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THE ENGLISHWOMAN IN ITALY.


   [Illustration: THE CORNICHE ROAD.]


                                  THE
                         ENGLISHWOMAN IN ITALY.


                          IMPRESSIONS OF LIFE
                                 IN THE
                       ROMAN STATES AND SARDINIA,
                     DURING A TEN YEARS' RESIDENCE.

                                   BY
                            MRS. G. GRETTON.



                                LONDON:
                    HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
                      SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,
                     13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.




                     JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER I.                                                   PAGE

  Departure from Florence—The Vettura—Inn among the
    Apennines—General aspect of towns in Romagna—Causes
    of their decay—Austrian officers at Forli—Dangers
    of the road—First impressions of Ancona                       1

  CHAPTER II.

  Description of the Palazzo—An English family, though
    Italian born—Complimentary visits of the Anconitan
    nobility—How they pass their time—Dislike to country
    walks—Modern _Cavaliere Servente_                            10

  CHAPTER III.

  A marriage in high life—Wedding outfit—The first
     interview—Condition of single women—The laws of
     courtship—Dependence of young married people—Anecdotes
     of mothers-in-law                                           19

  CHAPTER IV.

  System pursued towards children—Results of Jesuit
    training—Anecdotes of the Sacré Cœur—A
    _Contessina_ just out of the convent—Difficulty
    of giving a liberal education to young nobles—No
    profession open to them but the Church—Their
    ignorance and idleness                                       26

  CHAPTER V.

  The middle classes—Superior education of the men—Low
    standard of female intellect and manners—Total
    separation from the nobility—Cultivated physician—A
    peep into his household—Family economy—_Conversazione_
    at the chemist's—Passion for gambling—The _caffè_            37

  CHAPTER VI.

  Prejudice against fires—General dilapidation of
    dwelling-houses—A lady's _valet de chambre_—Kindness
    towards servants—Freedom of intercourse with their
    masters—Devotedness of Italians to the sick—Horror of
    death—Funerals—Mourning                                      46

  CHAPTER VII.

  Decline of Carnival diversions—Dislike to being brought
    into contact with Austrians—The theatre—Public
    _Tombole_—Short-sighted policy of the Government             59

  CHAPTER VIII.

  The Lottery—Its miserable results—Evening parties—Absence
    of all ostentation—Poverty no crime—Grand supper on
    Shrove Tuesday—Reception of a Cardinal                       67

  CHAPTER IX.

  Picturesque environs of Ancona—Dwellings of the
    peasantry—Their simplicity and trust—Manner of life
    and amusements—A wedding feast                               76

  CHAPTER X.

  A rural christening—The young count                            86

  CHAPTER XI.

  Lent observances—Compulsory confession—The sepulchres on
    Holy Thursday—Procession on Good Friday—Blessing the
    houses—Joyful celebration of Easter                          95

  CHAPTER XII.

  Festivals of the Madonna—The Duomo—Legend of San
    Ciriaco—Miraculous Picture—Course of sermons by Padre
    G———General irreligion of the Anconitans—Ecclesiastical
    tribunal of 1856—The Sacconi                                103

  CHAPTER XIII.

  Political condition of Ancona—Arrogance of the Austrian
    General—Strictness of the martial law—A man shot on the
    denunciation of his wife—Application of the
    stick—Republican excesses—Proneness to
    assassination—_Infernal Association_ in 1849                110

  CHAPTER XIV.

  Execution of a criminal—Sympathy for his fate—The
    Ghetto—Hardships of the Jews—The case of the Mortara
    child not without precedent—Story of the Merchant and
    his niece                                                   121

  CHAPTER XV.

  A wedding in the Ghetto—Contrast between the state of the
    Christian and Hebrew population—Arrival of the
    post—Highway robberies—Exploits of Passatore                128

  CHAPTER XVI.

  A visit to Macerata—The journey—The Marziani
    family—Volunnia the old maid—The Marchesa Gentilina's
    midnight communications                                     137

  CHAPTER XVII.

  Comfortless bed-room—National fear of water—Waste of
    time—Occupations of the different members of the
    family—Volunnia's sitting-room—Her acquirements             145

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  Volunnia's inquisitiveness—Her strictures on English
    propriety—The Marchesa Silvia's dread of heretics—The
    dinner—The Marchesa Gentilina knits stockings and
    talks politics                                              151

  CHAPTER XIX.

  A conversazione verbatim—Admiration for Piedmont—An
    attack of banditti—The Marchesa describes the actual
    wretchedness of the country—Cardinal Antonelli's addition
    to the calendar year—Monopoly of the corn trade—Entrance
    of the Knight of Malta                                      160

  CHAPTER XX.

  Conversazione continued—Match-making—The Codini opposed
    to travelling—Hopes of the liberals centred in
    Piedmont—Volunnia's pleasantries—Story of the young
    noble and his pasteboard soldiers                           169

  CHAPTER XXI.

  Unwillingness of the Italians to speak on serious
    topics—Indifference of the majority to literature—Reasons
    for discouraging the cultivation of female
    intellect—The Marchesa Gentilina relates her convent
    experiences—Admiration of English domestic life             176

  CHAPTER XXII.

  On the study of music in the Marche—Neglect of
    painting—The young artist—His hopeless love—His
    jealousy—His subsequent struggles and constancy             187

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  From Ancona to Umana—Moonlight view—The
    country-house—Indifference of the Anconitans to flowers
    and gardening—Ascent of the mount—Magnificent prospect
    at sunrise—Trappist convent                                 196

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  The bishop's palace at Umana—Inroad of beggars—The
    grotto of the slaves—The physician's political
    remarks—Approach to Loretto—Bad reputation of its
    inhabitants—Invitation from the Canonico                    204

  CHAPTER XXV.

  The Santa Casa—Pilgrims—The treasury—Exquisite statues
    and bassi-rilievi—Chocolate at the Canonico's—La Signora
    Placida—A survey of the house—The rich vestments            214

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  Visit to the Carmelites at Jesi—Our joyous reception—The
    casino and theatre—Infractions of convent discipline—The
    dinner near the sacristy—In company with the friars we
    visit the nuns                                              224

  CHAPTER XXVII.

  The writer's motive for not having dwelt minutely on
    political or historical subjects—Antiquity of Ancona—Its
    reputation under the Roman Empire—Its celebrated
    resistance to the Emperor Frederic Barbarossa—Stratagem
    employed by its deliverers—Continues to be a free city
    till 1532, when it is surprised by Gonzaga, General of
    Pope Clement VII., and subjected to the Holy
    See—Flourishes under Napoleon—Restoration of the
    Papacy—Pontifical possessions—Explanation of the terms,
    Legations and Romagna—Bologna conquered in 1506, by
    Julius II., but retains a separate form of
    government—Ferrara, Urbino, &c.—Dates of their
    annexation                                                  234

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  Injudicious policy of the Government at the
    Restoration—Non-fulfilment of the _Motu proprio_
    of Pius VII.—Disappointment of the pontifical
    subjects—Inability of Cardinals Consalvi and Guerrieri
    to contend against the narrow views of their
    colleagues—Reasons of Austria's animosity against the
    former—Guerrieri's projected reforms bring about his
    fall—The constitutional movement of 1820-21—Its effect
    in the Papal States—Abuse of Consalvi's
    instructions—Extreme political rigour under Leo
    XII.—Distracted condition of the country—The
    _Sanfedisti_ rising of 1831—First Austrian army
    intervention in Romagna—Conferences at Rome—Mr
    Seymour's protest—Fresh disturbances in the
    Legations—The Austrians again occupy Bologna—The French
    land at Ancona—The reign of Gregory XVI.                    241

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  Accession of Pius IX.—The amnesty—His unbounded
    popularity—His reforms and concessions—Disasters
    entailed by the French Revolution—The encyclical of the
    29th April—Revulsion of feeling—The Mazzinians gain
    ground—Austrian intrigues—Assassination of Count
    Rossi—The Pope's flight to Gaeta—Efforts of the
    Constitutionalists to bring about an accommodation—The
    republic is proclaimed in Rome—Excesses in Ancona and
    Senigallia—Moderation of the Bolognese—Their courageous
    resistance to General Wimpffen—Siege of Ancona—Extreme
    severities of the victors                                   252

  CHAPTER XXX.

  Rome subjugated by the French—Leniency of General
    Oudinot—Rigour of the Pope's Commissioners—Investigation
    into the opinions of Government _employés_—Disfavour
    of the Constitutionalists—The Pope's edict and second
    amnesty—He returns to his capital, April, 1850—Bitter
    disappointment of the Romans—Count Cavour's appeal to
    the Congress of Paris on their behalf—The Papal progress
    in 1857—Public feeling at the opening of 1859—Excitement
    in the Pontifical States at the outbreak of the war—The
    Austrians evacuate Bologna—Establishment of a Provisional
    Government—The revolt spreads through the Legations—Ancona
    loses the favourable moment—Declares itself too
    late—Approach of the Swiss troops from Perugia and
    Pesaro—Capitulates to General Allegrini—Arbitrary
    proceedings of General Kalbermatten—The
    _Gonfaloniere_—His mendacious addresses to the
    Pope—Misery of Ancona—Contrast presented by the
    Legations                                                   261

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  The English community of Nice—A pleasant meeting—The
    Corniche road—The smallest sovereignty in the world—An
    oppressive right of the prince—Rumoured
    negotiation—Rencontre with pilgrims—An old Genoese
    villa—A Piedmontese dinner—The culture of lemon
    trees—Piedmontese newspapers—The towers of the
    peasantry—Cultivation of the olive and the
    fig-tree—Popular mode of fishing                            274

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  Excursion to Ventimiglia—The Duomo—Visit to a convent—La
    Madre Teresa—Convent life—A local archæologist—Cities
    of the coast—The presents of a savant—End of a
    pleasant visit                                              290

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  A glance at Turin in 1858—The progress of
    Sardinia—Exhibition of national industry—Productions of
    Piedmont—Appearance of the Piedmontese—Railway
    enterprise—Progress in machinery                            300

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  Turin in 1858—Partisans of the old régime—The native
    Protestants—The conservative party—Their hostility to
    Cavour—Clerical intolerance—The fashionable
    promenade—Turinese characteristics—The Piedmontese
    dialect—A marriage in high life                             308

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  The House of Savoy—Its warlike princes—The Green
    Count—Prostration of Piedmont—Persecution of the
    Vaudois—The Island of Sardinia—Genoa added to
    Piedmont—The constitution of 1848—War with
    Austria—Victor Emmanuel                                     323




THE

ENGLISHWOMAN IN ITALY.




CHAPTER I.

   Departure from Florence—The Vettura—Inn among the
     Apennines—General aspect of towns in Romagna—Causes of their
     decay—Austrian Officers at Forli—Dangers of the road—First
     impressions of Ancona.


Three or four years ago I enjoyed an opportunity, such as very rarely
falls to the lot of strangers, of becoming acquainted with the inner
life and customs of a part of the Italian peninsula comparatively
little visited,—untrodden ground, in fact, to the majority of English
tourists. An invitation from my uncle, an English merchant at Ancona,
the principal seaport of the Roman States on the Adriatic, to spend a
few months there with his family, was gladly accepted. My experiences
of Italy as yet consisted only of a gay winter in Florence, and the
Holy Week at Rome; and I was still young and enthusiastic enough to
hail with delight any proposal which tended to increase my acquaintance
with the country that had so much enchanted me. It was therefore with a
light heart I found myself, one lovely autumnal morning, the fourth in
a _vettura_, having been confided to the care of an English family who
were going to Ancona, in order to embark from thence for the Levant.

I had never travelled in a vettura before, and I thought the lumbering,
crazy old vehicle, with its high, narrow step, small windows, hard
seats, and peculiar smell of mouldering straw, quite novel and
refreshing; and the four lean horses, with their gay tufts of scarlet
worsted and bells, the _vetturino_ or driver himself, with his pipe
and blouse and low-crowned hat, seemingly devoid of all human sympathy
save for a mongrel quadruped, which alternately formed the apex of the
pyramid of boxes and carpet-bags upon the roof, or limped dolorously in
the rear—all promised me an inexhaustible store of amusement, even for
the four days which the journey was to employ.

Soon after leaving Florence the road begins to ascend; and before
twenty miles were over we found ourselves in the defiles of a
magnificent mountain-pass, and in a temperature of exceeding coldness.
That night we stopped at an inn amongst the Apennines, and it would be
difficult to convey an idea of the contrast its rude inhabitants and
miserable accommodation afforded to the luxury of Florence, which lay
behind us. The people of the house spoke in some uncouth dialect it
was impossible to understand—the Romagnolo patois, I was afterwards
told—and looked so savage and repelling, that one involuntarily
recalled all the stories of robbery and assassination with which the
neighbouring country had been so rife a few months before. They all,
old as well as young, stared at us as if we had been wild beasts;
and from the time we arrived till supper could be got ready, and the
rough hostess prevailed on to make our beds, there was an incessant
coming and going of spectators. They gave us some soup, which, to our
English palates, appeared nothing but warm water with a little coarse
vermicelli in it, followed by the miserable fowl of which the broth
had been made, with its head on, and inefficiently plucked; and then an
omelet—the last being an invaluable accessory to such repasts. It was
bitterly cold, and we asked for a fire; a large bundle of fagots was
brought and lighted in a huge chimney, almost roomy enough to contain
settles, like those of olden time. The flame soon kindled cheerily, and
cast a bright glow over the squalid room, with its filthy, unwashed
brick floor; an open cupboard, containing the available crockery of
the establishment; six rush-bottomed chairs, so dirty that we were fain
to cover them with our handkerchiefs; and placed upon the shelf, that
served as a mantel-piece, two broken figures in coloured plaster of
Paris, representing a valorous Greek leering rapturously at a rubicund
Zuleika opposite.

We had time to notice all these details, to count the rafters of the
cobwebbed ceiling, to become familiarized with the barefooted urchins
who gazed curiously at us from the threshold, ere the requisite
preparations for our sleeping apartments were completed, and the
slipshod landlady informed us that we were at liberty to retire to
rest. But fortunately, before allowing her to depart, we remembered
a caution that had been given us, to be particular in inspecting the
bed-linen; and thence ensued a dispute as to the perfectly-unsullied
state of that which was first assigned to us. Seeing us determined
on rejecting her sheets, she at last made a sullen gesture to her
daughter, who soon reappeared with another supply, whose freshness
compensated for the nutmeg-grater texture of the homespun hemp of which
they were made.

We mounted upon chairs to climb up into our beds, and then had all
sorts of laughing alarms at the strange noises that seemed to pervade
the house: the gruff voice of the vetturino and stable-boys, the
stamping and snorting of the horses which were located beneath us, and
the screams of another unhappy fowl, immolated for the refection of
a fresh party of travellers, whose arrival about midnight completely
disturbed the short interval that remained to us for repose. At three
o'clock we were called, and shivering, sleepy, and miserable, made
a hasty toilet, and hurried to the carriage; it being one of the
peculiar delights of this mode of travelling, that inasmuch as the
entire journey is performed with the same horses, the day is divided
into two stages, morning and afternoon, and the driver's object is to
insure as long a rest, or _rinfrescata_, between these as possible.
Thus, often long before noon, one stops for three or four hours of
ennui and discomfort, such as the uninitiated in these matters can with
difficulty conceive.

It was of course dark when we set off, and by the time day had fully
dawned, we had emerged from the mountains, and were in a broad,
fertile country, approaching the boundary-stone that separates Tuscany
from the Roman States. A custom-house on each territory is of course
encountered; the Tuscans first see that you carry nothing contraband
out, and then the Romans ascertain that you take nothing forbidden in.
With us, the examination of our luggage was merely nominal; offering
the keys of our boxes, with the assurance that they contained nothing
illegal, they were immediately and politely returned to us; and thus
the magic of our English name, seconded by the donation of a few
_pauls_, carried us in triumph through both ordeals. To the Italians
themselves it is a very different sort of affair, as they are always
subjected to a very rigorous search, chiefly with a view to discovering
whether they are carrying arms or prohibited publications.

About ten, we reached Forli—the first of those large, deserted,
decaying cities which are to be met with at every fifteen or twenty
miles' distance in the Roman States, and which, in their grass-grown
streets, their ruined palaces, and ragged, idle population, give a more
striking testimony to the workings of the dominant system than the
most heart-stirring eloquence could achieve. As we sauntered through
the dreary town, to wile away the hours that must elapse before we
could resume our journey, we saw no evidences of industry or employment
beyond a few wretched shops, where tobacco, cigars, tape, needles,
and such gear were promiscuously sold. The necessity for a trifling
purchase led me into one of these _negozj_, the owner of which, a
garrulous old man, upon discovering that I was English, and yet not
indifferent to the state of things around me, speedily ventured on a
few confidential lamentations. The miserable condition of the country
he ascribed, not so much to the presence of the Austrians, who had been
stationed in Romagna and the Marche[1] since 1849, disastrous as that
occupation undoubtedly was, as to the injustice and venality of all
the government officials, with whom, he observed, “a little of this,”
rubbing his fore and middle finger significantly against his thumb, to
denote money, “a little of this does everything. They are all alike,
_Signora mia_, from the lowest _impiegato_ to the high personage who
rules the Pope as well as his subjects.” I was conversant enough with
Italian politics to know that he alluded to Cardinal Antonelli, of
whose widespread unpopularity amongst the commercial and industrial
classes I thus early had a specimen. “All is falling to pieces,
Signora,” he added, as he handed me my parcel, wrapped in the leaf of
an old account book; “but who can wonder at it? _We are governed by men
who have no children._”

The only place where any of the natives seemed to congregate was one
of the cafés, in and outside of which we observed numbers of fine,
well-grown young men, indolently lounging and smoking, or staring at
any stray passer-by with a vacant sort of interest; and all these were
the rising generation—the gentry and nobility of Forli. I say _one_ of
the cafés advisedly, because another that was pointed out to us near
the theatre was occupied solely by Austrian officers, and consequently
unfrequented by any of the citizens. Priests, soldiers, and beggars
straggled about the streets, the last besieging chiefly the cafés and
church doors, and exhibiting their withered limbs and deformities as
an incentive to the compassion of the charitably disposed. Near the
chief square, and evidently the fashionable locality, we saw one or two
ladies, followed by a dirty lackey, in a threadbare livery coat hanging
down to his heels, with a faded gold band round his hat, and altogether
with such an air of poverty and squalor as rendered this attempt at
maintaining traditional dignity pitiably ridiculous. The only public
building that looked flourishing, or in good repair, was the theatre,
which subsequent observations have shown me to be the case in most, if
not in all towns in the Papal States. At Cesena, for instance, which
was our next halting-place, a new opera house, scarcely yet completed,
was shown to us, on the erection of which the municipality—of course
with the approbation of the government of Rome—had expended a very
large sum; while the town bore the semblance of a vast lazar-house, its
unsheltered poor in every variety of human wretchedness, lying huddled
together by night beneath porticos and arcades, and by day shocking
every sense by the display of their wounds, nakedness, and suffering.

But I am digressing, and must return to Forli, and to our hotel of
La Posta, where we dined in a very large hall that must have been a
banqueting-room centuries ago. Our places were laid at one end of a
long table, the other extremity of which was soon occupied by several
white-coated Austrian infantry officers, belonging to the Army of
Occupation. They came in, clanking their swords and speaking in a loud,
overbearing tone, evidently being in the habit of frequenting the
house, to judge by the free-and-easy manner in which they comported
themselves. They were fortunately too far off for us to be annoyed
by overhearing their conversation, except when they raised their
voices to abuse the waiters, which they did in execrable Italian,
but with a surprising volubility of expletives. These remarks were
generally prefaced with, “_Voi pestia d'Italiano_,” or something
equally remarkable for good taste and feeling. But this was nothing
to what occurred about the middle of the repast, when a party of
Italians, two ladies and a gentleman, evidently of the upper class, our
fellow-travellers at the mountain-inn, entered the hall, and sat down
opposite to us, waiting till their dinner should be brought; for each
party was separately served.

Though they spoke low, with an evident desire to avoid notice, the
Austrians speedily discovered to what nation they belonged, as I
perceived by their whispering and laughing amongst themselves, and
frequent bold glances towards the new-comers. After a little time their
mirth grew more offensive, and reached an unwarrantable height, when
one of the party, loudly apostrophizing the unfortunate waiter on whom
their wrath so frequently descended, asked him if he could tell him in
what light he and all other Austrians regarded the Italians. The man's
sallow cheek grew a shade paler, but he made no reply, as he busied
himself in changing their plates and knives, making as much clatter as
possible—so it seemed to me—to drown the voice of his interrogator. “Do
you not know, _pestia_?” reiterated the officer, stamping as he spoke;
“then I will tell you: we all of us look upon you Italians as the dust
under our feet—as the little creeping beasts we crush every moment of
our lives, at every step we take—ha! ha! ha!” And then they all roared
in chorus, and swore, and twirled their moustaches, and called for
coffee and cigars.

I cannot describe what I felt during this scene, for the cruel outrage
on the feelings of the family who sat opposite to us. When the insult
was too palpably proclaimed to admit of a doubt, the brow of the
gentleman grew dark and lowering, and I saw by the strong heavings
of his chest, and firmly-compressed lips, what bitter, unavailing
struggles were at work. The ladies exchanged glances; and the younger
of the two who sat beside him, and whom I afterwards discovered to be
his wife, laid her hand upon his arm, and looked up imploringly into
his face. I never shall forget the look—indignation, sorrow, entreaty,
were all so blended there. He shrank from her touch, as if irritated
at a movement that might call further attention to his position; but
the moment afterwards, seeming to recollect himself, he whispered a
few words into her ear, accompanying them with a slight movement of
the shoulders, with which an Italian always indicates helplessness or
despair.

We left Forli as early as half-past one, although Cesena, our
halting-place for the night, was only thirteen miles off; but the
vetturino told us he was anxious to reach it long before sunset, as the
neighbourhood bore a very bad name, and carriages were often stopped
and robbed at dusk or early morning. In the mountains, where we had
been the night before, he told us there was no fear—nothing unpleasant,
in fact, ever being known to take place till beyond the Tuscan
frontier. These precautions made us rather uneasy, and it was some
comfort to perceive that the Italian family set out at the same time as
ourselves, and that the two carriages always kept within sight of each
other; but no evil befell us—though, in less than a week afterwards, a
carriage was stopped on the same road in open daylight—and we jingled
gallantly into Cesena, in the mellow sunlight of the October afternoon.

As I am not going to give a journal of our route, but have merely
attempted a sketch that might convey some idea of the state of the
country which we traversed, I shall hasten over the two following days.
We passed through Rimini, La Cattolica, Pesaro, Fano, Sinigaglia—all
names which once belonged to history, but now may be briefly classed
in the same category of ruin and debasement—and found ourselves,
at the close of the fourth day, in sight of the place of our
destination—Ancona, the third city in the Roman States.

It is approached by a beautiful road which follows the curve of the bay
from the opposite point of Capo Pesaro, and built upon a promontory
that runs boldly into the sea, can be descried from a considerable
distance. The first impression the aspect of Ancona produces upon the
traveller is favourable in the extreme. It had been visible to us for
the last twenty miles of our road, and looked exceedingly picturesque,
rising from the very edge of the water in terrace-like succession, till
it reached the summit of the mountain, crowned by an old cathedral,
whose quaint semi-Byzantine architecture, gilded by the setting sun,
stood out in admirable relief against the glorious sky.

The shipping in the harbour lay calmly at anchor, every detail of
mast and cordage reflected as in a mirror in the azure sea, which, in
the distance, verging on the horizon, appeared suffused with the same
golden light as the illuminated heavens. It was a beautiful scene, one
of which I thought I should never weary; and although, from what I had
seen upon the way, I had schooled myself into a considerable abatement
of the anticipations with which I had quitted Florence, I now permitted
my hopes to revive, and drew good auguries from the prepossessing
exterior of Ancona.

As we drew near, we saw more indications of employment than we had yet
encountered: heavy wagons, laden with bales of merchandise, proceeding
slowly in the direction from which we came; and carts of a most
primitive construction, painted with rude figures of saints, and drawn
by white oxen or cows, conveying the produce of the recent vintage
into the town. Leading to the gates was an avenue of trees, planted on
either hand of the post-road, and under whose shade the population were
wont to disport themselves for their Sunday's promenade; but the finest
had been all cut down a few years before, to make barricades against
the Austrians when they were advancing to besiege the town, and their
stumps alone remained. On the side nearest the sea appeared some little
square patches of shrubs and flowers, interspersed with a few benches,
and four terra-cotta urns on pedestals, dignified by the name of the
Public Gardens; and on the opposite part of the road was a long row of
very miserable houses, with arcades, beneath which venders of fruit,
salt-fish, and coarse pottery held their stalls.

On we went through a handsome gate, where the usual formalities of
passports had to be endured; and then along a sunny sort of esplanade,
with the sea on one side and dirty houses on the other; and through a
low narrow archway in a huge blank wall, and we were fairly in Ancona,
the Doric city, as it is admiringly called by its inhabitants. The
vetturino cracked his whip, the horses did their best to gallop, the
dog barked, and we plunged and jolted through the steep, narrow streets
in right good style, till we drew up in front of the hotel of La Pace,
the Meurice's of Ancona.




CHAPTER II.

   Description of the Palazzo—An English family, though Italian
     born—Complimentary visits of the Anconitan nobility—How they
     pass their time—Dislike to country walks—Modern _Cavaliere
     Servente_.


Our arrival apparently had been expected, for two or three
half-naked, black-bearded porters or _facchini_, who had acted as our
running-footmen from the gate, now shouted, as soon as they came within
hearing, that the Nipote del Signor Carlo was come; and instantly there
was a rush made by some boys who were lounging before the inn in the
direction opposite. Meanwhile, a bevy of waiters flung open the door,
and with many bows assisted us to alight, saying that Signor Carlo
had apprized them we were coming, and that rooms were ready for the
lady and her daughters. By this, I began to comprehend that Signor
Carlo must mean my uncle, Mr Charles D——, whom I was not prepared
to hear so unceremoniously designated; but before I had time to
speculate further on this peculiarity, the person in question made his
appearance, attended by a complete staff of small boys and porters, who
at once broke out in furious altercation with those they found already
enrolled in our service. My uncle seemed perfectly at his ease amidst
this uproar, tucked my arm under his, saw my boxes transferred to the
shoulders of three or four sturdy, strong-limbed _facchini_, stamped
and raved at some of the most refractory, and then observing that we
should be late for dinner, and that my cousins were impatient to see
me, hurried me up an almost perpendicular ascent—an alley of steps,
in fact, strewed with mouldy orange-peel and broken earthenware, which
led to a street of scarcely wider dimensions, with lofty dingy houses
on each side, that seemed nodding towards each other, and produced an
unpleasant sense of suffocation. My uncle told me, with a smile, that
this was quite the West-end of Ancona, where some of the first families
resided. The Palazzo, of which he rented a large portion, was amongst
the best; and the entrance, a large court with arcades, and a broad
stone staircase, carried me back again to visions of Italian splendour.
My cousins came running down to receive me, followed by the servants,
who all, male as well as female, pressed forward to kiss my hand, and
called me Eccellenza.

