect the leakage and breaks.

Escorted by a crowd of women and boys, in whose breasts we had awakened curiosity and perhaps vain expectations, we now descended through the streets of the town, and at its outskirts found a wagon, which we immediately hired, for eight pauls, to take us on to Veroli. In this we seated ourselves, and, surrounded by our audience, made them a long harangue in their native tongue, explaining carefully all our intentions, our object in coming to Alatri, the satisfaction we had received from our visit, the design we now bad of going to Veroli; and after thanking them for their kindness in escorting us about, begged them to take a last long, lingering look at us, and allow us to depart in peace. Such, however, was their attachment to our persons that several boys accompanied us for more than a mile, executing various antics on either side of our wagon, and keeping up a continuous chorus, probably Pelasgic, of which the refrain was, “ Dammi cha-cos.” After a mile all fell off but one panting friend, who gave us a Cyclopean adieu by throwing a stone after us when he was at last worn out, and accompanying it by sundry invocations. It is doubtless an old Pelasgic custom similar to the English one of throwing a shoe after a friend for luck.

The drive was very pleasant, through exquisite scenery, — great gray peaks hanging over us, sparsely scattered over with black shrubbery; long ranges of noble mountains bounding everywhere our horizon; and cultivated valleys spreading on every side. At last, after an hour or so, we ascended the long hill that led us to Veroli, which is beautifully situated and commands a magnificent view. Here, after threading the narrow streets under the escort of a native, we found a dark little inn, where we proposed to lunch. “ Ho, Maria Fli!” screamed our guide; and the landlady appeared, and farordscahl us into a room up-stairs. While our lunch was preparing we made a survey of the apartment, all the doors of which stood invitingly open; and after passing through a couple of rooms we finally arrived at a bed-chamber, in which were two large, piled-up Italian beds. On the coverlets of these, which were by no means immaculate in their freshness, great sheets of pasta were laid, ready to be cut up into strips for soup; and over them were parading some cocks and hens with the utmost freedom. It was our turn at this to cry out lustily for “Maria Fli,” and she at once, alarmed by the outcry, ran in. “ Che cosa, signori, — cosa commanda? ” We pointed out the pasta and the hens, but she only smiled and shrugged her shoulders, and with some apparent regret drove the hens away, remarking, “ Non fanno niente di male alla pasta, signori.” (They don’t in the least injure the pasta, signori.) “Do you always spread your pasta on the beds?” we asked. “ Si, signori.” This did not promise well for the lunch, but our auguries proved false: she gave us a stew and omelet, which we all agreed to be excellent, and of which we left not enough for a fly.

In her kitchen, where we also penetrated, we found a loom going, at which she was weaving, in her intervals of leisure, a rude carpet or rug. This is the chief industry of the place, and here are produced in large quantities a common kind of coarse carpet, which is much used in Rome. It is made of narrow strips of woolen cloth of various colors, woven closely together, and is very strong.

While we were sitting at our lunch we received a visit from one of the weavers, a French woman, who, having heard that there were strangers at the inn, and hoping that they might prove countrymen, had come round to air a little of her native language with them. It seemed that she had married an Italian, and was living quite contentedly here at Verdi, earning a tolerable living by her handiwork. Still, it would have been a pleasure to hear a little news of “ la belle France,” and we regretted for her sake, though by no means for our own, that we were not Frenchmen.

Lunch finished, we hired live mules, at thirty-five baiocchi each, to carry us to Sora. We might have gone on to the frontier line with a caretta, but as the road there ends abruptly, with nothing but a rough bridle-path beyond, we thought it best to secure good mules at Sora, lest we should be unable to find them further on. The road descended at once from Veroli through a picturesque rolling country hemmed in on all sides by mountains. The weather when we set out was very pleasant and sunny, and great cloud-shades were drifting here and there over the landscape; but this was not to last. Clouds soon began to gather around the mountains, and to pour upon them storms of hail and snow.