It was all very novel and amusing, and I was quite delighted with the
appearance of the house, through the centre of which ran a spacious
and lofty hall, upwards of fifty feet long; the walls were painted
in fresco by Pellegrino Tibaldi, and the ceiling was richly gilt and
emblazoned with the arms of the Farnese family, by one of whom the
palace had been built nearly three centuries ago. Opening from this,
and in strange contrast with its stately appearance, was a large
drawing-room, fitted up in the English style with books, pictures, and
other indications of female occupancy and accomplishments. It was like
a fireside scene of home transplanted to this distant land, and as
much a marvel to me as the thoroughly English accent, appearance, and
manners of the family amongst whom I found myself for the first time.

My cousins had been born abroad, and nursed by Italian women, waited
on by Italian servants, had blossomed into girlhood without ever
visiting England, or knowing it but as the land of their pride, their
aspirations, their religion, and their love. It was curious to witness,
in this out-of-the-way old place, such genuine feeling and enthusiasm;
and, stranger still, to understand by what spell so strong a veneration
for the unseen fatherland had been infused into their very being, as
to prevent their taking root or binding themselves by strong bonds of
affection to the country in which their lot seemed cast. And yet they
were not kept from intercourse with the natives; on the contrary, I
found them here moving in an exclusively Italian circle, looked upon
with sincere respect and esteem by all of whom it was composed, and
treated with an unvarying kindness it is pleasant to recall.

On the next and following days, several ladies, acquaintances of the
family, came to call upon me, and in the evenings most of the gentlemen
came to pay their respects in form to the new-comer; so that, aided
by a few hints from my cousins, I was soon quite _au fait_ as to the
leading tastes and characteristics of my present associates. What
struck me most at first, was their excessive ceremoniousness and
formality. I never had before seen such courtesies and bows exchanged,
or could have deemed it possible that rational beings could endure
to hear themselves addressed, or address each other so unceasingly by
their titles, as did the _principi_, _marchesi_, and _conti_ by whom
I was surrounded. Then the observance of certain rules of etiquette
was laughable in the extreme—it seemed to be an understood thing
that the mistress of the house, on the departure of any lady-visitor,
should offer to accompany her to the door. This politeness was to be
refused, then insisted on, still remonstrated against; and so on, till
the contested point being reached, the visitor should retreat with a
gentle pressure of the hand, and a profound reverence. Amongst the
ladies, I perceived I was surveyed with a good deal of interest on
account of some fashionable novelties in my wardrobe. One lady took
up my dress, and after looking attentively at its texture, asked me
what it had cost, and whether I thought she could send for one like
it from Florence. I found out afterwards this was meant to be a great
compliment to my taste, and that the loan of a new pattern for a dress
or mantle was looked upon as an inestimable benefit.

The conversation did not seem very brilliant—and yet, after all, what
is ladies' morning-visit prattle at the best? I think it was as good as
some it had been my lot to hear in a more brilliant sphere. They talked
of the weather, and the opera there would be after Christmas—we were
still in October!—and of their children. Yes, let us do them justice
there. I do not think more maternal love and anxiety and tenderness can
anywhere be found than in the hearts of Italian women. To say truth,
however, this affection so extended itself to the minutest particulars,
that I grew rather tired of hearing how such a baby was suffering with
his first teeth, or of the apprehensions entertained for another with
the measles, or the difficulty of providing a wet-nurse for a third,
and his mamma's grief at being debarred from undertaking that office
herself, particularly when I found these little incidents to be as much
discussed by the gentlemen in their evening-visits as any other topic;
in fact, the accuracy with which they spoke on such matters, and their
extended medical details, were sufficiently singular and amusing.

The plan of society seemed thus constituted: during the day, the
men lounged at the café, played a game at billiards, or read such
newspapers as the severity of the police allowed them at the casino,
and generally concluded by strolling a little way beyond the gate
I have described on my entrance into Ancona. The ladies did not, in
general, go out every day; but when they did so, it was to pay visits,
or dawdle about the street where the principal shops were to be found.
In some families of the _very_ old _régime_, however, or in some of
the strict ones of the middle class, it would not have been thought
decorous for the female members to be often seen abroad, and an hour's
airing at an open window towards the Ave Maria, or dusk, was considered
as a substitute for daily out-door exercise. I do not know what an
English sanitary commission would have said to this custom, could they
but have tested the pestilential atmosphere which the Anconitan belles
smilingly inhaled, as, leaning on some old damask drapery, consecrated
from time immemorial to this purpose, their glossy hair wreathed in
rich plaits around their classically-shaped heads, their dark eyes
beaming with excitement, they watched every passer-by, and often from
one glance or gesture laid the foundation of more passion and romance
than it were fitting in these sober pages to record.

On Sundays and festas there was of course the mass in the morning,
which furnished to the women a great opportunity for dress and display,
particularly at one of the churches, where the best music was to
be heard, and the fashionables usually congregated. But there was
nothing comfortable in their way of going to church, if I may use the
expression. You never saw husbands and wives, and their children, all
walking in pleasantly together. The men would have been laughed at
for such a conjugal display; and hence those who went at all, went by
themselves; and of these, how many had any serious purpose in their
hearts, save keeping well in the jealous eyes of the government and
priests, or fulfilling some appointment, or whiling away half an hour
by listening to the best airs of Ernani or the Lombardi adapted to the
organ, I should be unwilling to hazard a conjecture. In the afternoon,
the promenade outside the gates was crowded, and four or five very
antiquated-looking equipages drove slowly up and down the dusty road,
forming what an old count very complacently designated to us, “Il Corso
delle Carrozze.”

Our acquaintances could not comprehend our taste for long
country-walks, and used to wonder what inducement we could find
every day for rambling over the hills and cliffs that rendered the
neighbourhood really beautiful.

“Heavens!” said one little contessa, “I should die of the spleen”—this
was a very favourite newly-introduced term with them—“if I saw nothing
when I went out but the sky, and sea, and trees. What can you find to
amuse you?... It is so melancholy! And then that Jews' burying-ground
you are so fond of!”

This was a most singular spot, remote, undefended, spreading over the
summit of a cliff that rose abruptly to a great height above the sea;
but so grand in its situation, in the desolate sublimity which reigned
around, in the reverential murmur of the waves that washed its base,
that it was one of our favourite resorts.

It was in vain to explain to her our admiration; she shook her head,
and went on: “That burying-ground—to be amongst so many dead Jews!”

“But we must all die like them,” urged one of my cousins; “and it is
good for one to be reminded of these things sometimes”—

“Pardon me,” interrupted the lady, with a slight shudder; “but that is
such an English idea! Oh, that terrible death! why talk or think about
it?”

“How strange this terror is that so many people feel,” rejoined I; “it
must come upon all of us sooner or later. Nay, if the prognostications
of many thinking men in this age are to be relied upon, we are not far
from the end of the world.”

The poor lady absolutely turned pale, as she cried out: “Oh, pray
do not talk so—you make me miserable! Besides,” she said, recovering
herself a little, “I have been told that in the Bible it is expressly
said that for seven years before that dreadful day no children are to
be born; and that gives me comfort; for, at every fresh birth I hear
of, I say to myself—well, the seven years at least have not begun yet!”

So the ladies of Ancona, with not more than one or two exceptions,
being all participators in this wholesome dread of retired walks, and
the reflections likely to be induced thereby, idled away their time
in the manner I have described, with the aid of a little crochet or
fancy-work; or, amongst the most studious—they always call reading
_study_—the translation of a French novel, until the evening, which
brought with it its usual conversazione. Every lady received at her
own house some half-dozen gentlemen or so, who were unvarying in
waiting upon her, whether she held her levee at her own house, or in
her box at the theatre; nay, so unfailing was their attendance, that
if indisposition confined her to her bed, you were sure to find them
assembled round it, making the _società_ as pleasantly, and in as
matter-a-fact a way as possible. As they all dined early, the evening
commenced betimes, soon after six in winter, and went on till midnight,
all dropping in at different hours, some early, some late, according
to the number of their habitual engagements. In general, every one had
at least two or three families where he was expected to show himself
every evening; and from a long course of habit, each house had its
own hour assigned to it. Many of these intimacies had subsisted for
twenty, nay, even thirty years, without any perceptible variation in
the usual tenor of intercourse; they always kept up the same ceremony,
the same old-fashioned, laborious politeness; assembled in the same
half-lighted, comfortless saloon, and sat and talked; lamented the good
old times, and grew grey together.

It was an odd, disjointed sort of life for white-headed men to lead,
particularly when they had houses and families of their own where they
could have passed their evenings, instead of toiling up two or three
sets of stairs, and making their bow to two or three sets of people,
before they could think of returning to their own roofs to supper and
to rest. When I write of Italians and their dwellings, I avoid using
the word _home_, for it would be strangely misapplied. They do not
know of the existence of such a blessing as that most beautiful term of
ours implies; neither, to say truth, would they appreciate it in their
present imperfect views of domestic life.

It may be asked whether, in these coteries, there was not usually
one more distinguished by the lady's preference than the rest; and
in many instances this was no doubt the case, although by no means
so invariably as in former generations. Where such a partiality did
exist, it was not apparently noticed or commented upon by the others,
but accepted as a matter of course—as a proceeding whose harmony
it would have been invidious to disturb. The cavaliere, in general,
paid a visit every day—not, however, to chocolate and the toilet, as
old-fashioned novels have it, but about one o'clock, to communicate the
fashionable intelligence, offer his opinion on some new dress or piece
of millinery, give _bon-bons_ to the children, and perhaps accompany
the husband to the stable, to discuss the merits of a new horse or set
of harness.

I was told of one old lady who had entered her
three-score-years-and-ten, still served with the same homage by her
veteran cavaliere as she had imperiously exacted some forty winters
before. All her contemporaries had died but himself, and he was the
last that remained of her _società_, which had no attractions for
younger visitors. And so they used to sit in the evening opposite each
other, a lamp with a dark shade diffusing an uncertain light upon the
time-worn room and faded hangings; both half-blind, deaf, and helpless,
nodding drowsily at each other, holding little earthen baskets filled
with fire, called _scaldini_, in their trembling hands; yet still, from
force of habit, keeping up this semblance of conversation till eleven
struck, when the old man's servant came to fetch him, and wrapping him
in a large cloak, led him carefully to his own house.

Happily, we did not have regular conversazioni at my uncle's; as he was
a widower, and my cousins unmarried, it would not have been thought
correct. We used only to have occasional visitors in the evening,
or else invited the good people regularly to tea—which, though never
appearing at their own houses, yet they fully appreciated at ours; and
played whist, and had a little music, and did our best to amuse them,
our exertions being fully repaid by the good humour and sprightliness
of our guests.




CHAPTER III.

   A marriage in high life—Wedding outfit—The first
     interview—Condition of single women—The laws of
     courtship—Dependence of young married people—Anecdotes of
     mothers-in-law.


I did not tire of my life in Ancona, as my friends in Florence had
predicted. There was something so quaint, so unlike anything I had ever
before known, in the people among whom I found myself, and they formed
such a contrast to the busy, practical sphere in which I had been
brought up, that, for the sake of novelty alone, I should have been
amused at the change. I hope, however, that some better motive was at
work than mere curiosity to interest me. I had always felt a sympathy
for the Italians, and resented the indiscriminate abuse with which it
is the fashion to assail them; but until the opportunity for personal
observation now afforded, I had not understood how many of their
failings may be ascribed to their erroneous system of marriage, their
defective method of education, and other domestic evils—evils so deeply
rooted, that it will require a complete upheaving of the existing
framework of society to destroy their baneful influence.

It was not long before I was enabled to see how matches were made up
according to the most orthodox system; for the marriage of the niece
of a lady whom we often saw—our little friend who disliked country
walks so much—was being negotiated, and we were daily informed of the
progress of affairs. The young lady was not residing in Ancona, but
at Macerata, a town about forty miles distant; and being an orphan,
and not largely dowered, her establishment had been a matter of
considerable anxiety to her relations, particularly to her grandmother,
with whom she lived.

“Congratulate me,” said the contessa, with a beaming face, one morning:
“mamma writes me she has great hopes of a _partito_ for our poor
Isotta.”

“I am very glad, indeed,” said my cousin Lucy, who was always the chief
spokes-woman, being the eldest daughter of the house, and of a sedate
and prudent turn, which suited her mature age of one-and-twenty—“I am
very glad, indeed, to hear this; and what does Isotta say?”

“Oh, she knows nothing about it yet; mamma is making the necessary
inquiries, and will then settle everything with the young man's father,
old Conte G——, the brother of our cardinal here. Up to the present
moment, a mutual friend, who first originated the idea, has been the
only channel of communication.”

“And if your niece should not chance to like him?” I suggested.

Our little friend lifted up her eyes in astonishment, as she replied,
“Not like a person her grandmamma approves. Of course she will be
pleased!” and then reverting to the great topic of interest on such
occasions, she said, “If, as we hope, all will be soon arranged, mamma
will have a great deal to do in ordering the _corredo_. It is to be
a very handsome one, for the _sposo's_ family are known to be very
particular in such things; and, naturally, we, on our side, do not wish
to cut a bad figure.”

I asked her some of the details respecting this same corredo, or
wedding outfit, and she gave me a list of such supplies of linen
and every description of wearing apparel, as appeared extravagant
in proportion to the young lady's fortune, which was only 12,000
dollars[2] (about £2400), an average dowry in this part of Italy. If
the sum ascends as high as 20,000 dollars, it is considered large;
but in any case the corredo has likewise to be provided, at an expense
often of 2000 dollars (£400), or even upwards. This outlay, however,
is not felt, as a certain sum is always destined for each child from
its infancy, and large stores of linen and damask table-services are
gradually accumulated, in expectation of the great event. The greatest
luxury is, perhaps, displayed in petticoats, night-dresses, and such
gear, which are of the finest materials, often trimmed with rich lace
and embroidered, and are to be counted by sixes of dozens of each kind.
In fact, their number is so great, that it is one of the anxieties of
an Italian woman's life to look after her hoards of linen, and see that
all is kept properly assorted and in good order. Nor is this ambition
for a handsome corredo confined to the upper classes, it is shared
alike by all; descending even to the humblest peasant-girl, who is
scarcely out of her leading-strings before she thinks of laying by for
this long-coveted possession.

But to return to the young lady whose fate was being decided. Two or
three days after, her aunt came to announce that all was settled; that
both Isotta and the young count had expressed themselves perfectly
satisfied, and their first meeting was to take place the following
evening, in presence of all the members of the two families residing at
Macerata.

“Poor girl! What a nervous affair it will be!” I said. “What is the
ceremonial to be observed?”

“Why,” said the contessa, quite gravely, “I do not exactly know; mamma
does not mention in her letter: it depends on circumstances. Generally
the _sposo_ merely comes forward, is presented to the young lady,
and makes a low bow. Sometimes, if the families previously have been
intimately acquainted, he is directed to kiss her hand; and lastly—but
this is very rare”—and she lowered her voice—“it is only adopted where
there is the oldest friendship or relationship subsisting—the gentleman
salutes his bride upon the cheek.”

Amused as I was by this account, I could not help thinking it must
be exaggerated, or at least that these courtships, whose programme
was as accurately defined as a state ceremony, must be restricted to
a few rare instances; but I found this was not the case, and that
the contessa had merely stated what was usual in every family of
the nobility of Ancona and the adjacent towns. In many instances,
I afterwards learned, the preliminaries for the marriage of a young
lady were all settled before she left the walls of a convent where
she had been brought up, her wedding taking place within eight days
of her return to her parents' house; but this, though esteemed highly
desirable, cannot always be arranged, especially where no great
recommendations exist, either as to beauty or fortune. As a general
rule, girls are kept excessively retired, even in their own families,
until some partito has been found; everything being done to foster the
impression that their speedy settlement in life is to be the signal
for their admission into all the pleasures of society, from which in
the mean time they are sedulously excluded. Dressed with scrupulous
plainness, seldom or never taken into company, rarely appearing out of
doors, except for a drive in a close carriage, or to go to mass, or to
call on some old female relation—without the advantages of a cultivated
mind or literary resources—the condition of our Italian unmarried woman
is as cheerless and insignificant as it is possible to conceive. Small
marvel is it, then, that at the first mention of a suitor, a girl's
thoughts should fly to all the fine dresses she will possess, to the
becoming _coiffures_ she will adopt, and—should her imagination have
ever ranged so far—to the liberty of speech and action she will be
entitled to enjoy. Not a thought is given to the disposition, tastes,
or habits of the person to whom she is soon to be irrevocably united;
he is accepted as the condition indispensable to the attainment of all
that has been so earnestly desired.

The scene of the first introduction generally takes place with the
formality the little contessa described, very rarely going beyond a
stately bow and courtesy exchanged between the betrothed. After this
interview, the gentleman is every evening expected to pay a visit of
an hour or so at the house of his _promessa_, all the members of her
family, and the old friends who compose the usual _società_, being
present. He is not placed next to her, nor is he to address himself
particularly to her. Should he feel inclined to venture on a remark,
she will answer in monosyllables, with downcast eyes, never moving from
the sofa on which she sits bolt upright by her mother's side. After
a week or so has elapsed, it is an understood thing that he should
ask for her portrait, and give her his own in return. At this stage
of the proceedings, he is allowed to kiss her hand on presenting the
miniature; and on succeeding evenings he brings her a nosegay, but
without any repetition of this privilege; meanwhile the bride elect is
very complacently occupied in knitting him a purse, or embroidering
him a smoking-cap, or something of that sort—whatever she is told is
customary, in fact—and finally goes to the altar without a thought upon
the duties and responsibilities of her new condition.

Even their manner of celebrating a wedding is very different from
ours. No bridesmaids are ever seen; for it would not be considered
in good taste for any girls to be present at the religious ceremony;
neither do they take part in the great dinner which closes the day.
The newly-married pair do not go into the country, or set out upon a
journey, but at once enter into possession of the apartments destined
for them in the house of the bridegroom's family.

My uncle used laughingly to quote a remark made to him by a lady in
reply to some observation on the contrast thus afforded to an English
wedding-tour: “It may be all very well for your nation, who make
marriages of sentiment, _caro mio signore_, but I confess that to
any of us this prolonged _tête-à-tête_ with a husband whom one knows
nothing at all of, would be tedious in the extreme.” To avoid being
thrown upon this terrible companionship, the first week or so of
the young _sposa's_ married life is fully taken up in receiving the
congratulatory visits of her friends and acquaintances; after which,
she and her husband make what is called the first _sortita_ together,
go to hear mass, call upon every one in due form, and are considered
fairly started in their new position. The dingy Palazzo subsides
into its wonted monotony; and the young couple, with no interest or
authority in the house, treated like mere children, are expected to
conform to the hours and habits of the old people, who, having yielded
the same submission in their day, are by no means backward in exacting
it themselves.

We knew a family, that of the Marchese G——, one of the most ancient and
wealthy in Ancona, where the eldest son, though upwards of thirty-six,
and married for more than ten years, was not at liberty to invite any
friend of his own to the family-table without his father's permission;
neither could he nor his wife, for any convenience of their own,
anticipate or retard the fixed hour for dinner, or order that meal to
be served in their apartments. All their expenditure was regulated for
them, a pair of carriage-horses kept at their disposal, their servants'
wages paid; even their subscription to the theatre provided for, and a
sum assigned for their dress and pocket-money—being twenty dollars a
month to the heir of this noble house, and to his wife fifteen. This
was considered very liberal. All the disposal of the income of the
family—very large in reference to the country; it was reported to be
nearly 20,000 dollars (£4000) a year—all insight into the accounts
and expenditure, was exclusively reserved for the old marchese, who
would have resented any hint or advice from his son as unwarrantable
interference.

Another strange species of coercion that seemed generally kept up in
families of this stamp, was in the selection of Christian names for
the younger branches. It is not an uncommon thing to hear a young
mother lament the uncouth appellations bestowed upon her offspring, and
saying, with a shrug of her shoulders, “But what is to be done? It is
an old family name, and my _suocera_ would have it.”

The vexatious tyranny exercised by the mother-in-law, the suocera, has
almost passed into a proverb, as the source of innumerable evils; yet
such is the force of custom amongst the Italians, that if a son were
possessed of independent fortune, and established himself away from
the paternal roof, he would be exclaimed against as undutiful in the
extreme. I could tell of many sad instances of unhappiness produced by
the suocera's influence. In the first place, she is almost invariably
ignorant, prejudiced, and bigoted—such being the characteristics of the
greater part of Italian women, born and educated some fifty or sixty
years ago—and sets her face stubbornly against everything that is not
precisely according to her code, whether it relates to politics, the
management of her household, or the treatment of her grand-children. I
heard a lady herself recount how she lost five children in succession,
owing to their being sent out to be reared by rough peasant-women
in the country. They were delicate infants, and could not stand the
exposure and want of care to which they were subjected; and so they
died off, one after the other, their poor mother vainly attempting to
move the old contessa to allow her to have a wet-nurse in the house.

“In _her_ day,” persisted the unrelenting woman, “children were brought
up in the country; and why should it be otherwise now?” and she had
authority enough over her son to compel him to resist his wife's
piteous supplications. Often has she said, “My five children were
sacrificed to a suocera's power. She yielded at last and I saved the
sixth”.

Another lady, whom I saw much of, one of the handsomest women in
Ancona, was in such subjection to her mother-in-law, that she dared
not sit down in her presence unless invited to do so; and, although the
mother of a grown-up son, was as much looked after and interfered with
as if she had been still a child. Sometimes her spirit rose, and she
attempted to remonstrate, or invoked her husband's assistance, which
was invariably the signal for his ordering his horse to be saddled,
and going out for a ride—saying, he would have nothing to do with her
quarrels with his mother. And this, and worse than this, is the true
picture of an Italian Interior, where distrust, variance, and the
weakening of domestic ties are the fruits of the lamentable system
I have attempted to describe; which is further perpetuated in the
training of the rising generation in the same errors and intolerance.




CHAPTER IV.

   System pursued towards children—Results of Jesuit
     training—Anecdotes of the Sacré Cœur—A _Contessina_ just out
     of the convent—Difficulty of giving a liberal education to
     young nobles—No profession open to them but the church—Their
     ignorance and idleness.


Amongst those Italians whose minds have risen superior to the
disadvantages that surround them, the subject of education is often
anxiously discussed. One evening, at my uncle's, we were conversing
on this topic with the Conte Enrico A——, a highly intellectual and
cultivated young man. He was a native of Ancona, but so far in advance
of his townspeople, that he stood almost isolated amongst them. Even
as an Englishman, he would have ranked high for mental acquirements,
though all perhaps of too dreamy a cast. His was a sort of passive
genius, which exhaled itself in poetry and melancholy reflections
on the misery of his country, looking upon any individual exertion
as impracticable. This want of energy in striving to carry out the
superior workings of their intellect was, until lately, peculiar to
most Italians who united reflection and high principle with patriotism
and talent. For Central and Northern Italy, however, this remark no
longer holds good. The moving spirits of the revolutions in Tuscany,
the Duchies, and Romagna, have been precisely the most cultivated
and moderate amongst the upper and middle classes; but the course
recent events have taken in the Marche, confirms the opinion that the
political leaders there are still men of thought rather than of action.

On the evening in question, I remember he told us we were not
half thankful enough, nor proud enough, of the privilege of being
Englishwomen, nor sensible of the blessings which from our very cradles
that name conferred.

“As soon as English children can distinguish one letter from another,”
he said, “books are put into their hands which inculcate truth, honour,
courage; and thus is laid the basis of that education which has made
your nation what it is—the envy and wonder of Europe.”

“That reminds me of a plan we have often talked of,” said Lucy D——:
“it is that of translating some of our nice children's story-books, and
getting them circulated through these States.”

“Ah! you forget,” he replied, shaking his head, “that before teaching
the children, you must educate the mothers of Italy; or else your
efforts will be paralysed by the ignorance and folly that would be
arrayed against you.”

“Besides you forget,” said my uncle, looking up from his paper, “that
the mothers of Italy have very little to do with the education of their
children: your convents and seminaries relieve them of that task.”

“Too true,” said the count. “As our fathers and grandfathers did before
us, so also must we: and that is why, at seven or eight years old, our
boys are sent to Jesuit colleges; while our girls, at even an earlier
age, are placed in nunneries to learn from women perpetually secluded
in the cloister, the duties that are to fit them for wives and mothers
in the world.”

“Never even coming home for their holidays,” remarked my uncle.
“Strange that there should be people in existence who can consent
to this unnecessary separation from their children for ten or eleven
years. How the character may be worked upon, and all its fresh impulses
destroyed, by this long period of unbroken influence!”

“But do they, then, never see their children?” I inquired.

“Oh yes, they may go and visit them,” he replied; “but an interview
of but an hour or so occasionally, is a very poor substitute for more
unrestrained intercourse; besides, it often happens that the convent or
college is at a considerable distance, and it does not suit people to
be always travelling.”

“Talking of these visits,” said the count, “reminds me of one I lately
paid to Loretto, to see the eldest son of the Principe L——, a handsome,
animated, and promising little fellow of nine years old, who had been
placed at the Jesuits' College there about six months before. I could
scarcely recognize the child. Without ill-usage, without any compulsory
discipline, but simply by the steady workings of their wonderful
method of compression, the boy's spirit and originality appeared to
be as completely extinguished as if they had never existed. He had
become grave, thoughtful beyond his age, with a little demure, bland
look, that seemed a reflection of the countenances of his priestly
instructors. I horrified the ecclesiastic who was present during
the interview, by rather maliciously asking the child if he still
continued to take as much interest as ever in all scientific and
mechanical pursuits, and in reading of the recent discoveries. As the
sworn upholder of a government that opposes railways, and laments the
invention of printing, the priest was bound to express his surprise at
the suggestion, 'My child,' said he, mildly addressing his pupil, 'is
it possible you ever thought thus? You have other tastes now. Tell the
signor conte what you most wish to become.' The boy coloured, cast down
his eyes, and murmured, 'Un Latinista'—a Latin scholar. Anything like a
love of aught relating to progression was a crime.”

There was some bitterness, but no exaggeration, in what the young
Anconitan related. The question of the Jesuits is purely a political
one, they being supported by the party termed by the liberals
_Oscurantisti_ or _Codini_—the first name signifying literally
obscurers, and the last derived from the queue worn by the gentlemen
of the last century, and without which, to this day, upon the Italian
stage, the portrait of a prejudiced obstinate old noble is incomplete.
Families of these views esteem it, therefore, a point of conscience to
intrust the education of their children to this order.

The Jesuit colleges nearest Ancona are at Loretto, a distance of twenty
miles; and at Fano, about thirty miles off, in an opposite direction.
At the former place also, the French _Dames du Sacré Cœur_ have a
convent for young ladies, embracing much the same line of principles.
It cannot be denied that, as respects general accomplishments and
ladylike deportment, their pupils infinitely surpass those of all other
conventual establishments in the country; but the Jesuit leaven that
pervades the whole course of tuition, deters all parents, not devoted
to the tenets of Loyola, from placing their daughters under their care.

The House at Loretto was admirably conducted; simplicity, cleanliness,
refinement, order, were its striking features. The pupils appeared
to me perfectly happy. Most of them had entered at six or seven
years of age, and cherished an enthusiastic affection for the nuns,
or _Ladies_, as they are generally styled, who by their gentle and
dignified deportment, their patient study of character, and the
devotion of their whole faculties to the task, acquired over them
an unlimited ascendancy. A girl in the Sacré Cœur never learned to
reason;—what “_La Mère Supérieure_” once said, was to her an article
of faith,—infallible, unimpeachable. The opinions thus formed—and they
designedly embraced every relation of society—were seldom or never
shaken off.

In politics, as may be conceived, the Sacré Cœur is unmitigatedly
Austrian. In 1848, while all Italy was applauding the prowess or
lamenting the misfortunes of Charles Albert, the pupils at Loretto
knew of no hero but Radetsky; and celebrated his triumph over Italian
independence by a grand march for the pianoforte, composed expressly
for them by their music-master, _maestro di cappella_ to the Church of
the Santa Casa.

The acquaintance possessed by these ladies with all that is passing
in the outer world, down to the minutest details of inner life, is a
well-known attribute of the order. Imparted to their Jesuit confessors,
this knowledge has often become a powerful political engine. The means
by which it is acquired is through the confidence and affection of
their pupils. I once happened to be staying in the same house with a
young lady who had recently left the convent. The Contessina used to
write every day to the _Mère Supérieure_ long crossed letters, in a
delicate French hand. “You carry on an active correspondence,” some one
remarked. “Oh, yes!” was the unsuspecting reply; “the Mère is so good!
She tells us always to remember, when we leave her care, that whatever
is of interest to us interests her; and to tell her of our occupations,
our acquaintances; of those who come to the house, and what they speak
about.”

I had also an opportunity of observing the mastery the Sacred Heart
obtains over family ties and instincts. Another young girl of our
acquaintance—indeed, she was one of our most intimate friends—was on
the eve of entering the novitiate, when she heard that the cholera was
raging at Trieste. The alarm was great in Ancona, where a belief in
contagion prevailed; and it was generally anticipated that, through
the constant communication going on between the Austrian garrison and
that port, the epidemic would be speedily transmitted. The parents of
the future novice were somewhat advanced in years, delicate in health,
and apprehensive of the impending danger. She therefore wrote to the
Superior, proposing to adjourn her entrance into the order till after
the cholera had visited Ancona, in order to be at hand to nurse her
parents if attacked. “My child,” was the reply, “leave your parents
to higher care. This is clearly a temptation of the Evil One.” And
accordingly she went.

Notwithstanding the favour it enjoys with the Government, some members
of the _vieille roche_ are hostile to the Sacré Cœur; not, as it
may be supposed, on account of its political bias, but because its
teaching—which comprehends a thorough knowledge of French and music,
with some insight into the other usual elements of female education—is
unnecessarily erudite. A strong party still exists in favour of the
old-fashioned nunneries; of the system pursued in which the following
is no exaggerated report:—

One day a pretty, bashful-looking _contessina_, just emancipated
from her convent, came with her mother to pay a morning visit. While
the latter was engaged with poor Lucy, on whom doing the honours to
the elderly ladies always devolved, I endeavoured to overcome the
daughter's timidity, and draw her into conversation. Not knowing what
else to speak of, I began about her recent studies, and inquired if she
knew French.

“No, signora,”[3] with downcast eyes, “they did not teach that in the
convent.”

“Did you learn history or geography?”

“No, signora.”

“But you can embroider?”

“Si, signora—the nuns taught us that, and we worked a beautiful set of
vestments for the priest who said Mass in our church.”

“And what did you learn besides?”

“To read and write, and the Catechism.”

“And have you read many pretty books?”

“No, signora; only the 'Lives of the Saints.'”

“Where was this convent?—was it near Loretto, or Jesi, or Macerata?”

“I do not know, signora.”

“You do not know!—was it very far off, then?”

“Not very, signora; it took four hours to go there from Ancona in a
carriage. I remained ten years; I never went out all the time, and I
returned home the same way that I went.”

During this dialogue her voice never changed in its monotonous
intonation, with the unvarying “signora” at every sentence, which
Italian convent girls are so remarkable for bestowing; when my uncle
walked into the drawing-room with a young Oxonian, the son of a very
old friend, who had unexpectedly arrived to take the steamer for Greece
on an eastern tour.

We jumped up in delight and shook hands so heartily, that I fear
the _Contessa_ was quite scandalized; but for a few minutes we were
too much taken up with our countryman to think of her. When calmness
was restored, and she rose to take leave, I perceived, to my great
amusement, that although the daughter's eyelids were drooping as
before, she was busy, beneath their long lashes, in taking a survey
of the handsome young stranger, although not the movement of a muscle
in the smooth expressionless face was perceptible; neither did she
evince any apparent consciousness of all that was going on, as, meekly
following her mother, she curtseyed herself out of the room.

It is certainly extraordinary how, after this penitential discipline,
the instant they are married, these demure little damsels acquire
the full use of their visual organs, and bring all their latent
fire into play. Indeed, the sudden transition from an awkward,
silent, ill-dressed girl, such as I have described, into an elegant,
self-possessed, talkative woman, is so wonderful as only to be credited
by those who daily witness the metamorphosis effected in Italy by the
dignity and enfranchisement of matrimony.

Persons desirous of a more extended scale of instruction for their
daughters, and who are, at the same time, hostile to the Sacré Cœur,
find themselves in great perplexity. The experiment has been tried
by one or two families of sending them into Tuscany, where there are
several institutions for female education, conducted on comparatively
liberal principles; but the distance, the danger and expense of the
journey, were all such serious drawbacks, that the example found few
imitators. The manners of the country, and, it must be added, the
incapacity of the mothers for the task, render it inexpedient to bring
up girls at home; so that, after much talking and deliberation, nine
fathers out of ten resign themselves to do as their fathers did before
them, and deposit their daughters in the old convents, out of harm's
way, for half a score of years at least.

It must be confessed, they have enough to occupy them as to the means
of educating their sons, when they have the bad taste not to confide
them to the Jesuits. Sometimes they send them to Pisa or Sienna in
Tuscany, at which last there used to be a college of some eminence,
conducted on moderate principles by the Padri Scolopj; but of late
years abuses have crept in, and it has greatly degenerated. Others,
again, engage an abbé or tutor, for the first few years, and then place
them to complete their studies at the once celebrated university of
Bologna.

But this institution, like everything else in the Roman States, has
fallen into such decay, and its professors are under such restrictions,
that at the conclusion of his academical career, unless a youth has
more than average abilities, particularly if he belongs to the higher
classes, the general range of his attainments may be rated as beneath
mediocrity. Debarred by the prejudices of caste from entering any
profession but that of the Church, conscious that he will never have a
field on which to display his abilities, without stimulus to exertion
or prospects for the future, the young noble seems to resign himself
to the conviction that his safest course is to vegetate unthinking,
unquestioning, unknowing, and unknown.

Even the desire for distinction in arms, or the excitement of merely
holiday soldiering, parades, reviews, and a gay garrison life, so
common to most young men, cannot stir the dull waters of his patrician
existence; for there is no military career open to the pontifical
subjects, with the exception of the Guardia Nobile at Rome, which is
limited to a small number of the sons of the old nobility. The few
miserable regiments which compose the Pope's army are so low in the
scale of social estimation, that to say a man is only fit to become a
Papalino soldier is almost the grossest insult that can be passed upon
him.

The ranks, wholly composed of volunteers, there being no conscription,
are recruited from the dregs of the population, spies, quondam thieves,
and so forth. As for the officers, I know not whence they are procured,
never having been acquainted with a family owning to the discredit of
relationship with an individual thus engaged, although one or two, who
had scapegraces of sons, whose existence it was desirable to ignore,
were supposed to have sent them, by way of punishment, into the
service.

The ignorance of some of these young nobles on most subjects of
general information was perfectly startling. Many of them were
quite unacquainted with the nature of tenets which had rent Europe
asunder, with the geographical position of neighbouring countries, or
with the best-known historical facts. Not having access to any easy
literature, such as our magazines and miscellanies afford, owing to the
extraordinary limitations imposed upon the press, they had been left
without an inducement to read, or an opportunity of discovering their
own deficiency.

One or two anecdotes, the first of which I heard my cousins relate,
will prove there is no exaggeration in these remarks.

During the wild excitement of the early part of 1849, a youthful count,
glowing with new-born patriotism, confided to them one day that he and
all the _Gioventù_—that is, Young Ancona—had determined upon turning
Protestant, in order to get rid of the _preti_, and to conciliate
England. Presently a shade of embarrassment came over his face, and he
said, “Pardon me, but now I think of it, tell me, do the Protestants
believe in God?”

On one occasion, I was present when some conversation took place
before a youth fresh from Bologna, in which an allusion was made to
Cleopatra and the asp. “How can I know anything about these matters?”
he exclaimed; “I have never read the Bible!” Another time, I remember
hearing my uncle gravely asked, in reference to a journey he was
meditating, whether he meant to go by sea from Marseilles to Paris?

It was melancholy in the extreme to see the number of young men thus
idling away their lives, filling the caffès and casino, and subsisting
on a stipend that an English younger son would consider inadequate to
purchase gloves for a London season. The plan pursued is, to give each
son an apartment in the family residence, his dinner, and the allowance
of from ten to twelve dollars a month, which is to provide for his
dress, his breakfast, the theatre, and cigars.

How they contrived, with these limited means, to keep up the appearance
they did is perfectly inexplicable. They even seemed able to gratify
little harmless flights of fancy, such as coming out unexpectedly in
singular suits of Brobdignagian checks or startling green cut-aways,
which, with a pair of luxuriant whiskers, a hasty, determined walk,
and a peculiar flourish of the stick, were supposed to constitute
the faithful portraiture of an Englishman, than to resemble whom
there could be no greater privilege, so great was the Anglomania that
prevailed.

And now, I fancy, I hear the remark, “All this time you have been
describing the manners of the Italian nobility. What are their gentry
like—their middle classes?” Which inquiries shall be answered, as fully
as circumstances admit, in my next chapter.




CHAPTER V.

   The middle classes—Superior education of the men—Low
     standard of female intellect and manners—Total separation
     from the nobility—Cultivated physician—A peep into
     his household—Family economy—_Conversazione_ at the
     chemist's—Passion for gambling—The _caffè_.


It is very difficult to convey any correct idea as to the state
of the middle ranks of society in Italy, particularly if we do not
divest ourselves of everything like comparison between them and what
apparently are the corresponding classes in England.

In the first place, it must be borne in mind that no gentry exist among
the Italians. If a man springs from the nobility, he has no resource
in the Pope's States but the Church: any other profession is deemed
incompatible with the dignity of his birth, as there is neither army
nor navy, nor any other public service. If he belongs to the _mezzo
cetto_, as it is termed, he must either be a physician, a merchant, a
lawyer, a shopkeeper, or hold some meagre appointment, as an underling,
in one of the government offices, the posts of distinction and
emolument in these departments being almost invariably conferred upon
ecclesiastics. It is rare to find this middle class, the best educated
beyond a doubt, contributing to swell the ranks of the priesthood,
which are principally recruited from the families of the decayed
nobility, or from the peasantry and lower orders.

In years gone by, the mezzo cetto bowed unquestioningly to the
supremacy of the nobles, who patronized them affably in return, invited
the family lawyer and physician to dinner on the saint's-day of the
head of the house, or for the christening of the junior branches. They
stood pretty much in the light of client and patron, as in the days of
their Roman ancestors; but of late everything has changed, and between
the two orders there is now little good-will or assimilation. It used
formerly to be a constant object of ambition to rise to the privileged
rank; and when any one succeeded in amassing a fortune, part of it was
often laid out in the purchase of some estate that conferred a title
of nobility on its possessor; then gradually, through intermarriages
with old but impoverished houses, the ci-devant _roturier_ fairly
established himself in his new position, and after one or two
generations, the origin of the family was forgotten. Now, on the
contrary, a disposition to ridicule what formerly was so much coveted
seems to prevail, and men have discovered that there are other roads
to distinction than through a patent of nobility; but, mingled with
this spirit of independence, there may still be discerned a jealous
feeling at the superior ease and polish of the nobles—a sort of innate
refinement, which all their ignorance and prejudices cannot efface.

In the middle class, the absence of gentle breeding and of the
amenities of society is mainly attributable to the inferior position
held by the women belonging to it, or rather the low standard at
which they are rated. The very tone in which an Italian of this grade
passingly alludes to _le donne di casa_ is sufficiently indicative of
the universally prevalent feeling of their incapacity and helplessness.
Scarcely any attempt is made at improvement; and the results can easily
be imagined. Nothing can be found more vulgar and illiterate than
the wives and connections of some of the most scientific men in the
country, or more homely and inelegant than their domestic arrangements;
nothing to our English ideas more repelling than the appearance of
a professor's lady slipshod, screaming at her maid-of-all-work, or
gossiping with the wife of a doctor-of-law from an opposite window.

In compliment to our English name and culture, our right to the best
society the place afforded was unhesitatingly acknowledged; and it is
for this reason I can say but little comparatively about the habits
and interior of the mezzo cetto. Perhaps this of itself conveys a
better idea of the complete separation that exists, than anything
else I could bring forward. With two or three exceptions, no untitled
person appeared in the circles in which we moved; and with these
two or three I observed no allusion was ever made to their wives and
families; their very existence seemed to be ignored. Among all our
acquaintances, one of those we took the greatest pleasure in seeing
was a physician, certainly a man of no ordinary attainments: gifted in
intellect and conversational powers, he would have been an acquisition
to any society; but except in his professional capacity, it was very
difficult to induce him to accept any offers of attention. We used
to be glad of some trifling ailment as a pretext for sending for
him—an indulgence which the low price of his visits—three pauls, about
fifteen pence—rendered very excusable; and we then would have long
conversations on politics, poetry, and English customs and inventions.
Like all Italians of a superior stamp, he took the most lively interest
in our country's greatness and advancement, mingled with a constant
fear of his credulity being imposed upon, that rendered him very
amusing.

One day, after talking about railways, and lamenting the obstinacy
of the Government in opposing their introduction into the Pontifical
States, he said, hesitatingly, “I have to-day heard something about
England that surpasses all belief. A person just arrived from London
has been trying to persuade me that he has seen a railway there which
runs over houses. Now, can this be true?”

“Oh, he must mean the railway to Blackwall!” exclaimed one of my
cousins, who, although she had never been in England, with that
marvellous interest in all connected with it I have described,
joined to the diligent study of the “Illustrated London News,” and
some of our most useful periodicals, was perfectly versed in every
recent improvement. He listened to her animated description with an
earnestness it is not easy to conceive, and at the conclusion said,
with the florid diction peculiar to the south, “Glorious country,
capable of such achievements! Happy country, to have such daughters to
recount them!”

It must have been disheartening to a man of this character to return,
after his day's labours were ended, to a home such as his was described
to us: small, dark, scantily furnished—the little drawing-room,
according to the manners of that class, unoccupied even in the evening,
and exhibiting no traces of books or needlework—his wife utterly
uncompanionable and uncultivated, issuing from the kitchen in a
slatternly déshabille, to greet him with some shrill complaint against
the children, who, pale, whimpering, and unwholesome, looked as if
they were pining for fresh air and exercise. Such is the appearance
of the household for six days of the week. On Sundays, the lady comes
out richly dressed, with a dignified deportment that a duchess might
envy, and slowly paces the promenade, accompanied by her children,
elaborately attired, and the maid-servant, whose exterior has undergone
the same magical transformation.

The manner in which Italians of this rank contrive to gratify their
taste for dress would seem perfectly marvellous, considering their
slender resources, if one had not some insight into the remarkable
frugality of their household expenditure. No English economist could
contrive to keep body and soul together in the way they do: our
northern constitutions would sink from insufficiency of aliment if
compelled to follow their regimen.

Let us take a peep at another family by way of illustration. It
consists of father, mother, two children, and a maid-servant; and the
income on which they depend for their maintenance may be estimated at
from fifty to sixty pounds a year. The husband holds some responsible
Government appointment in the Customs, or Provincial Treasury, or
something of the kind. Before he gets up in the morning, he drinks a
cup of _café noir_, or, if his circumstances permit, he partakes of it
at the caffè, with the addition, perhaps, of a cake of the value of a
half-penny: the same beverage, with milk and a little bread, forms the
breakfast of the family at home. One o'clock is the general hour for
dinner. There is soup, containing either slices of toasted bread, or
rice, or vermicelli; then the _lesso_, the meat from which the broth
has been made, never exceeding two pounds—of twelve ounces—in weight,
half a pound being usually calculated as the allowance for a grown-up
person; this is eaten with bread, which holds the place of potatoes in
England, and is consumed in large quantities. A dish of vegetables,
done up with lard or oil, completes the repast; but I must not omit
that the poorest table is well furnished with excellent native wine,
which, as well as the oil, is generally the production of some little
piece of land in the country that the family possess. This routine of
living is never departed from, except on maigre-days—when fish, either
fresh or salted, Indian corn-meal, with a little tomata and cheese,
dried haricot beans, lentils, and so forth, take the place of the usual
fare—and Sundays and Festas, which are solemnized by an additional
dish—such as a roasted pigeon or a few cutlets. In the evening they
sup; but it is scarcely to be called a meal—consisting merely of a
little salad, fennel-root eaten raw, or fruit, with those never-failing
accompaniments of bread and the sparkling ruby wine, that really seem
their principal support.

The head of the house does not trouble his family much with his
presence; he spends his evenings abroad, either making _conversazione_
at some neighbour's, or at the caffè; or if his means be so restricted
as to deny him the occasional indulgence of a cigar or a glass of
_eau sucrée_, which he might be led into there, he has the resource of
going into the apothecary's shop, where, amidst a stifling atmosphere
of drugs and nauseous compounds, a number of people congregate to
lounge and gossip. The doctors resort here, and a choice circle of
their intimate friends besides, and all the news—foreign, medical, and
domestic—is fully discussed.

There are, of course, many amongst the mezzo cetto whose incomes are
much beyond the instance I have just stated; some are in positive
affluence, but their style of housekeeping does not vary in proportion;
and the account here given may be taken as a very faithful specimen of
the condition of the majority of this class, in which the elements of
several gradations of rank in England are curiously blended.

The domestic manners here attempted to be traced are, it will be at
once perceived, widely different from what are comprehended by us in
the term “middle classes;” strangely opposed to all we are accustomed
to include under that designation. Those evening _conversazioni_ at
the apothecary's, for instance; not mere students lounging about on
the look-out for practice, but white-headed men, ranking high in their
profession, lawyers, merchants, shopkeepers, all cronies and gossips of
half a century's standing—what analogy is there in our own country to
anything of this sort?

A physician of repute, in one of our large towns, would stare at
finding himself in the centre of a group assembled in the dingy
_Farmacia_; still greater would be his surprise could he understand the
nature of the conversation so eagerly carried on. Contrary to English
medical etiquette in matters which belong to their profession, these
Esculapians are especially diffuse, each relating, for the benefit
of the circle, the minutest particulars of any interesting case he
has in hand, without the slightest reserve in mentioning the patient,
who becomes public property, to be dissected and lectured upon at
pleasure. Besides which laudable relaxation, a pastime of another kind
is often carried on in some little den at the back of the shop, where a
card-table is spread, and large sums, in reference to the means of the
players, are nightly staked.

The passion for gambling is very general, extending to all ranks, and,
not confined to cards, exhibits itself in a fondness for everything
connected with hazard—such as raffles and lotteries, about which last I
shall speak more in detail in another chapter.

Scarcely a day used to pass in which people did not come to the
door to ask us to take tickets in some _riffa_; it was either a poor
woman who wanted to dispose of her pearl ear-rings; or a girl _che si
voleva far sposa_, and by way of earning a few pauls to buy a wedding
dress, offered a pincushion for a prize. Fishermen made raffles of
their finest turbots; ladies (though rather _sub rosâ_) of their
old-fashioned shawls; distressed dandies of elaborate pipes; in fact,
never was there a population in which the fickle goddess numbered more
persevering votaries.

In the caffès, play was always going on, I believe, in a greater or
less degree. These establishments, so indispensable to an Italian's
existence, must not be identified with the fairy-like structures of
mirrors, chandeliers, and arcades, that Paris and some of the principal
cities of Italy exhibit. In all the inferior towns which I have
visited, one description of a caffè may serve to convey a very correct
idea of the totality. A middle-sized room, opening on the street—in
summer with an awning, benches, and little round tables outside the
door; within, similar benches and round tables, a very dirty brick
floor, and a dark region at the back, from whence ices, lemonades,
_eau sucrée_, coffee, chocolate, fruit syrups, and occasionally
punch—denominated _un ponch_, and cautiously partaken of—are served
out. Youths with cadaverous faces and mustachios, in white jackets
striped with blue, answering to the appellation of _bottega_, fly about
like ministering genii, and from four or five o'clock in the morning
till past twelve at night, know repose only as a name.

The caffè likewise comprehends the office of confectioner and
pastrycook, and no cakes or sweetmeats can be procured but what it
furnishes; sorry compositions, it must be owned, their predominant
flavour being that of tobacco, with which, from being kept on a
counter in the general room, amid a thick cloud of smoke from a dozen
or so of detestable cigars, they are naturally impregnated. They are
inexpensive delicacies, however; for the value of a half-penny such
gigantic puffs of pastry and preserve, such blocks of sponge-cake
garnished with deleterious ornaments, such massive compounds of almond
and white of egg are obtainable, as would make a schoolboy's eyes
glisten with delight. Sold at half-price the next day—a farthing, be
it remembered—they are purchased by poor people for their children's
slight matutinal refection. We could never persuade one of my uncle's
servants, the father of a family, that a piece of bread would have
been a far more wholesome breakfast for children of five or six years
old, than a little weak coffee, and one of these stale cakes. He would
shake his head, and say it was more _civile_, _i. e._ refined, for the
_povere creature_ than bread; as for brown bread—_soldiers' bread_, as
they contemptuously term it—being reduced to that, is considered the
extremity of degradation.

The sweetmeats the caffè fabricates are still more primitive than its
cakes, principally consisting of unbleached almonds, coarsely incased
in flour and sugar, chocolate in various forms, and candied citron.
Immense quantities of these are prepared at Christmas, partly disposed
of to outdoor customers, and the remainder, piled up on large trays,
are raffled for among the frequenters of the place, with a zest which
shows that, however insignificant be the prize, or paltry the venture,
the delight in all games of chance is still predominant.

Besides the caffè, properly so called, with its talkers and loungers
and smokers, its players at dominoes and cards, its readers of the
few newspapers permitted—so meagre of details, so garbled in their
statements, that little information can be gathered from their
columns—the premises generally contain a _sala del bigliardo_ upstairs,
and sometimes a private room for the accommodation of such systematic
card-players as nightly resort there, and do not wish the magnitude
of their stakes to attract public attention. Members of the oldest
nobility, and the most questionable mezzo cetto, princes and brokers,
merchants and _marchesi_, Jews and Christians, are known to pass every
evening of their lives together in this manner; and, nevertheless, hold
no intercourse at other times, never entering each other's houses, or
acknowledging or seeking any further acquaintance beyond the mysterious
precincts of the caffè.




CHAPTER VI.

   Prejudice against fires—General dilapidation of
     dwelling-houses—A lady's _valet de chambre_—Kindness
     towards servants—Freedom of intercourse with their
     masters—Devotedness of Italians to the sick—Horror of
     death—Funerals—Mourning.


While thus curious about the middle ranks, it must not be forgotten
that in the upper there was quite sufficient difference from all one's
preconceived ideas of elegance or comfort to render their domestic
habits interesting. One of the strangest things that struck me as
the winter came on, was the prejudice prevailing against the use of
fireplaces, or, indeed, against any appliances to mitigate the severity
of the weather. Horace Walpole, in his letters, says, very justly, that
the Italians never yet seem to have found out how cold their climate
is; and this remark, made a hundred years ago, is still perfectly
applicable—at least as regards the people of Ancona.

The dread of sitting near a fire, and the contempt for carpets
expressed by the old inhabitants, are perfectly ludicrous: they mourn
over the effeminacy of the rising generation, who, so far as they are
permitted, gladly avail themselves of these pernicious indulgences.
A gentleman one night came freezing into our drawing-room, and as
he stood complacently before the fire, made us laugh at the account
of a visit he had just been paying to the Count M——, the admiral of
the port—a sinecure office, it is needless to remark. He found him in
bed with a slight attack of gout, and his wife and daughter-in-law,
with several visitors, were sitting round him, making _la società_:
the gentlemen in their hats and cloaks, and the ladies in shawls,
handkerchiefs tied over their heads, and the never-absent _scaldino_,
filled with live embers, in their hands. Our friend was pressed by the
admiral to follow the general example, and cloak and cover himself. He
declined at first, being of a very ceremonious disposition; but soon,
he admitted, his scruples gave way before the excessive coldness of the
room, on a northern aspect, destitute of fire or carpet; and he resumed
his out-door apparel like the rest.

It used often to happen, when paying a morning visit, that the
drawing-room fire was ordered to be lighted out of compliment to us,
in spite of our entreaties to the contrary; the result, as we too well
anticipated, after many laborious efforts on the part of the unhappy
servitor, with a vast expenditure of breath—a method of ignition
seemingly preferred to bellows—being invariably a hopeless abandonment
of the enterprise, a stifling amount of smoke, and an unlimited number
of apologies.

In the daytime, the Anconitan ladies, even of the first rank, rarely
occupy their drawing-rooms, which are merely entered to receive
visitors; they mostly sit in their bed-chambers until evening; and
hence the formal appearance, the absence of all comfort, that strikes
an English eye so much on first entering their houses. From the street
you proceed, by a large _porte cochère_, of which the gates are closed
at night, into a court or vaulted passage, wide enough to admit a
carriage. Of this, evidence is afforded by the appearance of that
vehicle in dim perspective; while undoubted proofs arise, through the
olfactory nerves, of the immediate vicinity of the stables. You ascend
a handsome stone staircase, but rarely swept, and only traditionally
whitewashed, on which groups of beggars are stationed in various
attitudes, and pause at the first-floor, before a door that has not
been painted for thirty years, when the present owner of the palace
was married. Your first summons is unheeded; and it is not till after
ringing a second time rather impatiently, you are admitted by a dirty
manservant, who has evidently been cleaning lamps, and is uneasily
settling himself into his tarnished livery-coat, which had been hanging
on a clothes-horse in a corner of the hall, in strange contrast with
a large genealogical tree in a massive gilt frame, and four carved
benches painted with armorial bearings, but literally begrimed with
dirt, forming its principal furniture. You next traverse a magnificent
apartment—the hall of state in olden times—about fifty feet long and
forty wide, still retaining traces of its former splendour. The lofty
ceiling is richly painted in those fanciful arabesques which belong
to a period between the school of Raphael and the decadence of art at
the end of the seventeenth century. The walls are hung with family
portraits of various epochs—knights in armour, children in starched
ruffs and brocades, cardinals in their scarlet robes; and alternated
with these are immense mirrors, dimly reflecting on their darkened
surface the changes that have crept over the once gorgeous scene. The
rich gilding above and around you, of the frames and candelabra, of the
splendid cornices that surmount the inlaid doors, and of the ponderous
chairs in their immovable array—all this does not more forcibly bear
witness to the lavish profusion that must once have presided here, than
do the torn and faded draperies, the broken and uneven pavement, the
unwashed and uncurtained windows, to the present neglect and penury
which make no effort to ward off the progress of decay.