These, however, blew away at intervals, and let through them spots of sunshine; and although the wind as it came down from these flying hail-storms chilled us threateningly, we still hoped that they would not overtake us. Scarcely had we passed the frontier when down they swooped upon us, darkening all the sky, blowing fiercely through the hollows, and pelting us with hail, snow, and rain. There was no shelter near, and wrapping ourselves in our plaids we kicked our mules into as fast a trot as we could, and on we went, pausing once for five minutes under a group of thick trees in hopes that the storm would pass. We got nothing, however, by this; the rain still continued, and we pushed on again. Nothing could be more wildly magnificent than the violent change which had now come suddenly over the face of the world: the smiles, the gladness, the sweetness, of nature gone, and in its stead a fierce passion of tempests, grappling the trees, foaming down the mountains, roaring through the clefts and valleys, and pelting the earth with a fury of hailstones. It was like the people themselves,—so gentle and amiable in their best moods, so madly violent when roused to anger.

After a quarter of an hour we came upon a little low house, where, after beating and knocking for some time, we finally got an entrance. Here we determined to wait until the rain, which was now coming down in torrents, should hold up; and putting our mules under cover we pushed into the main room. Nothing could be more rude and primitive than it was: the walls entirely bare, and the furniture consisting of two common chairs, two stout benches, a rickety old wardrobe, and of course a picture of the Madonna. In one corner was a huge chimney cover protruding over the ashes of a slender fire that sent up its wavering gray smoke into the grim and sooty opening. Here, on the floor, was seated the contadina, an old woman, beside a basket in which an infant was sleeping. She made us at once welcome, though with a very timid and fearful manner, and gave us all the seats there were But she seemed specially timid when we approached the sleeping child and began to praise it; and I saw in an instant by her answers that she was afraid of the jettatura, for to every question we asked she always took heed to say, “ Benedetta sia la Madonna,” to ward off the effects of the evil eye. “ Whose child is it? ” we asked. “ Il figlio — benedetta sia la Madonna! — di mia nipote.” “Is it a boy or a girl ? ” " Un maschio, — bene-

detta sia la Madonna.” “ It is a very pretty child.” “ Sta in buona salute, — benedetta sia la Madonna.” Poor old creature ! she was always in fear lest we might unintentionally work some evil to the little one by looking at it while it was asleep and praising it; for the peasants are as superstitious on this point as they were in ancient days, and will not willingly allow you to praise a child, particularly while sleeping, without warding off the evil eye by attributing the glory to God or the Madonna. To our good fortune the rain soon ceased, or. as our guide expressed himself, “ aveva spiovitto,” and putting a few small silver pieces into the hand of the old woman we took our leave.

Our road now lay over a rocky bridle path, which in the rainy season was the bed of a torrent. It was sometimes broad and shallow, and sometimes narrowed down between high banks, so that we could only pass along one by one. The rain still continued to fall at intervals, and on the mountains it was pouring. We had scarcely gone on a half hour when our path began to take up its winter’s trade, and to become the bed of a torrent. The muddy water drained from the hills and slopes poured into it; and our mules, oftentimes knee-deep, went plunging along and slipping over the great stones upon the bottom, over which the ever-deepening torrent whirled. It was splash, splash! jerk, jerk! all the time, and the wrenching we got in our saddles, which were quite wet through, at every step became almost intolerable. However, we kept up our spirits, and sang as we went. It was wild enough, there among the mountains, and as the afternoon began to darken under the black clouds, the scenery grew grim and ghastly. At about six o’clock we saw Sora in the distance, and kicking well our jaded mules, who had got enough of it, we urged them into a desperate gallop up into the streets of the town, which we had scarcely set foot in when down came the rain again in a deluge. When it rains in Italy, it does it with a will,— not softly sifting out its moisture over the earth, but pouring it down in torrents, as if the flood-gates of the sky were opened. The Locanda del Genio proved a good genius to us, and within ten minutes we were under its shelter and ordering our dinner. It is useless to say after such a ride that our appetites were good. What is quite as much to the purpose, our dinner was good, and our good-humored landlord, a thorough Neapolitan, was himself the cook.