Beyond this is the drawing-room, fitted up according to the fashion
of thirty years ago, since which nothing has been added to its
decorations. The walls are covered with crimson brocaded satin, as
well as the two upright forbidding-looking sofas and the chairs which
are stationed around; there is a carpet, but it is very thin and
discoloured. Between the windows there is a marble _console_, on which
is placed a time-piece; and on the opposite side of the room stands a
corresponding one, embellished by a tea-service of very fine old china,
and a silver _lucerna_, one of those classic-shaped lamps that have
been used in Italy since the days of the Etruscans; there is no table
in the centre, or before the sofa, no arm-chairs, and no books. Wood is
laid in the fireplace ready for us; it has thus remained since our last
visit, and we entreat that it may stay unmolested.

The _marchesa_ comes in to see us; she has a tall figure, but rather
bent, and though little more than fifty, looks in reality much older.
She takes snuff, and carries a checked cotton pocket-handkerchief: she
kisses us on both cheeks, and calls us her dear children. There is some
difficulty about adjusting our seats, because she wishes to give up the
sofa to my cousin Lucy and me, at which we of course remonstrate; and
the difficulty is not removed until we propose a compromise, and sit
upon it one on each side of her. The servant places footstools before
us, and brings his lady her scaldino. She is an invalid, and we talk
at first about her health; but though naturally not averse to such
a topic, she has not the keen relish for medical disquisitions which
Thackeray declares is the peculiar attribute of the British female;
this perhaps is owing to her ideas of the healing art being very much
circumscribed—not extending beyond ptisans and sudorifics, the Italian
panacea for all the ills of life. Next we discourse about the Opera,
the carnival season from Christmas to Lent having just commenced; and
the marchesa inquires if we often go there, and how we like the prima
donna: she says that her _nuora_ (daughter-in-law) is passionately fond
of everything connected with the theatre, but hints that she might
oftener renounce the indulgence of that taste, and stay at home to
make the _partita_ at cards with her. Being, however, as she herself
remarks, a very amiable specimen of the genus _suocera_, she does not
attempt in this respect to coerce the _marchesina's_ inclinations,
remaining satisfied with the privilege of occasionally grumbling,
and claiming sympathy for her forbearance. Then we are told of the
progress of a lawsuit which has been pending more than twenty years
between her brother and herself, and can never be concluded, because
the Legislature admits of appeals from one tribunal to another, against
the judgment last pronounced; so that these affairs are generally
prolonged while the litigating parties have life or funds at their
disposal. Disputes of this kind between near relations are of such
common occurrence as to excite no surprise or animadversion. Of course,
we sympathize with her anxiety as to its termination; and then a turn
is given to the conversation by the entrance of one of her married
daughters, residing in the same street, who now comes in to pay her
mother her accustomed daily visit, and kisses her hand with a mixture
of deference and affection that is novel, but not unpleasing.

After the usual inquiries concerning the children and her son-in-law,
the old lady turns again to us, and, for the fiftieth time, reverts to
a project she has much at heart—that of arranging a _matrimonio_ for
one of my cousins; and again, for the fiftieth time, she is gravely
reminded that an insuperable barrier exists to anything of the kind.
Any allusion to controversial subjects being, by long-established
consent, interdicted between my uncle's family and their Anconitan
acquaintances, the marchesa is fain to content herself with a sigh
and expressive shrug of the shoulders; and tapping me on the cheek,
inquires if I, too, have such an objection to change my religion and
_farmi Cattolica_ as my poor cousins are imbued with. “Ah, _carina_,”
said she, confidentially, “I could get good matches for you all, if you
had not these unhappy scruples!”

However, I laughingly assure her I am as obdurate as the rest, and we
rise to take our leave. The same process of kissing is gone through as
when we came in, and we are asked anxiously whether our _cameriera_
is in waiting, as it invariably shocks her rigid ideas of propriety
that we should cross the street unattended. On being answered in
the negative, the marchesa insists on summoning a grey-headed old
man, dressed in rusty black, denominated her _valet de chambre_, and
confiding us to his care to see us safely to our home, she especially
charges him not to leave us till the door is opened, as if some danger
lurked upon the very confines of our threshold.

This is only one among the many instances of the extraordinary
restraint exercised in Italy upon the freedom of unmarried women. A
girl of fifteen, if married, is at liberty to walk about alone, while
I have known a woman of forty—the only Italian old maid, by the by, it
has been my lot to meet—who was not allowed to move a step without at
least one trusty servant as her body-guard.

Our remonstrances and entreaties are unheeded, and we depart with our
veteran escort: the marchesa is so pleased that she kisses us again,
and notwithstanding her infirmities, insists on tottering across
the great hall and accompanying us nearly to the door; while the
dirty man-servant, after showing us out, with an anxious, perturbed
expression, returns to his mistress, to replenish her _scaldino_,
give her any fragment of news he has collected, and comment upon our
extraordinary English infatuation.

The old man, who feebly hobbled after us in the steep, unevenly-paved
street we had to traverse, was an excellent specimen of that race of
servants such as we read of in Molière and Goldoni, but are now rarely
seen in real life. He had lived upwards of forty years in the family,
was identified with its cares and interests, and gradually, from being
the personal attendant of the old _marchese_, had after his death
assumed the same office towards his widow, who, as an invalid, required
constant care. Hence his title of the marchesa's valet de chambre,
which, strange to say, was a literal one, as he assisted her maid in
her toilet, sat up at night in her room when her frequent illnesses
required it, brought her her coffee every morning before she got up,
and was servant, nurse, confidential adviser, as the occasion needed.

Another old man in the establishment, who held a post somewhat
equivalent to the duties of house and land steward, had entered the
service of the marchesa's father when a boy, and on her marriage had
followed her to her new abode; he died not long after my arrival,
and was mourned by the whole family with a degree of regret alike
creditable to themselves and the departed. Indeed, the attachment
mutually subsisting between masters and servants in the old families
of the Italian nobility is one of the most amiable features of the
national character. Almost every family we knew had at least one or
two of these faithful old domestics in their employment, who, when
no longer capable of even the moderate exertion demanded of them,
were either retained as supernumeraries, or dismissed to their native
villages with a pension sufficient to support them during the remainder
of their days. It is very rare to hear of a servant being sent away;
their slatternly and inefficient manner of discharging the duties
allotted to them being overlooked, if compensated by honesty and
attachment. A much larger number of servants are kept than the style of
living would seem to require, or the amount of fortune in general to
authorize; but it appears to be a point of dignity to have a numerous
household, a remnant of the feeling of olden times, when the standing
of the family was estimated by the number of its retainers. Many more
men than women are employed; and to this it is owing that the former
discharge duties we are brought up to consider exclusively devolving
upon females. Besides the culinary department, which is invariably
filled by them, they sweep the rooms, make the beds, and are very
efficient as sick-nurses. We knew a lady whose man-servant sat up for
eighty nights to tend her during a dangerous illness.

The wages paid are excessively low to our ideas, a very small sum
being given in money to female servants, the amount not exceeding from
a dollar to fifteen pauls a month (4_s._ 6_d._ to 6_s._ 9_d._), and
to men from two to three dollars; but then there is always a liberal
allowance of wine and flour, the produce of the family estates,
generally much more than they can consume, and the surplus of which
they are permitted to dispose of. Their daily fare is of a description
that would ill suit the taste of English domestics, even in the most
limited establishment: the quantity of meat provided for each is at
the rate of six ounces per day, which is boiled, and furnishes the
never-failing soup and lesso. This constitutes their first, or mid-day
meal; breakfast not being usual, or at most consisting of a draught of
wine and a crust of bread. In the evening they sup; this repast being
supplied by the _resti di tavola_—that is, remains of their master's
table, which are carefully divided amongst them by the cook, who is
usually a personage of great authority, having under him an assistant
in his noble art, besides sundry barefooted little boys, who pluck
poultry, run on errands, or idle about most satisfactorily.

It is scarcely necessary to say that the low scale of wages and living
here mentioned is not applicable to English or other foreign families:
it was always understood that _forestieri_ paid more than natives; and
yet, with these advantages, the servants seemed to think they were
scarcely compensated for the absence of the freedom of intercourse
which they had enjoyed under their former masters. We were considered
proud, because we discouraged the system of gossiping carried on among
the natives, who allowed their servants to mingle a remark in the
conversation while they were waiting at table, or to relate anything
of the news of the town they might have heard. The contrast presented
by our English reserve must indeed have been striking; and it was
difficult at first for our attendants to reconcile themselves to it, or
to be persuaded it did not really arise from harshness or displeasure.
I have often thought we might with advantage copy a little in this
respect from our continental neighbours, and, by treating our servants
less like machines, cultivate the kindly feeling which should subsist
between them and their employers; although I am very far from admiring
the familiarity here described, which arises from the inherent love of
talking and horror of solitude or silence, common to all Italians.

I witnessed some traits of this invincible garrulity, which amused
me very much. A noble lady, living next door, used every morning to
hold conversations with the nursery-maid of a German officer's family,
from opposite windows: the street not being more than ten feet across,
it required scarcely more elevation of voice than is peculiar to
Italian women, to possess herself of numerous interesting particulars
respecting their mode of life, manner of feeding, dressing, and rearing
their children, of the length of time this maid had been in their
service, and so forth. My uncle's man-servant was detected in the
gratification of a similar curiosity towards an opposite neighbour, the
wife of a lawyer, to whom, from our hall-window, he was repeating the
names of the _signorine_ and the _cugina forestiera_, my unworthy self,
with many little details of our tastes and pursuits, which apparently
were received with avidity.

One of our acquaintances, with more than a usual share of
inquisitiveness, used, whenever a message or note came from our house,
to summon our envoy to her presence, and, while inditing an answer,
would ply him with questions about our domestic arrangements, what
we had for dinner, whether any of the _signorine_ were going to be
married, and other inquiries of the same nature; which would have
been considered insufferably impertinent, were we not aware that every
servant entering her house was subjected to a similar interrogatory,
and that nothing unfair or unfriendly was intended by it. And yet it
is wonderful to notice that the servants thus talked to, and let into
all the prying weakness of their masters' dispositions, are never
impertinent, nor outstep the boundary of the most obsequious respect
and humility.

Strange, indescribable people! I lay down my pen, and laugh as
recollections without number of similar instances rise up before me;
and yet the moment afterwards, when I think of all the examples of
their kindness of heart and good feeling which I could almost as easily
recall, I despair of doing justice to them, or of conveying any idea of
the never-ceasing contrast between the pathetic and grotesque that the
Italian character presents. In all scenes of distress or affliction,
their sympathy and charity are very remarkable; and it is beautiful
to witness their untiring solicitude towards each other in sickness.
Even young men, of apparently the most frivolous disposition, evince,
under these circumstances, a tenderness and forbearance we are apt to
consider the exclusive attribute of woman. No Italian, when ill, is
ever left alone; his friends seem to think they are bound to devote
themselves to him, and divide the hours of watching according to their
numbers or the nature of their avocations.

The case of a young man at Bologna, related to me by one of his medical
attendants, who lingered for eight months in excruciating agonies from
an incurable injury to the spine, was an affecting illustration of this
devotedness. He had been gay and frivolous himself, and his companions
shared more or less in similar failings; but contrary to what is
usually seen, after having partaken of his hours of pleasure, they
did not fly from the scenes of pain his sick-room presented. They so
arranged their attendance upon him, that, out of eight to ten who were
his most intimate friends, two at a time were always, night and day, by
his side, ever watchful to mitigate, to the utmost of their power, the
tortures under which he laboured. It was said, no woman's gentleness
could have surpassed the care with which they used to arrange his bed,
so as to procure him some alleviation from change of posture, or the
patience with which they strove to cheer the failing hope and spirits
of the sufferer.

Precisely in the same manner are frequent examples afforded of their
unwearying attendance upon female relations or old friends; yet though
no indecorum is attached to this practice, it would be unfair to say it
is universal. In every instance, however, as I have before mentioned,
the lady's sick-room is as open to gentlemen as the saloon; and there
they are always found, in the hours appointed for receiving, seated
near the invalid, detailing every little anecdote that can be of
interest, and assuming an air of cheerfulness to keep up her courage,
and prevent her mind from becoming depressed.

It is singular, notwithstanding, that all this sympathy and kindness,
which never fails throughout the longest illness, should shrink from
witnessing the last struggles of expiring nature, and that the sufferer
so long and carefully tended should be deserted in his last moments
by those most dear to him. With that peculiar horror of death which
characterizes them, as soon as it is evident the dying person's hours
are numbered, that the _agonia_ has commenced, and the passing bell has
tolled, the nearest relations are not only removed from the chamber,
but generally from the house, and often the priest alone remains to
close the eyes, whose last gaze on earth had perhaps sought the faces
of those most loved, and sought in vain.

The funeral is never attended by the relations, who are supposed to
be too much overwhelmed by grief to appear in public; but the male
friends of the deceased accompany the body on foot, carrying lighted
torches to the church at which the funeral-service is performed. This
ended, it is lowered into the ancestral vault where moulder the remains
of many generations. No hearse, or carriages, or mutes, form part of
the procession: one or more priests lead the way, bearing a massive
crucifix, followed by the _compagnia_ of the parish—an association of
laymen who, for pious purposes, always give their presence on similar
occasions. They are preceded by the banner of their confraternity,
each parish having a different emblem—such as a _Mater Dolorosa_,
the Annunciation, or the Descent from the Cross—and a peculiar dress,
consisting of a loose robe of scarlet, blue, or yellow. With torches
in their hands, and chanting the accustomed _litania de' morti_, they
produce an impression not easily forgotten. These are followed by
different brotherhoods of monks, of the orders most protected by the
deceased; and according to their numbers may be estimated his rank and
possessions. Then comes the coffin, borne upon the shoulders of men
shrouded in those awe-inspiring peaked cowls, with slits for the eyes,
so familiar to us in all pictures of religious ceremonies in Italy:
the ends of the richly-embroidered pall are held by the most intimate
friends, followed by the rest of the acquaintances; while the whole is
closed by a motley crowd of all the beggars in the town—men, women, and
children—who always flock to a funeral of distinction, to offer their
prayers for the repose of the soul of the departed, and to receive the
alms which are invariably accorded them.

Mourning is much less frequently worn than amongst us—in fact, only
for the very nearest relations; but, when adopted, it is united to
that retirement from the gaieties of society and subdued deportment
which should certainly be its accompaniments; hence one never sees in
Italy the indecent spectacle of a lady at a ball, resplendent in jet
ornaments and black crape, which foreigners remark with astonishment is
often witnessed in England. After the death of a parent, it would be
considered very indecorous to be seen in any place of amusement until
a year has elapsed. I remember hearing a young man censured for dancing
at a small party ten months after he had lost his father.

Widows do not wear any peculiar costume, but are simply expected to
dress in black and live in retirement for a year. In a country where
the deepest affections are rarely connected with the marriage state,
and where no conventional prejudices exist as to the width of a hem or
the depth of a border, this is far more natural, and sometimes permits
of the wearer's real feelings being discerned, by the appearance of
the dress assumed on such occasions. Parents do not put on mourning
for their children, which strikes one as more strange, considering the
strong affection generally existing towards their offspring; and it
also appears customary to endeavour to shake off the grief attendant
on this loss by every expedient. I have seen an old man at the Opera
not a month after the death of his grown-up son, and was told it was
right and necessary he should have his mind diverted; and the same
plea was brought forward to justify the similar appearance of a lady
in her accustomed box, dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, only
a few days after the death of her sister's husband; the poor widow
being plunged in all the first bitterness of grief, as genuine and
profound as it has been my lot to witness. So far from perceiving any
impropriety in this action, if asked how she could have the heart to
visit any scene of amusement at such a moment, she would have replied,
that her sufferings had been so great, she required some _distrazione_
for the benefit of her health; and this reason, by her country-people
at least, would have been considered perfectly satisfactory.




CHAPTER VII.

   Decline of Carnival diversions—Dislike to being brought
     into contact with Austrians—The theatre—Public
     _Tombole_—Short-sighted policy of the Government.


It is Carnival-time, but only the name remains to mark the period
intervening between Christmas and Lent; all the masquerades and
revelries associated with the season are now suspended. Since the
Revolution of 1848-49, masks have been prohibited, from the facility
these disguises afforded for holding political meetings, and making
plots against the Government; the zest with which all ranks used to
join in this amusement renders its interdiction a serious deprivation,
and does not augment the good-will with which the enactments of the
papal authorities are now regarded.

The balls at the Casino, which formerly enlivened the Carnival, have
likewise declined, from the unwillingness of the natives to mix in any
degree with the Austrian garrison, the general and officers of which
were of course invited to be present. Even those families of Codini,
whose known retrograde principles rendered them well disposed towards
the _Barbari_, were afraid of braving public opinion by appearing to
be on good terms with the supporters of their pontiff; so that the
Austrian officers, at the first public ball, to which they repaired
with all their proverbial eagerness for the dance, found a large and
handsome ball-room, brilliant lights and excellent music, but, alas, to
their great chagrin, nought but empty benches to receive them!

The theatre is now the only neutral ground where all assemble; but even
there the line of demarcation is very jealously observed, and it is
only in one or two boxes of native families that the obnoxious white
uniform is ever discerned. To an Italian, the theatre is home, senate,
forum, academy—all and everything in life. He does not go there half
so much for the sake of the performance, as to fill up four or five
hours of his daily existence, to see his friends, to hear what is going
forward, to look at any strange face that may attract his notice, to
contemplate from his stall near the orchestra the different flirtations
carried on in the boxes above and around him, and to take his own
share, perchance, in the numerous little comedies of real life that are
here nightly performed, while the mock-drama on the stage forms but a
minor part of the interests so curiously concentrated in this building.

There was but one theatre in the town—a very pretty structure, much
larger and handsomer than would be met with in any provincial town in
England; and all its accompaniments of dress, scenery, and orchestra
on the same scale of superiority. Either operas or prose pieces were
given, according to the seasons of the year and established custom. In
the autumn, comedies and dramas were performed from September till the
beginning of Advent, when theatrical entertainments were suspended.
From Christmas till the end of Carnival there was the Opera, succeeded
during Lent by a dreary time of mortification. After Easter, the
public spirits were sustained by the speedy prospect of a good spring
campaign; and great excitement always prevailed as to the operas to be
represented, the names of the singers engaged by the manager, whether
the municipality, by assisting his funds, would enable him to give a
ballet; and so forth.

Of course, none of the great vocalists, whom the north seems to
have monopolized, were ever heard, although this theatre could often
claim the distinction of having been the nursery in which they were
trained, and their latent powers first called forth. The Government,
impoverished as it is with gaunt distress assailing it in the shape
of houseless poor, decaying buildings, and an exhausted treasury,
never hesitates to support and promote theatrical entertainments.
The theatre, to an Italian population, is like a sweet cake to a
fretful child: it serves to stop its crying, and divert its attention
for a moment, and the intelligent nurse is satisfied. It is a safe
diversion: they cannot conspire or talk politics, for spies, as they
well know, are largely mingled with the audience, and every movement
or knot of whisperers would instantly be noted. The pieces performed
are carefully selected, and none with any allusion to freedom, revolt,
or anything of the sort permitted; for instance, a chorus containing
the word _libertà_ would be suppressed, or another word of different
signification substituted for it. Auber's _Muta di Portici_ is not
allowed to be represented, because its hero, Masaniello, is the leader
of a popular insurrection; nor Rossini's _Guglielmo Tell_, for similar
reasons; besides many others that it would take too much space to
enumerate. Verdi's _Ernani_ is no longer given, although in the early
days of Pius IX., when, after granting the amnesty to all political
offenders, he was hailed as the regenerator of Italy, the scene in
which Charles V. pardons the conspirators, and exclaims, “_Perdono
a tutti_,” was received in every theatre of Italy with a frenzy of
enthusiasm that must have been perfectly electrifying. It has often
been described to me how in Ancona the whole audience used to sit
hushed in reverential awe till the expected words had been pronounced,
when, as with one voice and impulse, they would break forth into a wild
clamour of applause, which had in it something inexpressibly thrilling
and sublime.

But all this has passed away; the brief glory, the dream of
independence, the unwonted exultation, with its lamentable reverse of
ingratitude and folly, opportunities neglected, and powers misapplied.
The daystar has risen again for their brethren, while the Anconitans
are shrouded in even darker oppression than of yore, and heavier
chains have been riveted upon them; yet stay, for I have wandered from
my theme, which was of the garlands twined around their fetters, and
of the gay strains and idle talk beneath which the patriot's sigh is
often stifled. So let us go back to the interior of the theatre, if you
please, and take a survey of its various occupants.

It is seven o'clock, and the house is beginning to fill: clerks,
shopkeepers, spies, artisans and their wives, Austrian soldiers, are
taking their places in the pit, and the orchestra are tuning their
instruments. As the overture begins, the frequenters of the stalls
saunter into their usual places. Of these, the majority are the
officers of the garrison, who always make a great clanking of their
long broadswords, and always twirl their moustaches. The boxes, too,
are rapidly becoming tenanted. Every family has its own, and the scene
grows more animated as one bright well-known face after another appears
in her accustomed seat.

The husband, in all well-regulated establishments, accompanies his
wife to the theatre, and remains in the box until some visitor appears,
which is generally the case as soon as she has been seen to enter. He
then takes his leave, and does not trouble her with his presence till
the close of the evening, to escort her home; as it would be considered
very insipid to be seen sitting long together, and infallibly be
looked upon as the result of the lady's want of attraction, or the
lack of resources on his side to fill up the time. Released from his
attendance, therefore, as soon as the welcome sound is heard of the
curtain at the door being drawn aside to give admission to a visitor,
he hastens in his turn to commence a round of calls, to those ladies
especially whose houses, when the theatre is not open, he is most in
the habit of frequenting. Thus the leading belles gather round them
their usual _società_, and they talk and laugh, as is their wont,
without much regard to the performance, except at any favourite air or
duet, when, as if by magic, the whole audience is silent and breathless
with attention. The loquacity prevalent is sometimes annoying to
the pit and gallery, particularly in a prose piece, when the actors
are scarcely audible from the hum of patrician voices, and an angry
“_Zitto, zitto!_” gives an indication of popular feeling. But even
this departure from the usual orderly demeanour of the people is very
rare. It would be difficult to find more decorum and correctness of
deportment than they present: there is no bad language, no quarrelling,
no drinking—not even any popping of ginger-beer, or fragrance of
orange-peel.

The same operas are repeated night after night, without intermission,
for weeks. In the course of a season lasting nearly two months, seldom
more than two operas are given, the expense of getting up a greater
variety being of course one reason; while the taste of the Italians
themselves leads also to their preferring the frequent repetition of
their favourite composers, rather than a constant change, which, in
music, they declare is a drawback to enjoyment.

The price of admission during the Carnival appears ridiculously
low, the ticket being only fifteen bajocchi—equal to 7-½_d._; and a
subscription for the season can be taken out for fifteen pauls—6_s._
9_d._, which insures admission for every night, excepting benefits.
In the spring, as there is a ballet besides the opera, the price is
doubled; in the autumn, when the _commedia_—the national term for
dramatic representations—is given, it is only a paul—5_d._

The boxes, as I said before, are all private property; each is
partitioned off from the other as at the Italian Opera in London.
They are fitted up on either side with narrow sofas, on which the
società lounge and gossip at their ease. Amongst their fair owners,
the respective number of visitors is a great subject of heart-burning,
it being an enviable distinction to have one's box constantly filled.
As regards the toilet of the ladies, there is but little display: in
winter, they are scarcely more dressed than for a walking out, many of
them even retaining their bonnets; and on account of the extreme cold,
it is often customary to send _chauffepieds_ to keep their feet warm
during the performance. The house is dimly lighted to English eyes,
accustomed to the flaring gas of our own theatres, for there is only a
large chandelier from the centre, and the foot-lights; but Italians are
not fond of a strong glare, and resorting thither so constantly as they
do, a greater degree of brilliancy would prove fatiguing to the sight.
The existing arrangement permits them to see and to be seen, and with
this they are perfectly satisfied; and thus they go on, every night of
the week while the season lasts—excepting Mondays, when an inferior
singer takes the prima donna's place, and Fridays, when the theatre
is closed—gossiping, trifling, complaining, but still led there by an
irresistible impulse, a void in domestic life which, so long as English
hearths and homes maintain their proud supremacy, will happily remain
an unsolved mystery to us.

Amongst the few remaining of the popular diversions that used to be
permitted in Carnival are the public _tombole_ or raffles, held on
Sundays and Feste in the principal square of the town, to which the
lowest of the people eagerly resort. No drunkenness or fighting is
ever seen, although, amongst that vast crowd of priests, peasants,
Jews, young caffè-loungers, shopkeepers and their wives, grisettes
and gendarmes, at least one or two thousand of the very dregs of the
population are assembled, all intent upon the game, which is nearly
allied to one I remember as a child, called Lotto, which we used to
play at for sugar-plums.

On the balcony of the government palace, in a conspicuous position,
is placed a wheel containing the numbers, ranging from one to ninety,
which are drawn from it by a child blindfolded, and proclaimed
aloud as they successively appear. The players, on paying eleven
bajocchi—5-½_d._—are each furnished with a card containing three
rows of figures variously transposed, so that no two cards are alike.
Whoever has a corresponding number on his card to the one called out,
marks it; and he who first can boast of an unbroken row of five numbers
thus filled up, is the winner, and shouts out “_Tombola fatta!_” in
a voice that makes the welkin ring, and flings his hat, if he be so
fortunate as to possess one, into the air.

I do not believe the amount of the prize depends on the number of
persons engaged in the game; the value of the tombola to be played
for is always known beforehand; some are of fifty, a hundred, or even
more dollars, and the fascination of this pastime for the populace
may therefore easily be imagined. Those who are too poor to afford the
outlay necessary for a card, go into partnership with others, and often
four or five are jointly interested in the purchase.

The scene during the drawing of the numbers is very picturesque, and
is well set off by the old piazza, with its quaint irregular buildings,
leading at the upper end by a semicircular ascent to the church of the
Dominicans, in front of which is stationed the colossal statue of one
of the popes—Clement XII., I think—in his pontifical robes and triple
crown, forming the centre of a group of market-women, seated beside
the baskets of fruit and vegetables they daily bring hither for sale. A
little further down the Austrian band is stationed: it has been playing
before the commencement of the game as only Austrian military bands
can play; and the intoxicating strains have wrought still higher the
general expectation and ferment. Every balcony and window are tenanted
by anxious players and lookers-on, for gentle and simple are equally
ardent and absorbed; while the whole space beneath is filled up by
the eager, clamorous crowd, watching their own or their neighbour's
progress, as if life and death were staked on the result.

Handsome peasant-girls in gay holiday attire, saturnine, calculating
priests, laughing milliners' apprentices, sturdy fishermen, tattered
women, beggars in every stage of misery—here are groups that a painter
would long to delineate, for, discernible upon all, stamped as if with
nature's signet, is the impress of beauty and of race.

The clear wintry sun shines on those upturned heads, and the blue
unclouded sky forms a brilliant background to features of so much
fire and animation, such coal-black kindling eyes, and figures of so
much artistic outline and perfection, that the very originals of some
of Raphael's master-pieces seem again presented to our view, and we
recognise faces whose lineaments are familiar to us in the Sacrifice at
Lystra, or the Preaching at Athens.

As the game wears on, when nearly ninety numbers have been called out,
and the result yet remains undecided, the thrill of agitation preceding
each successive, announcement,—the sudden silence, as if every one held
his breath to catch the first sound on which his fate might hang,—is
very remarkable and suggestive.

It is a grand spectacle of gambling, openly countenanced, nay more,
encouraged by the Government, which sees not that in thus feeding the
love of hazard and thirst for excitement in its subjects, it is but
arming them with weapons that sooner or later will be employed to its
own destruction.

But in their short-sighted policy, the Roman rulers discern nought but
the expediency of furnishing the people with amusement, and turning
their thoughts from politics. And when the diversions of the afternoon
are ended, when the crowd disperses, as only an Italian crowd can
disperse, without shrieks, or jostling, or rough-usage, while a murmur
of animated voices diffuses itself through the streets,—no watchful
eye seems to penetrate through this fair surface, no warning voice
denounces what poison lurks in the anodyne which has been administered
that day.




CHAPTER VIII.

   The Lottery—Its miserable results—Evening parties—Absence
     of all ostentation—Poverty no crime—Grand supper on Shrove
     Tuesday—Reception of a Cardinal.


The national taste for gambling—so strikingly illustrated to the most
casual observer in the excitement produced by the tombola—is still
more perniciously fostered by the system of the government lottery,
the existence of which produces the most baneful influence upon the
country. As in the tombola, the numbers range from one to ninety, of
which five are drawn every week at Rome. What is termed playing in the
lottery, consists in staking sums, varying in amount at the pleasure
of the player, upon one or more numbers, which, if they come up,
yield prizes proportionate to the sum hazarded and the manner of the
venture. For instance, if a person decides upon three numbers—say 19,
27, 60—and plays upon what is called the _terno secco_, he receives no
profit unless all three are drawn; but then, in case he is successful,
his gain is infinitely more considerable than if he had stipulated
for a prize should only two of his numbers appear. A _quinterno_—that
is, for five numbers played on the same ticket to come up together—is
very rare; yet there are not wanting instances of this extraordinary
good-fortune, which are eagerly remembered, and have been fatal lures
to many an infatuated player.

The _botteghini_, or lottery-shops, are constantly filled with the
most idle and miserable of the population, who come to risk the few
bajocchi they have stolen from the urgent wants of their families
upon the numbers they may have dreamed of, or seen written upon a
wall, or picked up on a slip of paper in the street, or that have
been given them by some person supposed to be skilled in this species
of divination. But this dangerous propensity is not confined to the
lower classes—all seem to play with reckless infatuation: the rich
prelate, with the aim of still further augmenting his hoarded wealth;
the speculative trader, to gratify his love of hazard and excitement;
and the poor working-man, with the more simple motive of relieving the
sharp penury of the moment, or realizing some vision of prosperity.
The young artist ventures his quarter of a dollar every week on the
_terno_ selected by his lady-love, in the hope of a prize sufficient
to enable him to gratify his dream of foreign travel and excitement;
the servant-girl has faith in the numbers given her by a white-bearded
Capuchin, and plays them in the fond delusion of winning a dowry and a
husband; and that worn and wretched-looking woman, with three or four
tattered children at her heels, and a puling swaddled infant in her
arms, gaunt famine stamped on every feature, comes to stake five or six
copper coins on the numbers she has dreamed her dead husband brought
her in the night, and goes back to the damp cellar she inhabits, to
indulge in restless anticipations of plenty and success.

The prevalence of the lottery tends to keep up superstition of the
most debasing kind: omens, dreams, lucky or unlucky days, are noted,
and the corresponding numbers eagerly sought for in books published
for the purpose, a tattered copy of which is sure to be possessed
by any family who can boast of a member sufficiently a scholar to
decipher it. If a bat flies in at a window, the number analogous to
this portent is looked out and played; if a favourite dish is dreamed
of, the cabalistic volume is again consulted. On occasion of a criminal
being executed, half the town plays numbers corresponding to the event
itself, the culprit's age, and the nature of his crime.

Another popular method of invoking fortune is to consult priests and
friars; amongst the latter, the Capuchins enjoy the greatest reputation
for the success of their predictions. The most singular feature in the
proceeding is, that as the clergy are forbidden to give numbers, the
letter of this prohibition is very skilfully eluded by no allusion
being made to the subject, but the priest, for example, tells a
story in which he brings in some striking circumstance, having, as he
well knows, a direct reference to the dream-book, which is consulted
accordingly.

It is altogether a grievous evil—a plague-spot extending far and wide.
Many families, from comparative affluence, have been reduced to beggary
by the indulgence of this passion. Even those who gain prizes appear
to reap no lasting benefit from success; and amidst all the wonderful
stories related of people being unexpectedly enriched by winning a
prize, I cannot at this moment remember one instance in which any
permanent good has resulted from the lottery. Unfortunately, as it is
a government monopoly, and yielding a large revenue, in the existing
order of things there is no ground to hope for its suppression.

I have digressed again from the Carnival; and perpetually find myself
painting in sombre colours, when I would fain impart a little light and
liveliness to my picture. The truth is that I have little of gaiety
to record; for it must not be overlooked that I am writing about a
country under the blight of an armed foreign intervention, and kept
in control by the Austrian discipline of the stick. The only parties I
remember during the so-called gay season were weekly evening reunions
at the residence of one of the foreign consuls, where the lady of the
house, a charming and gifted Parisian, drew together forty or fifty of
the leading people of the place. It required the utmost effort of her
amiability and liveliness, however, to accomplish this, for all spirit
and wish for enjoyment seem to have forsaken the Italians, excepting
their constancy to the theatre, which they cling to with the tenacity
of old associations.

In these small parties, all the amiable features of the Italian
nobility were brought to light—their freedom from affectation or
ostentatious pride, their perfect good-breeding, and absence of
invidious comparisons or vying with each other—points in which I fear
the society of a provincial town in England, notwithstanding our
boasted intellectual advantages, would be lamentably inferior. The
ladies dressed simply, but almost invariably in good taste; and, what
was much to their credit, they whose circumstances would have enabled
them to outshine the rest, never attempted any display; those, on the
other hand, who were known to have very limited resources, made no
struggles to appear rich, and had no feeble attempts at splendour, no
incongruous putting together of faded flowers and Roman pearls—which,
by the by, are carefully eschewed in the land of their nativity—or
tarnished feathers. A most graceful example of delicacy towards the
feelings of such as were in restricted circumstances was set by the
hostess, who, although belonging to one of the first and wealthiest
families of France, and possessing a wardrobe stocked with all the
novelties of Paris, always appeared in the same dress, without any
ornaments of value; and amiable as she was to all her guests, she yet
peculiarly devoted herself to those from whom she could receive no
attention or hospitality in return.

Amongst the most regular in coming every week, were a young couple
whose situation excited universal sympathy. The contessina was the
daughter of the last representative of a very old but impoverished
family, and was married to a native of Lombardy, but had been pursued
by a series of misfortunes, which ended in the ruin and exile of
her husband. Compelled to return with him to her own country in the
utmost poverty, she was everywhere treated with as much consideration
as if the wealth of Crœsus was at her disposal. No one looked down
upon her, though it was known she kept but one servant girl, and
always ironed her husband's shirts; and none of the ladies fancied it
derogatory to dance with the poor refugee who gave lessons in drawing
and mathematics, and was at his wits' end to provide a maintenance for
his young wife and child. Evidently their poverty was no crime and no
disgrace.

The style of these parties was perfectly simple and inexpensive.
There was no supper, no constant eating and drinking, no incessant
jingling of trays and glasses, or adjournment to the refreshment-room.
A tea-table, presided over by the hostess herself, or one of the
ladies present, formed the great centre of attraction: people gathered
in groups round it, not formally arranged, but some sitting, others
standing—_les petits jeunes gens_, the adolescent beaux, making
themselves useful, and handing the tea, in lieu of the attendance
of servants, which, as tending to formality, was as much as possible
dispensed with. This, with ices handed round once or twice later in
the evening, was considered ample for the refection of the company,
who were quite delighted with the _trattamento_, as they termed it,
and enjoyed their ices as children would do any particular treat. On
ordinary occasions, the fashion of the natives was followed in this
house; no refreshments at all being given but a little _eau sucrée_.

The amusements of the evening consisted of dancing, varied by one or
two vocal pieces from some of the persons present, who, accompanied on
the piano by a master, sang magnificently, as Italian amateurs always
do—since, unless especially gifted both as to ear and voice, they never
cultivate the art; and for this reason, though less pretty singing is
heard than in England, one escapes the infliction of much that is bad.
The dancing was much as it is everywhere else—quadrilles, waltzes,
polkas, and the cotillon, but carried on with unaffected spirit and
pleasure. The young men, I especially remarked, did not enjoy that
happy immunity from terpsichorean labours which, amongst us, they so
much covet; and if one of the _gioventù_ would fain have indulged in
a sentimental meditation on a sofa, instead of joining in the dance,
he was presently rebuked by two or three elderly gentlemen of the old
school, who, after inveighing against the degeneracy of the present
age, sent him humbled to seek a partner. A young Tuscan marchese, fresh
from Florence, where probably he had been perverted by intercourse
with British youths, was looked upon quite as a dangerous reprobate,
for declining to dance quadrilles on the plea that they were _troppo
papavero_—that is, too poppy-like, too narcotic for his taste.

This, however, was the only exception to the general characteristics
of good-humour and amiability which prevailed, and never flagged, till
the end of the cotillon intimated that it was time to think of breaking
up. When the night was fine, the most of the company walked; for the
distances were not great enough, and the streets too steep, to render
a carriage necessary or agreeable. Nobody ever seemed tired or cross;
and as all went away in detachments, the sound of their talking and
laughing could be heard at a considerable distance, and was the best
tribute that could be paid to the elegant simplicity and kindness of
their entertainers.

The only opportunity afforded me of seeing the society of Ancona
displayed in all its ceremony and state, was on the evening of
Shrove-Tuesday, the last day of Carnival, when one of the oldest and
richest noble families gave a grand supper, according to established
usage for many years. Then, indeed, all the pomp of by-gone times was
revived, and it was like a scene out of an old play to be met on the
stairs by servants in state liveries bearing huge waxen torches, and
ushered into the great hall, where stood the daïs or raised canopy,
denoting the former dignity of the house as feudal princes, with the
arms and quarterings emblazoned on hangings of scarlet velvet. From
thence one passed through successive rooms, all brilliantly lighted,
into the saloon, at the door of which the two younger sons of the
family, Don Carlo and Don Girolamo, in the absence of their eldest
brother, the Principe, and supported by several of the _amici di casa_,
with deep bows performed the first part of the duties of reception. At
the further end of this apartment was their mother, the Principessa,
in black velvet and diamonds, who, on hearing the names announced,
would, if the new-comer was a lady, advance a few steps to meet her
with a dignity that was peculiarly her own, and, taking her hand,
conducted her to the divan which ran round three sides of the room,
whereon a formidable row of silent figures, arrayed in brocaded silks
and jewels, were deposited. Then, with a prolonged courtesy, which was
in its turn acknowledged by a ceremoniousness of demeanour apparently
looked upon as appropriate to the occasion, the stately old lady would
return to her post. The men, on their entrance, advanced to where she
stood, and bowed profoundly, followed by a circular reverence, to the
fair automatons stationed around, after which they backed out of the
circle, and took their places in the ranks that filled the anteroom and
doorways.

It was amusing enough to watch for awhile, and to speculate whether
it was their fine clothes and their diamonds, or traditional ideas of
etiquette, which had benumbed the whole assemblage, who for the most
part were the same accustomed to meet on such friendly terms at the
simple parties already described; when a great sensation was excited on
the approach of the Cardinal ——, a near relation of the Principessa,
spending a few days in his native city, on his way to the legation to
which he was appointed. The sons, with the intimate friends, hastened
to the head of the stair-case, while the Principessa went as far as
the first drawing-room to receive him. When he entered the saloon, she
alone walked at his side; the rest, with two or three priests he had
brought in his train, his secretary, chaplain, and so forth, flocked
behind. All the ladies stood up at his coming, as if he had been a
royal personage, nor did they resume their seats until he was placed in
an arm-chair, beside which his cousin seated herself.

About ten o'clock, the doors opening into the supper-room were thrown
open; and as the Cardinal led the way, the ladies next, arm in arm,
the men following _en masse_, a really brilliant spectacle presented
itself. The room was large and lofty; the walls covered with crimson
brocade, as also the gilded high-backed chairs and sofas; chandeliers
hung from the richly-painted ceiling; other lights were reflected from
sconces at the sides, and three or four large tables glittered with
massive candelabra. The supper was not laid out as in England—not
even fruits and flowers appeared upon the tables, which were spread
as if for dinner, with a profusion of plate, valuable old china, and
exquisite damask linen.

When the guests were seated, the grey-headed servants brought in large
dishes of macaroni, dressed with gravy and spices, which were placed on
a sideboard, and served out—the young principi and the ever-faithful
friends themselves handing the plates, which the servants stood by in
readiness to change. Such an endless variety of dishes followed, all
brought in and distributed in the same manner, that many have escaped
my recollection: boiled fish, of a quality much prized; _galantines_
of turkey and tongue; _vol-au-vent_; vegetables in forms and variously
prepared; ornamented hams; turkeys stuffed with truffles; chickens _en
mayonnaise_; salads of lobster—in fact, everything that is usual at
suppers, and all in greater profusion, excepting sweets, of which there
was only one kind. Towards the close, various kinds of ice were brought
in, besides bonbons and cakes of different kinds; but no fruit, it not
being considered indispensable to have gigantic apples and pears or
hard pine-apples to grace a supper-table. Champagne, and every other
sort of wine usual on such occasions, were repeatedly handed round,
but, I remarked, scarcely tasted by the ladies; for, temperate as are
the men of Italy, the women surpass them, rarely being prevailed upon
to touch anything but their own country wine, mixed with water.

As soon as the repast commenced, the rigid gravity previously
maintained was gradually laid aside; a genial influence evidently
diffused itself over all. The good things so liberally provided were
really enjoyed, and thoroughly done justice to: many people had not
dined that day, on purpose to have a good appetite for the evening—they
said so with a simplicity that was very pleasant. There was not much
conversation, but a great deal of good-humour, and many pleasantries on
the part of the serving-gentlemen, who, in the pauses, stood about with
plates in their hands, eating, as happily as possible, their own share
of what they had assisted in dispensing. They all said Lent was coming
on too fast not to make the most of the present moment; and certainly
they were as good as their word. The Cardinal gave his acquiescence to
this opinion by a jovial laugh, and leaning back complacently in his
chair, stretched out his legs, resplendent in their scarlet stockings,
with an appearance of intense enjoyment.

As the hour drew on to twelve, an adjournment to the saloon was
proposed, when coffee was brought in, and soon afterwards the
_eminentissimo_ gave the signal for departure. The same formalities
were observed on his exit as attended his appearance, and he was
accompanied down the stairs to his carriage by his young relatives and
the other gentlemen who had received him, carrying silver candlesticks,
in addition to the servants, who bore flambeaux. After he had gone,
the guests rapidly dispersed, and went away cheerful and satisfied,
to commence on the morrow the abstinence which, in all conscientious
families, was rigidly practised during Lent.

On our way home, we passed many houses where suppers were still going
on; for the custom of thus celebrating the last night of Carnival
is universal; and, from the patrician banquet I have described,
down to the humblest artisan or shopkeeper, all endeavour to make
good cheer to the utmost of their power. It is considered seemly,
however, to separate early, in order not to invade the respect due
to Ash-Wednesday; so that the midnight chimes had not long ceased to
reverberate, when silence and darkness enveloped the whole town so
lately surrendered to feasting and enjoyment.




CHAPTER IX.

   Picturesque environs of Ancona—Dwellings of the peasantry—Their
     simplicity and trust—Manner of life and amusements—A wedding
     feast.


By way of an agreeable contrast to the patrician associations which
surrounded us, we used in our walks to take great interest in noticing
the peasantry or _contadini_ of the environs; and circumstances having
protracted my stay beyond what was originally intended, I was enabled,
when the lovely month of April invited us to longer excursions, to see
a good deal of their primitive mode of life. The town being small,
with scarcely any suburbs beyond the gates, a very few minutes were
sufficient to transport one from the dark, narrow streets to the
open country, rich in its cultivation and fertility, and beautiful in
its undulating hills, its towering cliffs, and broad expanse of sea.
Never have I known spring more lovely than amid these scenes: the glad
blue sky, the fair blossoms and budding foliage, the fields of young
corn gently waving in the breeze, the sweet scent of the violets with
which the roadside banks were thickly strewn; the sense of beauty, the
voiceless music, beneath whose spell each tiny leaf and blade of grass
seemed sparkling and harmonious; and, above all, the sea, the silvery
sea, so still, so majestic, so sublime—the whole rises to my memory in
all its fascination of sunshine, and colouring, and perfume.

No stranger approaching by the high road from Florence, which follows
the curve of the bay, with the promontory on which Ancona is built
stretching forth like a gigantic arm to impede his onward course, and
forming the boundary of the prospect, can have an idea of the nature
of the scenery which lies behind this barrier, and is perhaps unique in
its combination of all the softest features of a pastoral region, with
the lofty cliffs and sea-views of a grander landscape.

From the very gates, the land was laid out in small allotments or
_possessioni_, each of barely a few acres in extent, planted with
long rows of vines, intersected with patches of wheat, maize, and
vegetables, that were studded with apple, peach, almond, and other
fruit-trees. No barrier more formidable than a luxuriant hedge, a
perfect wilderness of May-flowers, honeysuckles, and dog-roses, divided
the _possessione_ from the road; the entrance was by a gate of very
simple construction, surmounted by an arch with an image of the Virgin.
Like Little Red Riding-hood, all one had to do was to pull up the
latch and walk forward—not into the jaws of a perfidious wolf, but
up a pretty avenue of mulberry-trees, with vines trained in festoons
along their branches. A rude well—so picturesque in its shape that it
never failed to bring to my mind the representations of Jacob's meeting
with Rachel—always stood in the foreground, while a little in the rear
appeared the cottage of the occupants of the farm; these dwellings
of stone, blackened by time, were comfortless and primitive in the
extreme, the windows unglazed, and the upper story accessible only by
an uncovered staircase outside.

Two or three ragged little children were always at hand to carry news
of a stranger's presence to their mother, who was perhaps tilling
the ground at some little distance: the good woman soon made her
appearance, barefooted, and carrying, admirably poised upon her head,
a large pitcher of water, with another of equal size supported on
her hip; in her other hand she bore the coarse broad-brimmed straw
hat which was in general her protection from the sun. Her costume
consisted of a petticoat of scarlet and blue-striped cotton, with a
bodice or stay of a different colour, from beneath which appeared the
white sleeves of the shift, reaching to the elbow, where they were
fastened in and terminated with a frill, much as is seen in engravings
of Raphael's Fornarina; around the throat and shoulders was a
handkerchief, so scrupulously adjusted as barely to disclose the coral
necklace, without which even the poorest contadina would think her
everyday attire incomplete. There was often much beauty in the face set
off by this picturesque equipment, for, however worn and sunburnt it
might be, it could usually boast of jet-black tresses, dark vivacious
eyes, well-cut features, and the whitest possible teeth. The welcome,
too, was pleasing—no constraint, no bashfulness, but a straightforward,
hospitable simplicity that won its way immediately to the heart. We
were perfectly at liberty to come in and look about us, ask questions,
and rest ourselves, and were secure of giving unbounded delight if,
on coming away, we purchased fruit or eggs to the value of a few
_baiocchi_.

After one or two visits of this nature, we were quite on a footing
of intimacy, and the mother and children would seat themselves round
us, to indulge in a little conversation. If we chanced to come on a
_festa_, or when the daily toil was over, the circle would be increased
by the father and his grown-up sons, who, in their rough but not
unmusical peasant dialect, plied me with inquiries about the country I
came from, and its peculiarities, such as whether we had a moon there,
and what the people ate. In a fashion they had all heard of England,
as a wonderfully rich and large _city_; but its inhabitants being
heathens, was what had principally impressed itself upon their minds,
and awakened their regrets. In all that regarded themselves, they were
very communicative; and in one possessione especially, where the bond
of union was cemented by their having supplied my uncle's household
with milk for several years, they used to tell us of all their domestic
concerns, from the courtship of Celestino, the eldest son, who was
_promesso_ to a neighbouring contadina, to the pearl earrings and
necklace which Orsolina, a pretty laughing damsel, the only daughter
of the family, had just received as a troth-plight from her affianced
swain. I remember, as an instance of their perfect trust in us, that,
after having displayed these valuables with a great deal of pride,
the girl put the little pasteboard box containing them into my cousin
Lucy's hand, and proposed she should take them home to show her sister,
_l'altra signorina_, whom a trifling indisposition had confined to the
house.

The frugality with which these peasants live is surprising,
particularly when one sees what a fine, hard-working race they really
are. Their food consists in great measure of bread, made of equal
proportions of ground beans and the flour of Indian corn, of which,
every morning, all the members of the family are furnished with a
supply before setting out on their different avocations. At noon,
they assemble for dinner, which is of _polenta_—Indian corn-meal
stirred into boiling water till it becomes about the consistency of
thick oatmeal porridge; it is then poured out on wooden platters, and
eaten with no other condiment than salt. Bread and a moderate draught
of wine—or, in summer, occasionally vinegar and water—complete the
repast. In the evening, they sup on bread and salad, or an onion, or
fennel-root, or raw beans. Meat they never taste, except on Sundays
or the great _feste_; and then it is in so small a quantity, and so
boiled down by having been made into soup, that it cannot convey much
nourishment. Singularly enough, they have a prejudice against milk; and
when a cow is kept for the purpose of supplying the consumption of the
town, they make no use of it themselves: in those cases where any is
left upon their hands, it is always given to the pig.

In summer, when the labours of the day are at an end, they assemble on
the threshing-floor adjacent to the house, and dance to the music of a
tambourine, which is played successively by the different members of
the family; even children of six or seven years old often take their
turn, and beat the rural instrument with great spirit and precision.
Their national dance, called the _saltarello_, does not exhibit much
variety of figure: the two performers stand facing each other, the
woman holding her dress spread out, her partner with his hands in
an easy attitude on his hips: thus prepared, they set off, advancing
and retreating, doubling and pursuing, circling round and round each
other, in a quick hopping sort of step, always keeping admirable time,
and accompanying the music by a sort of hissing sound, which appears
to have an exhilarating influence. As soon as one couple pause to
take breath, another is ready to step forward; while the interest of
the spectators and the animation of the dancers never seem to flag:
sometimes the old people, the elders of the group, become so excited,
that they start up, push aside the younger ones, and foot it away with
a nimbleness and dexterity which call down general applause.

Their households are generally large, for, as the sons grow up, they
invariably marry, always in succession, according to their birthright,
and bring their wives home to the paternal roof, unless one has a
religious vocation and becomes a priest, or a lay-brother in some
order of friars. As soon, however, as they become too numerous, the
_padrone_, the owner of the land, steps in to say he will not have so
many useless mouths upon his property; so then one at least of the
junior branches is obliged to look out for another possessione to
cultivate.

The terms on which they hold these farms, and the system pursued
between landlord and tenant, are very different from English usages.
No rent is paid, but the produce is equally shared; the proprietor
receives his half of everything in kind—so many measures of corn, so
many jars of oil, and barrels of wine; nay, even to the vegetables and
poultry daily brought into the market for sale, there is understood to
be an exact division. It is looking after these petty details of their
property, and regulating their multifarious accounts, which forms the
occupation of the industrious nobles. Among the wealthiest of these
proprietors, some own as many as 50, 60, or even 100 possessioni,
varying in size and value from £30 or upwards yearly income to the
possessor, down to those that do not yield him more than £12 or £14
clear profit; which last, however incredible it may seem, give support
to a family of five or six in number on the premises. Of course,
it cannot be supposed that the shares are very equitably divided;
indeed, it is always considered that the fruit and vegetables daily
consumed by the peasants are exclusive of this arrangement; but then,
to counterbalance this, the padrone also has his perquisites, in
a stipulated number of fat capons at Christmas, eggs and a lamb at
Easter, and the choicest of the grapes, apples, pears, pomegranates,
quinces, &c., to be stored for winter use.

On the whole, a great deal of harmony between the two classes seems
to prevail; the landlord is always consulted as to the marriage of
any of the contadino's family, and is expected to grace their wedding
and christening festivities with his presence, and to stand godfather
to the first child. In the times when it was customary even amongst
persons of the highest rank to send their children out into the country
to be nursed, a peasant woman from one of the possessioni was selected
for the office of _baglia_, and the infant _marchese_ or _principe_,
as the case might be, duly swaddled and sparingly washed, passed
the first year or two of his existence in perfect equality with his
foster-parents and their children. Even now, when this practice among
the nobility is obsolete, except in the case of some stony-hearted
and prejudiced old _suocera_, similar to the one I have already given
an account of, the wet-nurse is always chosen from among the family's
rustic dependents; and, if careful and devoted to her charge, is so
kindly and liberally treated during her stay at the _palazzo_, that
a mutual feeling of affection and gratitude is invariably the result,
manifesting itself throughout life by protection and assistance on the
one hand, and little freewill-offerings upon the other.

The observances of the peasants in regard to their weddings and
courtships are very curious, and date from time immemorial; indeed,
neither in their mode of dress nor form of speech do they appear to be
sensibly affected by the fashions of the day; and I have been told by
good authorities, that in many respects they are as their forefathers
were 300 years ago. After a young man has signified to a girl's parents
his wish to marry her, and has satisfied them as to his circumstances,
present or prospective, he is allowed to visit at the possessione
on Sundays and holidays, though under considerable restrictions. The
young people are not allowed to go together to fairs or merry-makings,
or even to talk alone, except when separated by a hedge or paling;
and here even their attitudes are prescribed by rigid custom. The
_promesso_ is not to look too earnest or taken up; while the girl is
enjoined to keep her eyes cast down, and to busy herself in plaiting
the strings of her apron into numberless small folds, of which they of
course retain the impression; and to be able to display these evidences
of having an admirer, whenever the rustic belles meet at church, is
quite a point of rivalry amongst them.

In conformity with the system prevailing through all classes in Italy,
the peasant-bride is expected to be furnished with a _trousseau_, and
even in this humble sphere it is surprising what an amount of linen
and clothes is considered indispensable. She would be thought poor
indeed who could not number every useful article of wearing apparel
by a dozen of each kind, besides providing a chest of drawers, sheets,
mattresses, and pillows. The dresses are fewer in number—not exceeding
perhaps the wedding-gown, which amongst the more affluent peasantry
is silk, and a couple of cotton ones, reserved for _feste_—the usual
costume being the corset, with a coloured petticoat. To accumulate this
stock is the object of a contadina's life, almost from the time she
can first speak or run alone, and every nerve has been strained towards
its attainment; either in working in the possessione and carrying the
produce to market, or as a washerwoman, or rustic sempstress, or in
weaving cloth, the most patient self-denial and unremitting industry
are displayed, and kept up for a long series of years. Comparatively
with the population of the towns, the peasantry marry late, the _sposa_
being often four or five and twenty before the _corredo_ is completed
on her side, or the bridegroom has saved enough to furnish the earrings
and necklace of real, though of course small and irregular pearls, he
is expected to present.