The next morning (Monday) it was raining violently, and we were forced to amuse ourselves as well as we could by foraging round the town for “ panni.” The costume here is by no means Greek, as Murray states. The busti is still worn, and the dress is far less picturesque than at Alatri. The women, however, deserve their reputation for beauty. At one shop where we made a stand, a crowd gathered round us, bringing us all sorts of panni and tappeti to sell. And among them were two very remarkable-looking women: one a venerable Sorina, still very beautiful in her old age, and the other a surprisingly handsome girl of about nineteen. On the whole, it seemed to us that the Alatri women had decidedly the advantage of the women of Sora in beauty.

Sora, which still retains its old Volscian name, is a clean, well-paved town of about seven thousand inhabitants, lying under a great gray mountain sown with rocks, that jut out of it like dragonteeth. Directly behind the town tower are the ruins of an old feudal castle where the Piccolomini Buconcompagni, and other Roman families, once made their stronghold ; and some fragments of the Cyclopean walls which inclosed its ancient citadel still exist. In front of the town the Liris swoops by in a fierce stream; all along its banks is a promenade, and an arched bridge is thrown across it. The town seems prosperous; it has its great, piazza and church, and holds its market days like other larger places, Juvenal tells us in his third satire that in his time it was an agreeable residence: —

but either the rain made it unusually dreary to us, or it is an uninteresting town in itself.

For want of better amusement, we diverted ourselves in the afternoon, all’ Inglese, by scattering little coins among the people in the piazza, for the beggars thronged about us in such crowds that it was impossible in any other way to get rid of them. The late afternoon we passed around a great copper scaldino, drying ourselves and making plans for the morrow, and sipping tea out of tea-cups so preposterously small that we seemed to be playing at tea like children.

The next morning it was raining still, and we lay abed late, amusing ourselves with the absurd landscapes painted on our walls by some Sora artist. In these perhaps the proportions of the different objects were the most worthy of note,— though the color was quite as original and ideal: little carriages of about an inch and a half in size were passing over bridges, while men of about four times their height were seen on very green slopes beyond, shooting with newly-in vented fire-arms at gigantic nondescript birds. The land was distinguished from the water by a broad Etruscan border, which bound its hem like a plaited ribbon, and the figures and houses were like our earliest efforts after nature.

At about twelve o’clock, while we are sitting disconsolately about our brazier, there enters the room a traveler who has come from Isola, and orders his lunch. While he is eating we fall into conversation with him about our journey. He exhibits the deepest interest, offers to make our bargain for a carriage, summons Carluccio the vetturino, with whom he discusses in our behalf, calling us his “friends,” and claiming that as such we were entitled to a reduction of prices. Carluccio, however, does not every day catch a foreigner. He is very obstinate as to his price, and our friend, after a half hour’s dispute with him and much expenditure of eloquence and logic, gives him up as an ostinato and sends him away. He then insists on going out to seek another more reasonable vetturino, and out we all go together. The new vetturino is evidently another representation of Carluccio. He demands ten piasters to carry us to Atina, thence to St. Germano, and to bring us back to Sora, and shows us two old, rickety, break-neck vehicles, which he assures us are just the thing. We complain that the carriages are not safe. “ Oh, per quello guarantisco io,” he says. It is impossible here to have a decent vehicle; they always upset. “ Why so? ” we ask. He shrugs his shoulders, and the reason is conclusive. Our friend argues stoutly, having offered him eight piasters, which he refuses, turns up his lip in disdain, and invites us to a café. There he offers us coffee; we thank him, and decline his civility. At least, he says, “un po de rosolio o rhum.” We again decline with all the grace we can command, but he insists, if we do not want it, at least we will take it, per ceremonia, out of favor to him; and rhum is brought and poured out to each of us. I take out my purse to pay for all, but he waves back my offer, en prince, and after spending an hour in bargaining for us insists upon paying for the rhum.

Finally we arrange with the vetturino to pay him nine piasters, including buonamano, and to take his two wonderful half-covered carrozzelli, high up with a driver’s seat in front, ignorant of paint since their birth, and all broken down and ramshackly. He offers me at once a piaster as coparra, or earnest money, to close the bargain, and our friend smiles approval at the proceeding. This affair being now settled, we return to the locanda to eat yellow corn bread and wait until the morning, when we are to set forth.

W. W. Story.