The day before the wedding, all the bride's friends and companions
assemble, and carry her property with great pomp to the dwelling of
her future husband's parents, with whom the young people are to take
up their abode. The more things displayed, the greater the envy and
congratulation. To enhance the effect, they form a sort of procession,
every one bearing on her head some portion of the paraphernalia; each
drawer is carried separate from the chest, the contents having been
carefully arranged, and submitted to public inspection; then comes a
damsel with the pillows; then another with a small looking-glass, and
so forth; all talking and shrieking with delight, while a donkey laden
with the mattress soberly brings up the rear.

The next morning, they all repair in their best clothes at an early
hour to the sposa's house, and assist at the important business of her
toilet. Her costume consists of the long-coveted silk dress, which is
sometimes the gift of the padrone, the favourite colour being lilac.
It has been made in town, and is very tight in the waist, evidently
uncomfortable to the bride, who is furthermore inconvenienced by the
unwonted restraints of shoes, open-worked stockings, and white cotton
gloves. The head-gear is a white kerchief, or square veil, lightly
placed upon the elaborately-plaited tresses, and the ends falling
loosely upon the shoulders, which are, as usual, so studiously covered
as to afford but a glimpse of the comely rounded throat, whose dark,
clear skin sets off the rows of pearls by which it is encircled. At the
church they are met by the bridegroom, with his friends and relatives;
and after the religious ceremony and nuptial benediction, the whole
party adjourn to the bride's new residence, where the wedding-feast
is held. In some districts, however, where their quaint old usages
are still strictly adhered to, they separate at the conclusion of
the service, which is performed on a Thursday; and the sposa returns
to the house of her parents, doffs her gay apparel, and resumes her
wonted occupations. For the two following days, nothing is seen of the
bridegroom; but on the Sunday morning the same joyous preparations as
for the marriage-ceremony are renewed, and the same glad trains set
forth, and meet at the village church, whence, after hearing mass, they
all repair, arm in arm, the sposo leading the way to the possessione of
his parents, where a great dinner celebrates the event.

The bill of fare on these occasions is more substantial than elegant;
as if to indemnify themselves for so seldom partaking of animal food,
their wedding-tables are furnished with little else. The repast begins
with macaroni, dressed with coarse cheese, gravy, and spices; after
which there come quantities of meat, boiled, stewed, and roasted;
pigeons and fowls, all with most incongruous sauces of eggs and garlic,
vinegar and sugar; upon the composition of which two or three cooks,
friends of the family, who have condescendingly volunteered their
services for the occasion, have been displaying their abilities.
Sweet dishes they do not seem to care for, excepting sometimes _Zuppa
Inglese_—sponge-cake, soaked in rum, and covered with custard, so
named in compliment to our national taste for ardent spirits, supposed
indispensable to a Briton's daily refection. The padrone is seated
at the right hand of the sposa, and enters very unaffectedly into the
jokes and hilarity of the company; sometimes, under the influence of
excitement, one of the party breaks forth into an _improvisazione_,
and chants a rude epithalamium in honour of the newly-wedded pair. The
native wine circulates freely, and healths are drunk, and showers of
sugar-plums discharged at the bride, amidst roars of laughter. These
_confetti_, which are villanous compounds of almonds and plaster of
Paris, hold the same place at weddings in Southern Italy that bridecake
does in England; and are distributed as presents amongst the friends
and relations of the families.




CHAPTER X.

   A rural christening—The young count.


Rural christenings, particularly that of the first child, are
celebrated much in the same manner. We received an invitation to one
in the spring, at the house of some peasants, who were not personal
friends, but who asked us out of compliment to a Polish lady, a
patroness of theirs, who was to stand god-mother, and with whom we were
very intimate. As the ceremony always takes place the day following
the birth of the child, we were apprized of the event as soon as it
occurred, and requested to hold ourselves in readiness at an early hour
the following morning. We set out, a merry party—our friend and her
two daughters, my cousins and myself, besides the two ladies-maids of
the establishments, friends or connections of our host's, wild with
delight, yet never throughout the day transgressing the bounds of
the strictest respect towards us. Outside the gates of the town, we
found the contadino, all smiles and importance, with his _biroccio_—a
primitive cart, rudely painted with heads of saints, wreathed with
flaming red and yellow roses, and drawn by two white oxen—waiting to
convey us to the scene of festivity. Here we also met the Conte M——,
the young owner of the possessione, a perfect stranger to all of us,
but who was to be associated in the sponsorial duties with Madame V——,
or _la Consolessa_—as she was generally termed, in allusion to the
official rank of her husband, who was consul for one of the northern
Powers. The introduction was soon effected by his tenant, in compliment
to whom all superfluous etiquette seemed laid aside, and the count
gallantly placed at our disposal his equipage—a very high, antiquated
barouche, with a step like a ladder; to this vehicle was harnessed a
cow, the hills we had to ascend being considered too steep for horses;
and in it our friend, one of her daughters, myself, and the padrone
were accommodated; while the rest of the party took their seats on
two rough benches in the cart, which, by way of awning, had a sheet
supported on four canes.

Our road lay through a lovely country, alternating from hill to vale,
and at every ascent beautiful glimpses of sea varying the prospect.
As we toiled slowly along, the contadino chiefly left his biroccio to
the care of a little boy, and walking beside the carriage, devoted his
attention to his landlord. Their conversation was very animated, and
turned upon the state of the country, their prospects for the harvest,
the hardship of being deprived of fire-arms by the Austrian general
(the Pontifical States were then, as now, under martial law), the
consequent boldness of the robbers who infested the neighbourhood, and
their inability to resist them; besides many other matters connected
with their mutual interests. In about two hours' time, we arrived at
the place of our destination, and the assembled friends came out to the
gate to welcome us: there were all the nearest of kin on both sides,
the fathers, the mothers, the brothers and sisters, besides others more
remotely connected, and affording in their contrasts of old age and
childhood, decrepitude and vigour, an admirable study of grouping and
physiognomy.

The first stage of proceedings was to conduct us to the house,
which was as rude and comfortless as most of its description, the
ground-floor being shared between the silkworms and cows, and the upper
story, inhabited by the family, being attainable only by a steep outer
staircase. At the threshold we found some more venerable dames, by whom
we were ushered—the padrone amongst the rest—to pay our respects to
the young mother, who lay smiling in her bed, the tiny stranger by her
side, all swathed and swaddled, and her gossips talking and chattering
around her, or bustling to and from the kitchen, which adjoined her
room, in utter violation of every orthodox rule of quiet and good
nursing. From thence, as soon as we were considered sufficiently
rested, we were marshalled for the christening—a little girl of twelve
years old, the contadino's sister, carrying the baby, and the rest all
following in order. It was then, as we went along, that the terrible
fact of our being heretics began to transpire, and I was amused at the
pitying interest with which we were surveyed: on entering the village
church, in particular, when it was remarked we took no holy water, nor
crossed ourselves, we overheard one old woman whisper to her cronies,
“_Peccato, non sono Cristiane!_” and the little children, clinging to
their grandams' skirts, peered at us inquisitively with their glorious
black eyes gleaming through the tangled golden hair which hung about
them like a mane.

The church was built in the shape of a Latin cross, with no pretensions
to architectural merit or high antiquity; the walls whitewashed, and
with no ornaments beyond the crucifixes, candlesticks, and vases of
artificial flowers upon the principal altar at the upper end, and in
the two small chapels or recesses at either side, in which also mass
could be celebrated. Two confessionals, a few benches, and a number of
rush-bottomed chairs piled in a corner, completed the fittings-up, if
we except three large pictures, of which one was suspended over each
altar; they were in oils, evidently originals, and of no modern date,
though from a very inferior hand—some unpromising follower, perhaps, of
the Caracci or Domenichino; for it is from the school of Bologna that
the paintings found in the environs of Ancona seem principally to have
been supplied. The subjects were the Crucifixion, the Assumption of the
Virgin, and the Virgin as a child tending some lilies, which grew up
miraculously beneath her touch. In the same chapel as this last, and
immediately beneath it, so placed that the frame, which was surmounted
with a wreath of flowers, should incline considerably forward, was
a very small discoloured head of the Madonna, as Mater Dolorosa, her
hands clasped, holding a heart, from whence seemed to proceed flames
of fire. A lamp was burning before this, and a number of votive hearts
and crosses were fastened around; these, one of the old men, while we
were waiting for the _curato_, informed me were all offerings which
had been made in return for miracles that Madonna had performed. He had
known of pilgrimages made here which were almost as efficacious as to
the shrine of Loretto. He looked wistfully at me as he said this, and
slipping away soon after, I saw him kneeling before the picture with
an expression of such unmistakable fervour in his upturned face, that
I felt persuaded he was praying heart and soul for our rescue from
perdition.

As soon as the priest, who had been detained some little time in the
sacristy, made his appearance, the ceremony was performed, and then
the baby was handed round to receive the greetings of its sponsors
and ourselves, on which occasion, be it said, a convenient opportunity
was afforded for slipping a slight donation amongst the swathes with
which the hapless infant was encumbered; after which all the relations
pressed forward, and men as well as women kissed the little _creatura_,
as they termed it, with great affection, and carried it back in triumph
to the mother, who forthwith hung a bag of relics round its neck.

I should be guilty of insincerity if I concealed that the two hours
which intervened between the banquet were somewhat wearying. It was
too hot to walk out, nor was there any shade in the possessione; we had
exhausted our little topics of conversation with our hostess, who was,
besides, much occupied with her son; and no resource appeared but to
sit in the apartment where the cloth was being laid with indescribable
clatter both of plates and tongues—a very small room on the other side
of the kitchen, furnished with a table and benches, from which the bed
had been removed for the occasion—or walk into the kitchen itself, and
contemplate the preparations for dinner.

Our party had been increased by the young _curato_, the son of a
neighbouring contadino, who seemed rather agitated at the presence of
so many ladies, and apparently looked for countenance and protection
to the count, who having but recently returned from completing his
education at an ecclesiastical seminary, had not yet learned to
manifest that utter contempt for the priestly office which the youth
of Italy generally display. Madame V——, who had a great respect for
all spiritual authority, also hastened to the rescue, and engaged the
poor priest in a conversation about his parishioners and the state of
his church, on which he talked very fluently; but unfortunately, on her
proceeding to tell him of various missions to Madagascar and China,
in which she took great interest, he showed himself so completely at
fault, apparently considering she alluded to some towns in the Turkish
dominions, that she hastened to change the subject, to prevent our
discovering any further deficiencies.

Meantime the count, who, by the by, was not a very brilliant specimen
of the Anconitan gioventù, acquitted himself of his arduous duties
with tolerable ease, notwithstanding that the trammels of his education
still hung about him, and he looked rather too demure and artificial;
above all, he was dazzled by the spectacle of four or five girls, who
laughed, talked, ventured to express an opinion, and did not keep their
eyes immovably cast down. He certainly did not get on so well with us
as with his tenant; we had very few subjects of interest in common;
his family was one of the most strict and old-fashioned in Ancona,
and his mother and sisters were rarely seen in society, or even beyond
their own walls. We remarked to him that we never met them out, and he
said that his mother disliked walking, and did not approve of trusting
her daughters with any one but herself; so they only went to mass on
Sundays and _feste_; and then in the afternoon, by way of taking the
air, as well as for recreation, they repaired to a terrace on the roof
of their house, from whence they enjoyed a distant view of the public
gardens outside the Porta Pia, with all their promenaders, and the
Corso delle Carrozze. Remembering the scanty rows of trees and patches
of brambles dignified by this appellation, as well as the half-dozen
antediluvian equipages therein displayed, it was scarcely possible
to refrain from smiling; but as he spoke in perfect seriousness,
I was compelled to check all tendency to mirth, and prosecute my
inquiries. Why did not he, then, sometimes escort his sisters? He
looked astonished, and replied, that his mother did not think this
proper—other young men, his friends, might join them—in fact, it was
not according to their ideas. This was a trait of manners so unique
as to surprise even my cousins, accustomed as they were to the code
of Ancona propriety; but they listened with provoking equanimity, and
seemed more diverted at my amazement than at anything else. “These
poor people understand nothing of domestic life, or the happiness of
domestic intercourse,” whispered Lucy, pityingly; “brothers and sisters
are very different here from what they are in England.”

The two lively Polish girls, however, came to my assistance, though
under certain reservations. “Ah, _par exemple_,” cried Natalie V——,
who, with her sister, had not long returned from completing her
education at a convent in France, “that is extraordinary! I remember at
Les Oiseaux, that several of the girls had brothers, who were allowed
to see them in the _parloir_ alone; and I know, when they returned
home, they used to walk out with them sometimes. _Pour aller dans le
monde_, certainly not; but if our brother was here instead of in the
Caucasus, poor fellow, you should see, Monsieur le Comte, that Olga and
I would outrage _les convenances_ a little!”

The youth thus apostrophized smiled dubiously, and attempted to
express that had he such charming sisters to accompany, he should be
glad to enjoy the privileges of other countries; but being a novice
in such matters, he broke down suddenly, and again fell a prey to my
inquisitorial propensities. Was he fond of reading, and did he ever
read aloud in the evening to his sisters while they worked? At this he
fairly laughed, and said that _libri di devozione_ were all very well
while one was in the seminary, but he had had enough of them there, and
knew the _Vita de' Santi_ by heart, and therefore always kept out of
the way when any _lettura_ was going on.

“Then they are never allowed to read stories, or history, or—or
romances?” I proffered the latter suggestion very hesitatingly, it must
be owned.

“Oh, no—of course not: his mother said girls must attend to the affairs
of the house and to their religion; but as to books of entertainment,
or travels, or anything of the sort, the less they read of them the
better, as their heads would inevitably be turned, and they would be
wanting to rove about the world, or be thinking about marriages of
affection and lovers”—and at this last word he blushed.

Thus foiled at every effort, the conversation had almost come to a
stand-still, when the noise, the stamping of feet, the clanging of
_casseroles_, and hissing of frying-pans, reached their climax, a huge
dish of macaroni was brought in, and we were told to _restar serviti_.
No entreaties could induce any of our hospitable entertainers to seat
themselves at table—they all insisted upon serving us; and between the
intervals of carrying in the dishes and changing our plates, repaired
to the kitchen, where our handmaids were also regaled, and made merry
with right good-will. An amusing incident occurred just before we took
our places, when Madame V—— and all of us stood up, and she motioned
to the young curato to say grace: he grew very red, began in Latin,
then stopped abruptly, and whispered to the count imploringly, “I have
forgotten it: what am I to say?”

“_Via, Via_,” was the rejoinder: “say anything, say a _benedicite_;”
which being hastily gone over, the poor priest, in much confusion,
explained that he really did not remember any formula, being accustomed
only to make the sign of the cross and say a paternoster.

The repast so closely resembled what I have described as usual at
the marriage-feast, that any recapitulation would be tedious; neither
vegetables nor fruit appeared, for they would have been considered too
like every-day fare to do fitting honour to the occasion. As usual in
such cases, one had to choose the alternative of eating and drinking to
excess, or mortifying the good folks, whose hearts were set upon seeing
us do justice to their good cheer. Wine, both red and white, abounded;
and the young padrone took as much interest in its merits as the
contadino himself, recommending the different qualities, and telling us
of the various ways of preparing them. To the guests in the kitchen it
was just as liberally dispensed, but no instance occurred of its abuse;
there was not even any approach to uproarious hilarity.

No quarrel or dispute impaired the harmony of the day; all the
best features of the peasants' character had been displayed—their
hospitality, their courtesy, their simple piety; and as we wended
homeward, walking through lanes and vineyards a portion of the way to
the foot of a declivity, where the biroccio and carriage awaited us, we
were enthusiastic in our praises. As a landed proprietor, the count was
naturally pleased at these encomiums on his tenantry; but he somewhat
damped our ardour by assuring us that we must look upon the contadini
we had just quitted not as specimens of the whole race, but exceptions.
“Through all the Pope's States,” he said, “the country people round
Ancona are remarked as being generally good and well-conducted; but
if you go only a short distance into the interior, a great difference
is perceptible; and beginning at Loretto, which is only twenty miles
from here, they are all noted for their implacability and revenge.”
And then, by way of illustration, he related some startling stories of
treachery and murder, with as much coolness as if they were everyday,
straightforward occurrences. These narratives brought us to our
equipages, in which we placed ourselves in the same order as when we
came, but without much attempt at conversation; the young count, or
hero of the day, as we had named him, fell into a reverie, which we
attributed to fatigue, and Madame V——, in her excellent motherly way,
recommended him to retire early, and take a _lait de poule_. But two
days afterwards furnished an elucidation of this mystery, in a visit to
the _Consolessa_ from the priest of her parish, who had been requested
by Count M—— to inquire if her daughter Mademoiselle Natalie's hand was
at liberty, and the amount of her dowry. The first of these questions,
however, not being answered in a manner favourable to his wishes, there
was no necessity for entering into a specific reply to the second.

Disappointed, but not dismayed, the trusty envoy presented himself,
very shortly after, to my uncle, with similar interrogatories relative
to the _cugina forestiera_, to which the proviso of a change of
religion was subjoined. It is needless to give the tenor of his
answer, or to add, that this adventure often furnished us with many
amusing recollections, and was a magnificent termination to our
christening-party.




CHAPTER XI.

   Lent observances—Compulsory confession—The sepulchres on Holy
     Thursday—Procession on Good Friday—Blessing the houses—Joyful
     celebration of Easter.


In my last chapter, I find I stepped somewhat abruptly from winter to
spring, and talked of merry-makings in the country, while in the one
immediately preceding it I left the good townspeople of Ancona enjoying
their last night of Carnival, with the dreary prospect of a supperless,
theatreless Lent before them. The amusements of the so-called gay
season had not been sufficiently numerous to render the transition
very remarkable to a superficial observer, yet in many little ways
the regulations peculiar to this period were felt as a thorn in the
flesh, and conveyed with them some mortification to those by whom they
were conscientiously carried out. For instance, their dietetic rules
were rather peculiar: it was not allowed to make more than one full
meal a day, to eat any supper at night, or to take milk above once
in the twenty-four hours; on Friday and Saturday of every week, milk
was wholly forbidden; besides a number of similar enactments, which
depended on the bishop of the diocese, who every Lent issued a fresh
table of regulations, modified according to his ideas, or to the actual
condition of the country.

In some of the churches, friars or Jesuit fathers, specially summoned
for the purpose, delivered a course of sermons, inveighing against
the prevailing irreligion and unbelief. But if the preacher's talents
were only of an average description, his audience was limited to a
few ladies and old women: when, on the contrary, he happened to be
distinguished by a flowery and popular style of eloquence, all classes
would flock to hear him, numbers of young men amongst the rest,
who came in and out, lounged against the columns, talked together
in the pauses, stared at their acquaintances, carried on a little
flirtation—in fact, conducted themselves much as if they were in the
pit of a theatre. In the same way any great _funzione_, where good
music and singing were sure to be heard, never failed to attract the
gioventù in crowds to the church in which it was celebrated; while the
stimulus of a higher motive than mere curiosity, or the employment
of an idle hour, never appeared to be felt or even dreamed of. This
total absence of religion, or rather of all religious belief, is
spreading fast, and, no longer confined to young men of fashion as
their exclusive prerogative, is descending to the lower classes of the
community, who, discontented and repining, and debarred from all means
of enlightenment, look upon the blended temporal and spiritual system
of their Government with the same hostility and mistrust.

Towards the close of the Holy Week however the whole population becomes
compulsorily devout. The parochial clergy go round to every house in
their jurisdiction, taking down the names and ages of the inhabitants,
and delivering to all a ticket filled up with their name, requiring
them to repair, within a given period, to the parish church, for
confession and communion. Any freewill-offering, any spontaneous act
of grace in these religious duties, is thus lost; and with the young
men especially, _prender Pasqua_, as it is termed, becomes a most
irksome task, which they endeavour to shuffle over, or resort to every
expedient and deception to evade altogether. The Government however
has always been very strict in enforcing this ordinance, with the
_political_ view of maintaining its fast-waning influence through the
confessional, going even the length of refusing pontifical subjects
their passports, if they require to travel, when it can be proved that
they have neglected their Easter duties—an odious abuse of authority,
tending to bring religion into contempt.

I remember hearing of the astonishment and indignation of some members
of the V—— family, the first year they passed in Ancona, when the
priest, having taken the statistics of the household, and ascertained
that they professed the Roman Catholic faith, handed to each of them
in succession a printed ticket requiring them to conform to this law.
In France, they declared, they had never heard of such a measure; and
they could not, even before us, forbear from expressing their disgust.
It required all their mother's persuasions, and the example of her
unquestioning submission to whatever emanated from priestly authority,
to stifle the murmurs of the young ladies and enforce their obedience.

On Holy Thursday, after mid-day, an unwonted silence seemed to fall
upon the town, unbroken till the same hour on Saturday. No bells were
tolled, no matins or vespers rung, no mass celebrated in the churches;
while the streets were filled with people hastening to the _sepolcri_,
or sepulchres, of which seven must be visited by the faithful. Each
church has its _sepolcro_, varying in the details, but agreeing as
to the general characteristics of the representation. The high-altar
is divested of its usual ornaments, in token of mourning; and on the
platform immediately before it, surrounded by all the emblems of the
Passion, is a figure in wax, of life-size, of the Saviour, as if just
removed from the cross. All around and on the steps leading up are
a profusion of natural flowers and tapers; and sentinels with arms
reversed are stationed at intervals to keep back the crowd.

In some churches more figures are introduced—such as Joseph of
Arimathea, the Beloved Apostle, the three Maries; others have a greater
display of flowers and wax-lights, but the pervading effect in all is
invariably the same. The complete stillness; the ceaseless, noiseless
swaying of the crowd, as those who occupy the foremost places,
after a few minutes' admiring inspection and a few muttered prayers,
quietly give room in their turn to fresh comers; the indiscriminate
blending of rich and poor, as the lady in her silken robes kneels on
the pavement beside the tattered beggar; the motionless forms of the
Austrian soldiers in all the glittering panoply of war, surrounding the
marred and blood-stained effigy of the Prince of Peace; the saturnine,
matter-of-fact faces of the attendant priests and sacristans, who hover
about, re-lighting any taper that is accidentally extinguished, or
adjusting any of the arrangements that may be displaced; the air heavy
with the scent of flowers mingling with the exhalations of the vaults
beneath, where moulder the remains of those who in their day have gazed
upon this spectacle, for centuries repeated, for centuries unchanged:
all this has struck each stranger in his turn, and is but a feeble
transcript of the varied impressions it produces.

On Good Friday there is always a procession through the principal
streets of the town, which, without any of the devotional accessories
of the sepolcri—the time-worn churches, the subdued light, the hushed
voices—cannot fail painfully to impress the English spectator who has
not been inured to sights of this description.

By the people it was eagerly looked forward to as a pleasant variety
in the monotony of their lives, an opportunity of sauntering about,
of looking out of the windows, of nodding to their acquaintances,
and furthering some flirtation or intrigue. Any idea of investing the
pageant with a religious significance seemed foreign to the minds of
the great majority of the assembled throng.

When the muffled drums were heard announcing that the procession was
approaching, and a detachment of troops began to line the street under
our windows, I remarked a thrill of excitement, but certainly not
of awe, as every head was impatiently turned in the direction from
whence the torches and banners of the confraternity of _Passionisti_
first came in view. Men of all classes belonged to this _campagnia_,
all similarly dressed in loose robes and cowls of grey linen, which
concealed the features, a crown of thorns round the head, and a girdle
of knotted cords; the difference of rank being discernible only by the
whiter feet of some amongst them, and the evident pain with which they
trod the sharp, uneven pavement. I must however pause to observe here,
that a bent head and hoary hair would be the general accompaniments
to these marks of gentle birth, were the drapery in which they are
enshrouded to be suddenly thrown aside.

Next came friars and priests, all walking according to established
rule and precedence—Capuchins, Franciscans, Carmelites, Dominicans,
Augustinians, carrying lighted tapers and chanting litanies. Following
these were more Capuchins, to whom was especially delegated the office
of carrying all the objects belonging to the Crucifixion; and thus they
passed on, white-bearded, tottering old men, bearing successively an
emblem of this day's great sacrifice, profaned by being paraded, like
some mummery of old, before the idle crowd, who gazed, and sneered, and
talked, indifferent to the awful event thus commemorated. The crown of
thorns, the purple robe, the scourge, the nails, the dice with which
the soldiers had cast lots, the spear, were all carried slowly along;
the sacred form itself, in the utter prostration of death, stretched
upon a bier, coming next in view. A few knelt here, not one in twenty
though; the rest all listless, unthinking, or unbelieving.

Some paces behind, upon a sort of platform, appeared a huge image of
the Madonna, considerably above the size of life, dressed in violet
robes, with long brown ringlets, and pierced through with seven
daggers—all the spiritualized beauty with which the “blessed among
women” should be invested, lost in the vulgarity of this most material
representation. This, with the dignitaries and magistrates of the
town walking two and two, closed the procession; after which marched
more soldiers, those who had been stationed along the streets falling
into the ranks, and the band performing a funeral-march—the same the
Austrians always play after the interment of any of their comrades.

I have not exaggerated this description. To some enthusiastic poetic
minds, to whom such things seem beautiful in the abstract, I know my
account will prove distasteful. But thus it always is: a close insight
into the countries where these time-honoured traditional ceremonies are
still maintained, strips them of the mysterious charm with which, to a
foreigner, they might seem to be invested, and accounts for the levity
with which they are witnessed by those familiarized to them since their
earliest childhood.

As another instance: there was the custom of blessing the houses on
Easter Saturday, which I had heard of long before visiting Italy, and
imagined must prove equally edifying and impressive. But when I saw a
very dirty priest in his _alb_—I think that is the name—a sort of linen
ephod worn over the black gown, attended by a still more dirty little
boy carrying holy-water, walking hastily through the house, muttering
a few unintelligible words on the threshold of each room, only pausing
a little longer in the kitchen to crack a few jokes with the servants,
without the least semblance of devotion on his side or of reverence on
theirs—and gratefully accepting a few _pauls_ sent out to him by the
family—why, I fell from the clouds, and my cherished illusions were
dispelled. It seemed almost as hollow as blessing the horses on the
17th of January, the festival of St. Anthony, the patron of animals,
which had previously greatly astonished me.

All the post and _vetturino_ horses, all those belonging to private
families, were taken on that day, gaily decked out with ribbons, to
a square in front of one of the principal churches, where priests,
standing on the steps of the portico, sprinkled them with holy-water,
and pronounced a formula of benediction. A small gratuity was given
for each horse, and in return the donors were presented with a little
wax-taper and a small loaf of bread, by which the grooms, rather than
the poor quadrupeds, were the gainers. There was a favourite cat in my
uncle's establishment—a cat of great size and beauty, and of doglike
sagacity—which the servants were in vain desirous he would send to
be blessed, though prompted by no other motive than the pleasure
of dressing it up, and of joining in the crowd of idlers before the
church.

Generally however it would appear as if some vague idea of averting
ill-luck, of deprecating some sinister influence, must linger in the
hearts of the coachmen and postilions who still adhere to this custom,
which is practised by the priests—so Young Italy will tell you—solely
to maintain their hold upon the superstitious fears of the lowest ranks
of the populace.

But stay—I am wandering from my more immediate subject, although all
the church-bells let loose, and ringing their merry peals, proclaim
it is noon on Holy Saturday, and that Lent is over! There is something
very heart-stirring in this rejoicing: I wish we had the same custom in
England to usher in the triumphant glories of the Easter morn. Why it
should be anticipated here by twelve hours, and the bells give forth
their jubilee, and salvos of artillery be fired at mid-day, instead
of midnight, I do not exactly know: I think I have somewhere read an
explanation of this usage, of which I retain no clear remembrance, save
that it is of very remote antiquity. Be this as it may, a few hours
sooner or later are of little import; it is the pleasing impression
on which I dwell, and it is one of the customs that, even with my hard
matter-of-fact notions about the “good old times,” I should gladly see
revived amongst us.

On Easter Sunday, every one who has scraped the wherewith together,
puts on new clothes, and dines on roast lamb; baskets of stained eggs
are sent about as presents, and children feast on cakes embellished
with the figure of the Paschal Lamb. In the week following, many
marriages take place, as, except under particular circumstances,
weddings are never solemnized in Lent.

Dinner-parties are also frequently given at this season amongst
intimate friends; more formal ones sometimes on Easter Monday or
Tuesday, by the principal families, to some great personage, the
delegate or the bishop, for instance. But throughout all, whether on a
social or more ceremonious footing, the same kindly feeling, the same
absence of ostentation, invariably prevail. Would that we resembled the
Italians in this respect! They literally follow the evangelical precept
of asking to their banquets those by whom they cannot be bidden in
return. At every dinner-party there are always to be met three or four
old gentlemen, friends of the family, neither useful nor ornamental
accessories, not distinguished by sprightliness, riches, or good looks.
They would be classed as insufferable bores by us, and if asked at all,
only grudgingly, to fill up a vacant place; but here, on the contrary,
their age and infirmities constitute their title to admission; and
unfailingly, whenever a _trattamento_ is given—as any gathering for
the purpose of making good cheer is denominated—are these old friends,
seen in their accustomed seats at the table, not the least tinge of
patronage being mingled with the cordiality of their reception.




CHAPTER XII.

   Festivals of the Madonna—The Duomo—Legend of San
     Ciriaco—Miraculous picture—Course of sermons by Padre
     G———General irreligion of the Anconitans—Ecclesiastical
     tribunal of 1856—The Sacconi.


The celebration of the festivals of the Madonna, to whom the month of
May is especially consecrated, and of San Ciriaco, the patron saint of
Ancona, followed quickly upon those I have been just now describing;
and a concourse of peasants, daily flocking in, by their bright-looking
costumes, and picturesque, handsome appearance, enlivened the town to a
very unusual extent.

Indeed, the weather was so lovely, the air so balmy, the atmosphere
so gauze-like and softening to the objects it surrounded, that an
irresistible charm seemed resting upon the land; and it became easy
to comprehend how a colony of Dorians, establishing themselves upon
its shores, crowned its lofty promontory with a temple where Venus was
invoked.

A cathedral, dedicated to San Ciriaco, one of the oldest in Europe,
now occupies the site of the heathen shrine, nobly situated on the very
summit of the hill, overlooking the town, which rises for some distance
along its sides, but terminating about half-way, leaves the _duomo_
undisturbed in its hoary majesty and impressive solitude. We used to
delight in walking up here, and, sitting on the steps of the portico,
of which the columns were supported on two colossal lions of red
granite, gaze forth on the grand prospect which this position displays.
At our feet, sloping downwards in a semicircle, lay the town, the mole
with Trajan's celebrated arch, the harbour and shipping, commanded
by the citadel, and background of mountains stretching far along the
curve of the coast, with higher ranges more dimly seen, forming part
of the great chain of the Apennines by which Italy is intersected.
Turning away from this, you seem transported to a different region, for
on three sides of this bold headland, a broad expanse of waters alone
meets the view. The walls of the cathedral are not six paces removed
from where the cliff abruptly ends, presenting a rugged face of rock,
which towers some two or three hundred feet perpendicularly above
the sea. The wild music of the waves, on a stormy day, as they surge
against its base, is borne upward by the wind, and, distinguishable
amid the strains of the organ and the voices of the choir, produces
an effect not easily forgotten. Unfortunately, the existence of this
venerable pile is threatened by the inroads of the sea, which slowly,
but perceptibly, is undermining the cliff; and in a hundred years, it
is calculated, the duomo will be in ruins. The votaries of San Ciriaco
say, however, that he will not fail to protect his church, and defy the
ravages of the elements.

The body of the saint, clad in his episcopal robes, for he was bishop
of Ancona, is preserved in a subterranean chapel, and is annually
exposed, for the first eight days of the month of May, to the
veneration of the people.

The legend runs, that after undergoing in the east the martyrdom of
boiling lead being poured down his throat, his remains floated in a
stone coffin back to the scene of his former labours.

In the duomo is also kept the famous picture of the Madonna, attested
to have opened her eyes in 1795, at a moment of great peril to the
State, which was overrun by the armies of the French Republic. Fifty
years after, in 1845, this miracle received the confirmation of the
papal authority; and the petitions from the _gonfaloniere_ (mayor)
and magistrates, the clergy and the nobility, imploring that, “as an
acknowledgment of being thus privileged, they might be permitted to
place Ancona under the immediate protection of the Madonna, who, by
opening the eyes of her venerated image, had signally shown her favour
towards it”—received a gracious response. Fireworks, processions, a
general illumination, and nine days of religious ceremonies at the
duomo, inaugurated this event, which at every succeeding anniversary is
still commemorated with great solemnity.

It was my good fortune to hear a course of sermons delivered in honour
of the holy image by a Barnabite friar, Padre G—— of Bologna, one of
the most celebrated preachers of the day; and the scene presented by
the illuminated church, the enthroned picture—a meek and lowly face,
shaded by a dark-blue mantle, but resplendent with a star and rose
of brilliants, with which it had been adorned by Pius VII.—the eager
upturned countenances of the crowd, as their kindling glances wandered
from the impassioned orator to the half-closed eyes of the motionless
effigy he was apostrophizing—the enthusiastic appeals, the fervent
action of the priest as his lofty form towered in the pulpit, and his
powerful voice swelled like an organ through the aisles—all rises
vividly before me, resembling some dream of enchantment, with that
strange fascination that such pageants in Italy possess.

Not less remarkable than his startling eloquence was the ingenuity with
which the preacher diversified nine consecutive days of discourses upon
the same topic. One day he surprised his auditors by a dissertation
on the invention of gunpowder, the destructive missiles employed in
modern warfare, the disastrous sieges and the fearful loss of life,
all attributable to this discovery. Then depicting the horrors of two
or three well-known bombardments and pillages with thrilling power,
he asked triumphantly whence it was that Ancona, often surrounded
by hostile armies, and invested by foes as watchful as relentless,
had always been preserved from a similar fate? Whence, if not by the
miraculous presence of that heavenly portrait, whose modest eyelids had
been raised, in moments of the greatest peril to the church, to give
courage to the dejected, and faith to the wavering!

On another occasion he commenced by a vivid description of the early
youth, the education, the first exploits of Napoleon. He led you on
step by step in his career; he successively brought him before you
as the sullen, sensitive boy at Brienne, the aspiring lieutenant of
artillery, the young general of twenty-six, making Italy ring with his
fame. On he went, gathering fresh ardour, more striking similes, more
startling vehemence, as he dwelt on the resistless might which hurled
down thrones and swept away kingdoms in a breath, till he brought him,
flushed with conquest, to Ancona. “And here,” he continued—“here,
beneath this venerable dome, standing before the sacred picture,
prepared to scoff and ridicule its divine powers—that man, with
eagle eyes and folded arms, gives one hurried glance and trembles....
Yes! The haughty brow which the fabled thunders of Jove might have
encircled, is bent before that benign though reproachful gaze. His
sallow cheek grows ashy pale as those heavenly orbs unclose upon him!
His limbs totter; the sacrilegious hand which was stretched forth to
lay hold on the venerated image is withdrawn, and he hastens away,
sternly forbidding its removal or inspection!”

As a last specimen of this attractive, but certainly peculiar style
of pulpit oratory, I ought to quote from a magnificent delineation,
with which he opened another of his discourses, of the terror that
marks the progress of the Destroying Angel, scattering pestilence
from his sable wings, with desolation and mourning in his wake. But
my limits forbid anything beyond a mere sketch of the subjects on
which he enlarged with a graphic power, a scenic effect—if I may use
the term—of which it is impossible to convey any just conception. The
dread judgment on the first-born of Egypt, the plagues sent on the
murmuring Israelites—the dire records of the dark ages, when cities
were made desolate, and whole populations swept away by similar
awful visitations—all were detailed with harrowing power. Passing on
from these to modern times, he addressed himself more particularly
to the feelings of his auditors, by recalling the ravages which the
cholera had made a few years previous in Ancona, when, out of its
_then_ population of 25,000, 1000 were swept away; and finally bade
them ascribe their own preservation—the final disappearance of the
scourge—to the wondrous picture having been borne, amid the tears and
supplications of the inhabitants, in solemn procession through the
streets. “Give me, O Maria!” he here cried with transport, striking
himself upon the breast—“give me a spring-tide of roses and hyacinths
to weave in garlands for thy shrine; give me the laurel-wreath of
genius, the monarch's crown of gems; give me all that earth holds
beautiful or rare, to cast in tribute at thy feet. Give me eloquence to
inspire, fervour to excite, persuasion to reclaim—give all to me, who
yet am nothing, to be consecrated to thy service. Let me gaze on those
celestial eyes which so benignly opened upon Ancona, and gather there
undying ardour and unconquerable love, our only hope, our only refuge!”

After an address of this description, an approving murmur used to
be discernible among the crowd, while now and then an irrepressible
“_bravo_,” or a patronizing “_bene, bene_,” would be heard. But,
apart from the peasants—who, as I have said, flocked in large numbers
to these ceremonies—and the poor old women, whose withered lips and
palsied fingers were ever busy in saying their rosary and counting its
beads, I should be sorry to have to estimate how much real devotion
dwelt in the hearts of the multitude which daily congregated at the
duomo.

On the last evening of the Novena, I remember well the utter failure of
the Chevalier V——, the * * * Consul, to elicit a spark of devotional
enthusiasm. We were all standing on the duomo steps, looking at the
fireworks which concluded the solemnity, when a triumph of Anconitan
pyrotechnic art disclosed a star, with the initial M. At this the
good man, thoroughly honest in his convictions, waved his hat in the
air, and shouted to the crowd, “Let us have an _Evviva_ for Maria;”
but not a man's voice responded. There was a feeble quaver of cracked
trebles and then silence. He looked sad and mortified, but did not
repeat the experiment. He never discussed the subject with us; but I
know that he implicitly accepted the authenticity of the miracle. He
would have considered it as a sin to permit his mind to wander into any
questionings on that to which the Church had set her seal.

But there were few like him in Ancona. I could count on my fingers,
without passing those of one hand even, such amongst the _Codino_
nobles as entered with any earnestness into the Novena. The dominant
feeling with persons who still held belief in their religion, yet whose
judgment was not denied its exercise, was profound regret at the whole
proceeding; they rightly estimated it as only calculated to spread
irreverence and scepticism.

Upon the vast majority of the thinking classes,—the lawyers, the
physicians, the young priests (many of whom are materialists), and the
merchants,—precisely this result was produced. The official attestation
of the miracle was set down as a clumsy device to rekindle the faith
of the peasants and lower orders, and bind them more closely to the
Papacy; and religion only reaped contempt and derision for lending
herself to such practices.

Other attempts of the Roman See to stimulate decaying zeal in the
Marche, have proved equally unsuccessful. As if the Inquisition was
not sufficient for the defence of the Faith, with its independent
jurisdiction, its dignitaries, familiars, secret lay-members and
prisons, special episcopal tribunals were established in 1856 for
enforcing the precepts of the Church, and inflicting summary punishment
for their contravention. For the detection of swearing and blasphemy,
“confraternities of pious persons were instituted” (I quote the words
of the edict), “who, dressed in sackcloth and cowl, were authorized to
present themselves, either singly or in couples, wherever bad language
was most likely to be heard.” Ten to thirty days of prison, or of
religious exercises in a convent, were to be awarded to the offender.
Also in order to ascertain whether innkeepers and private families
observed the canonical law with respect to the days of fasting and
abstinence, these _Sacconi_, as they were termed, were directed to
search the premises. Very inquisitorially indeed did they exercise
this faculty. I have heard of these agreeable apparitions taking off
the lids of saucepans on the fire to see if they contained meat.
Depositions from other quarters were also received; and as it was
specially provided that the names of informers and witnesses should
be kept secret, and as they had the half of the mulct imposed, a
boundless field was open to domestic spying and treachery of the basest
description.

I once saw a man tied to a church door with a gag in his mouth. On his
breast was an inscription, signifying that he was thus punished for
having spoken sacrilegiously of the Madonna; but so little were the
bystanders impressed, that it was not judged advisable to familiarize
them with such spectacles.




CHAPTER XIII.

   Political condition of Ancona—Arrogance of the Austrian
     General—Strictness of the martial law—A man shot on the
     denunciation of his wife—Application of the stick—Republican
     excesses—Proneness to assassination—_Infernal Association_ in
     1849.


Except passingly I have not yet touched upon the political condition of
Ancona. This town, ever since June, 1849, had been occupied by a large
Austrian force, holding it in the Pope's name, and ostensibly for the
maintenance of his authority.

Never was a garrison more overbearing, or less popular. Even the most
uncompromising among the _Codini_,—attached by their own interests as
well as hereditary sympathies to the absolute party,—even they were
sometimes startled by the measures pursued, and could not conceal
their disapprobation. Although aware that they stood indebted to the
Austrians for the maintenance of things in their accustomed train,
they seemed, notwithstanding, to fret under their yoke; and held back
from any intercourse beyond what absolute necessity demanded. As for
the population in general, they kept determinedly aloof; its long
continuance had evidently not reconciled them to military rule, and
the line of separation continued unbroken. The caffè the officers
frequented was still deserted by the natives, and any house, even
of foreign residents, where Austrians were received, was sedulously
avoided.

Thus repulsed alike by friend and foe, the feelings of the Austrians
were naturally not of the most amicable description; but they were
particularly bitter against the supporters of the Government, who,
owing all to them, were so backward in displaying their adherence;
and whenever brought into contact with the municipality, or other
authorities, the General lost no opportunity of manifesting his
profound disgust.

In all their dealings with this stern old potentate, the papal agents
reminded me of Frankenstein and his monster; they cowered before the
presence it had been their desire and effort to call forth, and the
consciousness of the servile timidity with which he was regarded,
served to render him doubly imperious and exacting. One day, having
encountered some delay in complying with his demand for a large and
immediate supply of fuel for his troops, he sent for two members of the
town-council, and swore that if within two hours' time the wood was not
forthcoming, he would have the whole _municipio_ shot without mercy.

To hear this affront dolorously recounted by some of the worshipful
corporation, accompanied by the pantomime and varied intonations with
which an Italian dramatizes any recital, was inexpressibly amusing to
those who, like us, had no personal interest in the question; while
others again were not displeased at the humiliation inflicted on the
Pope's functionaries by his trusty allies. But this was not the first
instance of vehemence shown by General * * *. Some months previous,
he had subjected one of the leading nobles to the indignity of being
marched through the streets, surrounded by soldiers, on the charge
of having forcibly opposed an officer's being quartered in his house.
The real state of the case was simply that, on returning home from a
journey, the principe found installed in his own private apartments
a stranger, whose peremptory refusal to exchange them for another
suite of rooms in the same palazzo caused high words to ensue, which
ended in the young proprietor's summary arrest, and the uncontrollable
indignation of the General. Twenty-four hours were given the prisoner
to choose between immediate execution or a formal apology to the
officer—unpleasant alternatives both, but of which it is needless to
say the latter was accepted.

An incident of a darker nature occurred soon after, which cast a gloom
over every heart, and made one remember that more than mere threats
and passing alarms are connected with martial law and its inexorable
rigour. The prohibition against possessing or secreting any species
of weapon, necessarily issued by the Austrians on first entering the
country, was still in activity, and the penalty for transgressing it
was death. It entered into the heart of a reckless, abandoned woman,
the wife of a poor, honest, elderly artisan, to have recourse to this
enactment to rid herself of her husband, and make way for a younger
and more attractive suitor. Unknown to him, she had in her possession
a sword belonging to his son by a former marriage, a youth who had
served in the Guardia Civica, but was then absent from Ancona; and one
day, after some angry words had passed between them, she thrust the
weapon into a mattress, hurried to the main guard, and denounced her
husband as having concealed arms in his house. A party of soldiers at
once repaired to the spot, a search was instituted, the fatal sword
soon discovered, and the miserable man, franticly protesting his
innocence, was carried off to confinement. His known good conduct,
his harmless demeanour, availed him nothing; and the next morning, the
terror-stricken captive, almost senseless, and so strongly convulsed
that he was obliged to be propped up to receive the soldiers' fire, was
shot in the courtyard of the prison—the accusation of his guilty wife
having been considered sufficient to convict him. I have heard that the
woman went mad from remorse; but this sounds too like the retributive
winding-up of a tragedy to be implicitly believed. Such, however,
was currently reported to be the close of a tale of horror, which,
frightful as it appears, has had but too many counterparts wherever the
Austrians have held sway.

Almost more terrible than death to the keen sensibility of the south
was the infliction of the stick, applied for minor infractions of
martial law. A blow to an Italian is the deepest degradation. He
is taught to regard it as such from his earliest childhood. The
school-boys are never flogged or caned; even home discipline never
goes beyond a mild _schiaffo_, _i. e._ a slap on the face. For a man,
a gentleman, to be subjected to corporal punishment, was an outrage
never to be forgotten. Two young men of good family underwent this
cruel indignity in Ancona. A few ounces of powder and shot, and _a
broken bayonet_, were found in their lodgings. The latter belonged
to a musket which its owner, who was in the Guardia Civica, gave up
at the general disarmament; as it was broken, he had inadvertently
kept it back, little dreaming of the consequences. The other culprit
protested he fancied the ammunition was innocuous so long as he had no
fire-arms. But these reasons availed nothing. They were conveyed under
a guard to the citadel, and there underwent their sentence. Out of very
shame, their friends kept what had occurred as secret as possible, and
I believe they left the country. But the anguish, the bitterness, the
hatred which this incident aroused, are indescribable.

Still one must be just. Insolent, tyrannical as are the Austrians,
crushing everything beneath the iron heel of military despotism, it
would be gross partisanship to pass over in silence the anarchy and
bloodshed which preceded their occupation of Ancona, on which they
founded the justification of their severities.

The people of the _Marche_ have always been noted for their propensity
for assassination—an imputation which, far from denying, I have often
heard the lower orders excuse, with the remark that, since there was
no other way in the Papal States for _the poor_ to obtain redress, it
became a necessity to take the law into their own hands.

Before the accession of Pius IX. these acts of _vendetta_ (their
perpetrators would have scouted their being termed murders) were
astonishingly frequent, while, through the indolence or connivance of
the police, they commonly escaped detection. During the first golden
period of the new pontificate, however, in the universal concord which
prevailed, the stiletto seemed rusting in its sheath; but ere long,
amid the disturbances and ferment brought upon Italy by the spread of
democracy, these evil tendencies revived in Ancona with tenfold vigour.

Political animosity was now brought into play, and suffered to give a
colour to the most lawless excesses. A band of twenty or thirty of the
lowest dregs of the populace formed a league for the extirpation of
the enemies of freedom. Self-styled the Infernal Association, they met
every night to decree what lives were to be offered up to the public
good, and then became themselves the executioners of the doom they
had pronounced. It was in January, 1849, that the existence of this
self-instituted tribunal was first whispered about the town, and that
three or four assassinations every week attested its reality; from
which time its members went on increasing in audacity and thirst for
blood till the month of April, when the strong remonstrances of the
foreign consuls compelled the Government to employ adequate means for
its suppression.

It is the greatest blot on the reputation of Mazzini, who, as chief
Triumvir, held power during that eventful winter which succeeded
the Pope's flight to Gaeta, that he did not instantly use prompt and
vigorous measures for the punishment of these wretches. He did not, as
was asserted by the Austrians, organize the Infernal Association—it
was already in being when the Roman Republic was proclaimed, and the
materials of which it was formed had their origin in long-gone-by years
of corruption, national debasement, and misrule. But he suffered it
to exist, fancying that by striking terror into the supporters of the
Papacy, the Republic would be strengthened; a most miserable adaptation
of the miserable maxim that means are justified by the end.

A word in disapprobation of the existing authorities, or of regret
for the Pope, was laid hold of by the assassins as a pretext for their
awards. At last, emboldened alike by their immunity from all judicial
control, and the palsy of fear which had fallen upon the inhabitants,
they ceased to wait for the shades of night to perpetrate their crimes,
and stabbed or shot at their victims in broad daylight. These men were
all well known by sight and by name (one amongst them, by the by, was
of English parentage, but had been educated by the Jesuits at Loretto),
and used to stand in groups on the Piazza, laying down the law on all
the political intelligence of the day, and causing the passers-by to
tremble at their frown. The relations of those they had murdered were
forbidden to wear mourning; and a gentleman who, a few days after the
assassination of his brother, appeared abroad with a crape-band round
his hat, was threatened with a similar fate unless it was instantly
removed.

A diary kept by one of my cousins, a girl of fifteen, during this
time, is really a curious document, being full of entries like
the following:—“18th March. We are now in the midst of anxiety and
confusion; one or two assassinations occur every night. 30th.—Sad
news has come! The Piedmontese have been defeated at Novara by the
Austrians. This so enraged the assassins that they went about seizing
all the papers which had brought the intelligence; and murdered the
Marchese Nembrini at the Casino because he ventured to expostulate
with them. Four other people were stabbed last night. 3rd April.—Seven
people stabbed, three of whom died immediately; their bodies remained
out in a pouring rain all night.”

And so on: but not to multiply horrors, and yet give a really faithful
portraiture of this extraordinary state of things, I will simply
transcribe _verbatim_ a conversation I held one evening with a lively
young Roman, whom family affairs occasionally brought to Ancona. It was
at a somewhat ponderous _accademia_, or concert, held at one of the
most precise and old-fashioned houses, where the women sat immovably
round the room, and the men crowded helplessly together in the centre,
that he contrived to get behind my chair, and startled me by saying,—

“Do you know we are in the company of five _assassinati_?”

“_Assassinati!_” I repeated, in astonishment.

“Oh, you do not understand,” he rejoined, laughing. “I did not
mean assassinated outright; but merely those whose lives have been
attempted. Look at that shrivelled yellow man, with a face like a
vulture, and an eye like a stone, the Marchese.

“Well, his share came before our political movement, About ten years
ago, towards dusk, he was standing in the street, on the very threshold
of his house—next door to where your uncle lives—when he was stabbed;
the assassin ran away. It was believed to have been an act of private
vengeance; and being pretty well deserved, nobody troubled himself much
about it. A similar motive, also, is supposed to have been the cause
of my good friend, Count F——, being waylaid, as he was returning from
the theatre, about a twelvemonth after, and very severely wounded—in
fact, he was at first given over. Then there is that tall, white-haired
man, the Cavaliere V——. Well, he was both stabbed and shot at, poor
_diavolo_, during the Reign of Terror here, as he was taking a walk
about three in the afternoon. The wounds he received were very serious;
and in addition, the shock to his system was so great, that brain-fever
came on. He was known to be a _Codino_—that was his only crime; but
the hatred of the _rossi_[4] against him ran so high, that during his
illness they used to come and shout, 'Death to V——! Death to V——!'
under the very windows of his sick-room; and threatened the doctors who
attended him with their vengeance if he recovered. Poor creature, his
hair became blanched as you see it now from terror!”

The gay manner with which he commenced his narration had now quite
subsided, and he looked distressed at witnessing the mingled horror and
incredulity my face depicted.

“You scarcely can believe all this,” he said; “and then, if you are
once penetrated with its truth, you will never be able to understand
how any of us can yet hope for improvement in a people that so
miserably abused their first dawn of freedom. All you English reason
in this way now. But I must finish the account of the personages on
our canvas. There stands the young Marchese D——; he was greeted with
two bullets whizzing past his ears about the same period, as he was
returning from a stroll in the public gardens—their Pincian Hill, their
Villa Borghese here!” he added, contemptuously. “Ah, then, to make
up the fifth; there is that little talkative man, who is conversing
with the _cavaliere_ whose misfortunes I have already narrated. He was
stabbed, or shot at, or something of the sort, in our late troubles;
and, _per Bacco!_ it is a pity they did not make an end of him, for
retrograde as he was before, he has become thoroughly Austrian since!”

At this moment, my companion fancied he could detect some scrutinizing
glances cast upon him, and carelessly changing the low, earnest tone in
which he had been speaking, to one of sportive badinage, said something
very trifling and ludicrous, which, for a few moments, apparently
gave a completely new current to our conversation. Then, as soon as he
thought himself no longer observed, he resumed, “I am not half cautious
enough, even with only these poor _Rococos_[5] to deal with, deaf and
purblind as most of them are. Yet, one never can tell who is listening;
and the very walls have ears, I think, sometimes. Amongst Codini, I
endeavour never to mention the word politics and all its concomitant
delights.”

I told him we had noticed this reserve in others besides himself; and
that it was only at my uncle's house that one ever heard anything like
the true expression of their feelings.

“Yes,” he said; “it is a compliment we pay you. We can trust
strangers—not ourselves! What a miserable people we are! In this late
revolution of ours, what opportunities have been lost—what errors
committed—what fatuity and treachery displayed! How difficult will it
be for future historians to unravel the tangled web of all the events
of those memorable three years—from the accession of Pio Nono in '46,
to the sieges of Bologna and Ancona, the capitulation of Rome, and the
re-establishment of Papal authority. For instance, take as a detached
episode the scenes enacted in this good city of Ancona, and you will
tell me that a people who could commit such crimes on the one hand, or
suffer them to be committed on the other, deserve no better fate than
their present servitude. _Basta!_ You have doubtless heard your cousins
speak often enough on this subject?”

“Sufficiently so to make me wonder how they lived through such horrible
anxiety.”

“Oh, they grew used to it, poor things!” he rejoined; “and they tried
to keep up their courage for their father's sake, whose affairs did
not admit of his leaving, and they would not go away without him. I
remember being at the house one evening, when we heard screams in the
street; we all ran to the window, and there was the servant of the
Count ——, wringing his hands, and calling for help, over the prostrate
body of his master, whose yells of agony mingled with the attendant's
cries. Another time, one of them, walking with your uncle in broad
daylight, saw a poor Irish friar shot dead at a few paces' distance.
Ask them, too, if they remember that Easter Sunday, when, a little
after dusk, they were startled by the report of fire-arms; and on
sending to investigate the cause, their emissary returned, pale with
horror, to say that he had stumbled over two dead bodies yet warm,
lying before the Exchange, in the principal street of the town.”

“And all this time the local authorities never interfered?”

“Interfered! They were utterly powerless. Whether the assassins had
a secret understanding with the Governor, or _Preside_, a certain
Mattioli, a creature of Mazzini's, has never been ascertained. All I
can vouch for is, that people repairing to him to implore justice on
the murderers of their relations, found those murderers familiarly
surrounding him in his audience chamber. The utmost lengths of severity
he went to was one day to harangue his friends from the balcony of the
Palazzo del Governo, and say, _Figliuoli, state buoni_; and another
time to publish a manifesto, in which he deplored that 'the streets of
Ancona were too often stained with the blood of citizens,' and begged
them to 'place bounds to their patriotic ardour.'”

“But he put them down at last with a strong hand?”

“Not he! The order came from Rome; that respected demagogue had nothing
to do with it. Towards the end of April, two envoys arrived from
the Triumvirate, aroused at last to the magnitude of the evil, with
private instructions to the _preside_ to put an end to this overflowing
patriotism in the most summary manner possible. The greatest caution
was observed; the officers of the Guardia Civica, on whom the most
reliance could be placed, were summoned and sworn to secrecy; then
instructed as to what had been decided on. In the dead of the night,
the tocsin sounded, the drums beat the _générale_, and different
detachments of the _civica_ marching to the haunts of the assassins,
captured some twenty-five of them before they were well awake. Oh,
there was such joy all over the town the next morning.”

“I can well imagine that,” said I; “but not how a population of thirty
thousand people endured this bondage for three months without an effort
at deliverance.”

“As for that,” he said, “I think, signorina, there are more wonderful
examples in history of submission than even this affords. What is all I
have been telling you to France under Robespierre?”

“And the siege—when did that begin?” I inquired.

“The siege,” he said—“let me see. It was in May—on the 24th of May—that
the Austrians came in sight of the town, and summoned it to surrender.
It was a mad idea that of holding out against them; still, I am glad
it was attempted, and kept up, too, for twenty-eight days. Your cousins
were safe, and away at that time, or I think even their English courage
would have been sorely tried. And how the shells used to come hissing
through the air, and then fall crashing down, as if the very skies were
riven!... In due succession came the capitulation, and the entrance
of the enemy, and the fall of Rome: and now behold us! Austrians
here; French there; a despised and vindictive Government; a sullen
people; an exhausted treasury; and foreign troops. We are in a bad
way, signorina,” he continued, as he rose to take his departure; “and
were it not for Piedmont and the _Rè galantuomo_, it would be useless
to think of better times. A constitution, such as we see in that noble
State, is the just medium between the ravings of the Mazzinians and
the drivellings of the Codini. As long as we remain in the hands of the
Pope, we shall never be more than a nation of buffoons, opera-dancers,
singers, fiddlers, priests, and slaves!”




CHAPTER XIV.

   Execution of a criminal—Sympathy for his fate—The
     Ghetto—Hardships of the Jews—The case of the Mortara child
     not without precedent—Story of the merchant and his niece.


An event of no small importance in public estimation, which took
place during my stay in Ancona, the execution of a culprit condemned
according to the civil legislature, gave an insight into many curious
features of the national character. The criminal, who was a porter
employed in landing goods from vessels in the harbour, murdered his
master, a Jewish merchant, in revenge for having been discharged from
his employment, on account of his idle and insolent habits: watching
his opportunity, he came behind him at dusk, as he was walking in a
very narrow lane, and plunged a dagger into his heart. Contrary to
what occurs in nine cases out of ten in this country, the assassin was
captured, and, stranger still, convicted, after having been in prison
only six or seven months. Usually two or three years elapse between the
commission of the offence and the punishment awarded to it, so that
all recollection of the crime is well-nigh lost, and the predominant
feeling becomes one of sympathy for the prisoner.

The whole town was in commotion for two or three days preceding the
execution, and numerous were the inquiries as to the state of the
convict—whether he was sanguine in his hopes of a reprieve, whether
his health had suffered from imprisonment, and so forth; topics that
divided public attention with the expected arrival of the _boja_, the
dreaded functionary of the law, who was brought into the town in a
close carriage escorted by gendarmes—precautions always required to
protect him from the fury of the populace. Every one was interested:
the men pitied the criminal, the women prayed for him; while the Jewish
residents, fearful of incurring general odium, kept much within the
Ghetto, the quarter of the town especially assigned to them; moreover,
a deputation of some of their most influential members had gone up to
Rome to ask pardon for the murderer, so great was their apprehension
of the vengeance that might be visited upon the whole community if
the execution took place. But the offence had been too flagrant to be
passed over, the opportunity was also advantageous for a display of
justice and impartiality, and the Government held to their previous
decision.

The prisoner meantime was kept in uncertainty of his fate, until the
night before the day fixed upon for execution, when the officials,
entering his cell, informed him that his appeal for mercy had been
rejected, and bade him prepare for death the following morning.
According to long-established custom, he was allowed the singular boon
of selecting whatever he most fancied for his supper; no rarity was
denied him; and I remember hearing it announced that he had chosen some
particular kind of fish held in great esteem, which was with difficulty
procured. This meal over, a confraternity called the _Compagnia della
Buona Morte_—literally of the Good Death—comprising some of the old
nobles, merchants, and tradesmen—a relic of the countless religious
associations of the Middle Ages, still held together by a bond more
of custom and kindly feeling than of faith—entered upon the office of
ministering to the last hours of the condemned. Some remained with him
all night, accompanying him to the prison-chapel, where the appropriate
services were performed; and the others, dispersed about the town,
went from house to house collecting money to be applied in masses for
his soul. They did not proffer a word, but stood like spectres at the
door, completely enshrouded in their black robes and peaked cowls,
and rattling the box in which the alms were to be deposited, whereon a
death's-head and cross-bones were rudely painted. It was one of those
successful appeals to their senses, more especially to their terror
of aught connected with death, to which these people are so peculiarly
sensitive; and none, I verily believe, not even of the most determined
_increduli_, but turned pale, and hastened to make his offering. The
very existence of such a brotherhood, in the midst of so much unbelief,
is a paradox, and is one of those inconsistencies which meet one at
every step in attempting any analysis of the Italian character. As soon
as day broke, many women repaired to the churches to hear the first
mass, with the intention, as it is termed, of rendering it available to
the soul of the departing sinner—some remaining upon their knees until
they knew he was no more.

The good offices of the Buona Morte extended to the last; they
accompanied the criminal to the scaffold, besides a long train of
priests and friars, and then followed his remains to the place of
interment. As may be supposed, crowds of the populace flocked to the
execution; but from the common report, it would appear that far less
of that revolting ribaldry and indifference was displayed than has
been so loudly protested against as stigmatizing the English under
similar circumstances. As a means of enforcing the moral lesson, many
fathers took their children to the spot; and when all was over, and
the guillotine had done its ghastly office, beat them severely, to
impress upon them the fatal consequences of crime; yet, in spite of
this discipline, it seemed too probable that the unbounded interest
manifested for the departed, the praises lavished upon his penitence,
and upon his courage in encountering death, must completely have done
away with any salutary reflections the terrible spectacle had produced.

“Well, he died like an angel!” said one lady to us. “He was so obedient
to his confessor, that he took a cup of coffee at his request just
before leaving the prison, although he had previously declined any
refreshment.”

“Yes,” said another; “and he confessed everything, and seemed so
resigned! Certainly he had an edifying end!”

“He must have been a good man at heart,” remarked a third; “it was a
pity almost to sacrifice him under the circumstances. There was great
moderation, too, amongst the people; for they all felt _that_. Many
have thought it hard a Christian's life should suffer for having caused
the death of a Jew!”

A singular idea this, to the English untravelled reader at least; but
if he will accompany me into the Ghetto of Ancona, and take a glance
at the condition of the inhabitants he will find greater cause for
surprise at discovering, in the middle of the nineteenth century,
so many of the remains of the oppression and tyranny under which the
Hebrew race once universally groaned. The Jewish community in Ancona
comprehends upwards of 3000 persons—a large proportion where the entire
population does not exceed 30,000,—and these are by law restricted to
a small and densely-crowded part of the town, in which the streets are
so narrow that two people literally cannot walk abreast; and the marvel
is how the process of construction could ever have been carried on, or
such massive buildings erected, in such extraordinary proximity. The
want of cleanliness, of light, of air, in this miserable region, is
indescribable; yet great as are these evils, they seem mere trifles in
comparison with the contempt and vexatious enactments and privations by
which its occupants are perpetually harassed.

They cannot carry out their dead for interment in the wild desolate
burying-ground beyond the gates by day, as they would inevitably be
exposed to the taunts and hisses of the populace, who have been known
to throw stones at the coffin as it passed: it is under favour of the
dusk alone that the Hebrews venture forth to consign their departed
brethren to the grave. They cannot go from one town of the State to
another without a permission from the Inquisition, in addition to the
usual police formalities common to their Christian fellow-subjects.
Their lives are embittered by perpetual fear and distrust. The incident
of the secret baptism of the Mortara child by a Christian maid-servant,
and his seizure by the ecclesiastical authorities, which has made
such noise throughout Europe, is by no means the first of a similar
description. But some years ago there was no free press in Piedmont to
bring such facts to light, and hold them up to public condemnation. The
story which I shall briefly relate, and for the perfect truth of which
I can vouch, seems to me even sadder than that of Edgar Mortara.

About twenty years since, a Jewish merchant and his wife, being
childless, adopted a niece, who grew up beautiful, affectionate,
and the delight of their old age. Like many other children of
the community, she had been sent in her infancy to be nursed by a
peasant-woman in the country, whose extreme poverty alone induced her
to stoop to what is considered the degradation of rearing a Jewish
child. This woman, dying when the girl was about eighteen, divulged
to the priest who attended her death-bed that she had baptized her
nursling, then an infant of only a few months old; but had ever since
kept the secret shut up in her own heart, where it gnawed and preyed
upon her. The confessor applauded her for her zeal, declaring that by
her instrumentality a soul was rescued from perdition; and scarcely had
she breathed her last, when he hastened to the Inquisition in Ancona,
and announced the discovery he had made.

Without a moment's delay, a body of Dominican monks, the implacable
enemies of the Jews, accompanied by the requisite officials of the
police, repaired to the merchant's house, and peremptorily demanded
that his niece, as a Christian convert, baptized in infancy by her
nurse, should be given up to them. The most frantic remonstrances
proved unavailing; she was torn from her adopted parents, and placed
in a convent, as well for the purpose of religious instruction, as to
secure her from all intercourse with her family.

Meantime, the poor uncle took the most energetic measures for her
liberation, and secretly wrote, exhorting her to hold firm, with the
promise of 10,000 dollars for her dowry, if she succeeded in returning
to him. The letter was intercepted, and fell into the hands of the
priests, who did not, however, bring it forward until their plans
were matured. He was kept for some months in suspense, being in total
ignorance of his niece's proceedings, and denied all correspondence
with her; when it was at length intimated to him that she had readily
imbibed the tenets of her religion, was happy at her miraculous
deliverance, and willing to receive a husband at the hands of her
spiritual directors: in furtherance of which desirable end, the sum of
money he had proffered in the event of her restoration to him, was now
claimed as her marriage-portion. Inexpressibly mortified and indignant,
he yet had no alternative but to submit, and the dowry was made over to
the ecclesiastical authorities.

From the day on which she had been borne shrieking from their home,
the merchant and his wife never again set eyes upon their child, never
learned whether old affections yet stirred within her, and never knew
whether she ever became really satisfied with her lot. The youth to
whom she had been united was an obscure _impiegato_ in some little town
of the interior, where, I believe, she still resides. The aunt, quite
heart-broken, quitted the scene of so many agonizing recollections,
and removed to Tuscany, where greater religious liberty was at that
time enjoyed; while the old man divided his time between his wife
and Florence and his business in Ancona, to which he still clung with
characteristic eagerness: but the charm of life was gone, and he moved
about his accustomed haunts a changed and sorrow-stricken man.

With the possibility of a similar fate awaiting their
children;—continually threatened with the revival of certain old laws
which treated Jews as the very pariahs of society, and which were
actually repromulgated seven or eight years ago, although the energetic
proceedings of the Rothschilds, who held the needy Roman government
in their grasp, caused them to be suddenly withdrawn;—excluded from
all social intercourse with the Christian population;—looked down upon
even by the lowest, who consider they lose caste by acting as their
servants,—it seems wonderful to find this persecuted race holding
merry-makings in the Ghetto, and seemingly indifferent to their
degraded position.




CHAPTER XV.

   A wedding in the Ghetto—Contrast between the state of the
     Christian and Hebrew population—Arrival of the post—Highway
     robberies—Exploits of Passatore.


A great wedding taking place during my residence in the town, in the
family of one of the wealthiest Jews, my uncle, who was well known to
him in the course of their commercial transactions, was invited to the
ceremony, and earnestly requested to bring his _signorine_ to witness
it. As it was the only opportunity ever likely to be given us of seeing
the interior of one of their houses, or of forming the least idea of
the manners of the Jews, we were delighted to accept the invitation,
and on the appointed day repaired to the dismal Ghetto.

The house was situated in the principal street, which was about five
feet in breadth, wider far than any of the rest, and considered quite
an enviable locality: it was lined with very ordinary shops, presided
over by frightful old women, who darted out upon us from their dens,
clamorously inviting us to purchase; and screeched and chattered in a
manner which, used as we were to Italian loquacity, was yet well-nigh
overpowering. The staircase was dark, very dirty, and very steep; for
here the wealthiest people live on the highest floor, to enjoy more
light and air; and it was not until we had climbed at least 120 steps
that we reached our destination.

Two or three stout elderly ladies, all with strongly-marked Hebrew
physiognomies, came out to receive us, and led the way to a saloon
hung with green silk, and lighted with chandeliers, although the sun
was shining: here we were introduced to about a dozen portly matrons,
who, besides an unlimited amount of courtesies and compliments, kissed
us on both cheeks—a salutation I could willingly have dispensed with.
They all wore rich silk dresses, made high up to the throat, and
magnificent diamond earrings and brooches, which, indeed, were almost
the only indications of their reputed wealth that met the eye; but I
have been told they are fearful of making any display of their riches,
lest it should subject them to fresh extortions. The tone of their
manners was decidedly vulgar, and it was impossible not to be struck
with their mode of speaking Italian—their native language of course—but
accompanied with a peculiar nasal intonation that was extremely
disagreeable.

The bride, a very pretty girl, dressed in a light blue and white silk,
with a veil and orange-blossoms, was seated on a sort of throne at
the upper end of the room, surmounted by a canopy of white silk; and,
as a peculiar mark of distinction, chairs were placed for us next to
her. Besides ourselves, no unmarried women were present; for all the
young Jewesses were kept apart, and not admitted till the conclusion
of the ceremony, when they came rushing in, and saluted the bride and
bridegroom in a tumultuous manner.

As for the religious rites, which commenced soon after our arrival,
or rather the concluding portion, which we witnessed, for the prayers
and chants had been carried on at intervals since the preceding day,
I shall not attempt to describe them; for, being common alike to the
whole Hebrew race, wherever settled, they cannot with propriety enter
into a picture of Italian life. All the ceremonies observed on this
occasion were according to ancient Jewish customs, we were told by the
bride herself, who was occasionally handed down to the centre of the
room, where stood the rabbi, the bridegroom, and the male relations
of the parties, all wearing their hats, and black-silk horns fastened
on their foreheads. Once the young pair drank wine jointly from one
cup, which was immediately dashed into a brazen vessel; and at another
time they stood together beneath a scarf which was held above their
heads; but when not immediately taking part in what was going forward,
the sposa looked on unconcerned, neither very timid, nor anxious, nor
devout, and with about as much reflection on the duties of married
life, I should imagine, as any of her Christian country-women in the
like position. As for the women who stood round, they did not join in
any of the prayers, but were evidently mere spectators, and thought the
length of the service rather tedious, whispering to us over and over
again that it was _all'uso antico_, to please the bridegroom's father,
and was almost as new to them as to ourselves.

At last, after the wedding-ring had been put on—being previously tested
as to the purity of the gold by a jeweller who was in attendance—a
little more chanting seemed to conclude the ceremony, for there was a
general move, and the bride said, “_Tutto è finito per me_—My part in
it is over; the others,” pointing to the rabbi, and some of the old
men, “have yet a few more prayers to say, but I have nothing to do
with them;” then descending from her throne, she received the kisses
and congratulations of all present, augmented by the onslaught of the
liberated damsels, who seemed to think her the most enviable of human
beings.

The whole company were then conducted for refreshment into an adjoining
saloon, not illuminated like the first, where lemonade and sugar-plums
were handed round, and sonnets in honour of the newly-wedded pair
distributed to every guest. These poetic effusions, which are of about
the same merit as the mottoes encircling bonbons at our supper-tables,
seem in Ancona to be considered indispensable to every wedding; and
printed copies, embellished with little emblematic wood-cuts, of a very
low order of art, are profusely showered about. The poor Jews, however,
were not allowed the latter privilege—they might have their sonnets
if they so chose, but not printed ones; so they were fain to content
themselves with elaborate specimens of calligraphy, on which the best
scribes in the town had been displaying their ingenuity. The apartment
in which we were assembled was very lofty and spacious, with six large
windows, through which the sun found its way cheerily enough, and a
domed ceiling, painted, as well as the walls, in fresco, with scenes
from the Old Testament, embellished with a profusion of gilding and
handsome chandeliers; but as a contrast to all this magnificence, the
floor was of brick, and the furniture merely benches, while dust and
dirt met the eye in every direction. Some of the family accounted for
this apparent inconsistency, by telling us they were not rich enough to
fit it up in a style analogous to the decorations; but the real motives
we ascribed to a fear of drawing too much attention to their means
of expenditure. This, however, had nothing to do with the absence of
brooms and scouring-pails, so curiously apparent, which confirmed the
charge the Anconitans triumphantly brought forward against their Hebrew
neighbours, of want of cleanliness; and certainly, if aught could
surpass their own shortcomings on that score, things must have been in
a woful condition!

Before we went away, they insisted on showing us the house, which
contained nothing further worthy of remark, except the presents
for the bride, spread out upon a long table, and seeming to consist
principally of innumerable loaves of sugar and bundles of wax candles,
tied together with gay-coloured ribbons. There were also one or two
large cakes, stuck all over with pins and brooches, none, however, of
any great value. The bedrooms were scantily furnished, without any
attempt at comfort or elegance, and miserably dark, for they looked
into a side-street, where the opposite houses appeared crushing in upon
us, communicating a horrible sense of suffocation, and bringing to my
mind the German legend of the prisoner who was gradually stifled in a
dungeon that daily narrowed itself round him.

I was so tormented with this notion, that it was quite a relief when
our visit came to a conclusion; and emerging from the mazes of the
Ghetto, we found ourselves on the Piazza del Teatro, which looked
quite spacious and animated in comparison. A stream of _vetture_,
carts, porters carrying merchandize, soldiers, priests, and all the
motley population of an Italian town, were constantly passing and
repassing through this square, furnishing food for amusing observation
to the gioventù, who usually sunned themselves on benches outside the
caffè, or, on those rare occasions when it rained, sought refuge in an
opposite cigar shop—quite an aristocratic resort—where, swinging upon
the counter, or leaning against the door, they gazed complacently at
all that was going on, and discussed the news and scandal of the day.
Without a future to look forward to, without a present—unless this
miserable frittering away of existence day after day, and year after
year, can be so called—they yet seem in that genial sunshine, beneath
that bright blue sky, to forget their poverty, the gloom of their
political condition, and the degradation of their country. Perhaps the
Government has a deep motive in so grievously oppressing its Hebrew
subjects; for the others, in considering the fate of these Helots of
the land, may think themselves comparatively well off, and sit down
contented with their lot.

As the hour draws near for the arrival of the post, a little more
stir is perceptible; and when, only a few hours behind its time, a
lumbering diligence containing the mail-bags makes its appearance, a
crowd follows to the office, and impatiently awaits the distribution
of the letters. Those persons who are expecting friends are here also,
of course, drawn up in readiness to receive them, and you see the most
affectionate greetings interchanged between tall black-bearded men, who
loudly kiss each other on both cheeks, and pour forth their expressions
of delight at meeting, with a volubility no Englishman could ever
attain. It is a pleasant feature in their character—not the kissing,
but the kindness with which they always go forth to welcome a friend's
arrival, or speed him on his travels. An Italian would think it hard,
indeed, to return from an absence of even a few days without finding
somebody awaiting him; and as to his departure, a perfect train always
attends the adventurous traveller who sets out on an expedition to
Rome or Florence, quite as much sensation being excited as there would
be amongst us were he going for an indefinite period to the Arctic
regions.

The perils of the road may, however, be brought forward to account
for the importance attached to any feat of locomotion, and the
congratulations attending the wanderer's safe return; for it is by
no means uncommon for the passengers to announce, as they emerge from
the diligence into the arms of their rejoicing friends, that they were
waylaid and robbed somewhere near Bologna, or else between Forli and
Rimini, that very unpromising region I passed through on my journey
from Florence to Ancona. These events were of too frequent occurrence
to excite much attention; still, any interesting particulars concerning
them never failed to find their way into every circle, and we used to
hear the details either at the houses of our acquaintances, or else
when they came to _fare un whist_ (play a rubber) at my uncle's, and
were initiated into the mysteries of the game which he had introduced
that winter among them. To obtain an insight into this new pursuit,
supposed exclusively a British pastime, the greatest ardour was
displayed; many of the società took to studying the _Vade Mecum_—a
little pocket-guide to whist—with laudable perseverance, carrying
it always about with them, and questioning each other concerning the
progress they had made; while the zest with which they assembled to put
in practice the theory so diligently acquired, materially assisted in
dispelling the monotony of Lent.

These little assemblies were very lively and sociable. Tea was drunk by
the very conscientious without milk, while they heroically abstained
from _ploomkek_; and after the customary bows and complimentary
phrases, the conversation became very animated. Anecdotes of robberies
were of course rife on such occasions. “By the by, marchese,” said a
card-player one evening, “this reminds me of that story of the man who
singly robbed thirteen people: do you remember it?”

“_E come!_” was the reply; “it did not happen so many years ago,
and was, besides, the drollest thing I ever heard of. He hung up a
number of hats and cloaks among the bushes on the wayside, with poles
projecting, which in the dim uncertain twilight looked like men drawn
up with guns presented. He then fastened a cord right across the
road, and awaited the diligence, the horses of which, encountering
this obstacle, were of course thrown down, and all was terror and
confusion. At this moment, our friend rushed forward, shouting, as if
to his followers, '_Attenti, figliuoli!_ but do not fire till I give
the word!' and demanded their purses and watches from the passengers,
threatening them with an instantaneous volley if they did not at
once comply. They were all so completely taken by surprise, and so
glad, moreover, to be let off thus easily, that they obeyed without
a moment's hesitation, and the contents of their pockets were quickly
handed to the captain of that formidable band, who, in return, raised
the struggling horses, and dismissed them amicably on their way,
rejoicing at their escape from rougher usage. Ah, he was a genius,
that man! He had the makings of a Napoleon! It was a pity he was taken
and hanged, for he had committed no murder, and, according to law, his
punishment should have been imprisonment; but an exception was made in
his case—the Government was so angry at his stratagem.”

“Well, that is an amusing story,” said the little contessa. “I had
quite forgotten it, so that it is as new to me as to the 'Signorina
forestiera,'” smiling at me, whose spirit of inquiry always excited her
amazement. “At any rate, he was a harmless sort of creature, this hero
of yours, caro marchese, not like that dreadful Passatore who ravaged
all Romagna lately.”

This led to an account of many of the feats of this freebooter and his
band, who for nearly two years had infested the country, and rendered
property and travelling very insecure. His most celebrated exploit was
taking possession of the theatre at Forlimpopoli, a small town a few
miles to the south of Forli, on the high-road to Cesena.

It was an evening in the Carnival of 1851. The spectators were
assembled, the orchestra had tuned their instruments, and the curtain
drew up. Instead of the usual performers, the stage was occupied by
Passatore and his followers, armed to the teeth. He was as polite,
however, as circumstances permitted; and addressing the terrified
audience, begged them not to be alarmed, nor to be so rash as to
attempt any resistance: a superfluous recommendation, seeing that the
whole population could not have mustered a single weapon, offensive or
defensive, amongst them.

Passatore then called, one by one, on the principal personages who
were present, and requested they would repair to their homes, under the
escort of some of his men, and deliver up all their valuables.

While this was going on, none but those he named were permitted to
leave the theatre. As the booty was brought in, it was all deposited
on the stage at his feet, until every one who had anything to lose
had been laid under contribution. He then rose, bowed his thanks, and
wishing them a “buon divertimento,” retired.

His career is supposed to have ended in a skirmish with Austrian
troops; but his body not having been secured by the conquerors,
considerable mystery for a long time hung over his fate. The remnants
of his band continued their old calling, and kept up the bad reputation
of the roads in Romagna and the Marche. Near Ancona country houses
were often attacked; and in some districts, proprietors were fain to
compromise with them for the payment of a certain sum annually. Not
having any means of defending their property, they were completely at
the brigands' mercy.

These facts ought to have furnished more food for melancholy than
amusement; but they did not come amiss to the società. And thus
laughing, talking, pausing in their play to relate some new evidence
of their country's miserable condition, or rallying each other upon
an oversight in the game, the evening would pass on, with as many
variations as the light and shadow cast by a tree stirred in the autumn
wind; and if I seem to shift waywardly from one subject to another in
delineating the Italian character, it is that this apparent instability
is required to give greater accuracy to my picture, and truthfulness to
its details.




CHAPTER XVI.

   A visit to Macerata—The journey—The Marziani family—Volunnia
     the old maid—The Marchesa Gentilina's midnight
     communications.


I was invited to her house in the ancient and aristocratic city of
Macerata, by the Marchesa Gentilina Marziani, a lady well known not
only in the provincial circles of the Marche, but in those of Rome,
where, in the lifetime of her first husband, who held one of those
lucrative monopolies of the necessities of life which the Pontifical
Government farms out to its adherents, she had occupied rather a
conspicuous position. As a sort of protest against her sexagenarian
lord's principles and party, to which and all else pertaining to him
she had vowed opposition, the fair Gentilina delighted in assembling
numbers of artists and men of letters, both native and foreign, under
her roof, where she promoted the discussion of political topics, and
the free expression of opinion, by a hardihood and boldness of speech
that none of the other members of the coterie would have dared to
imitate, and on which the protection of her uncle, a wealthy cardinal,
alone enabled her to venture with impunity.

When, after many weary years of wedlock, the death of the old
_appaltatore_ left her at liberty to form less irksome ties, the choice
of the buxom and well-endowed widow, amidst a crowd of aspirants,
fell upon the Marchese Alessandro Marziani, a young noble of Macerata,
several years her junior, and with apparently little but his good looks
and old name to recommend him. To universal surprise, the marriage
proved on the whole a happy one. The marchese looked on his wife
as a model of genius and wit; never questioned her opinions, though
careful to avoid compromising himself by uttering any of his own; and
grateful for the support she furnished to the declining fortunes of his
house, and the grace with which she consented to reside several months
of each year with his family—thus enabling him to pay that dutiful
attention to his father's old age which Italians are so solicitous to
discharge—showed her a respect and esteem which amply atoned for the
absence of shining qualities in himself.

In one of the visits to Ancona, whither a natural desire for change
used occasionally to lead her, I made the marchesa's acquaintance; and,
through the same seeking for variety, she was doubtless prompted to
the novel experiment of introducing the _Signorina forestiera_ into the
heart of her husband's family, moulded after the most approved fashion
of ancient Italian households.

Macerata is about forty miles distant from Ancona, on the high-road
to Rome, finely situated on the loftiest point of a ridge of hills
running midway between the sea and the grand chain of Apennines which
form the noble background to most Italian scenery. Even at that early
period of the year the country through which we passed was remarkable
for its beauty and fertility; but the marchesa talked too much and
too energetically to permit me to observe anything in detail; so that
it was fortunate I was enabled some months later again to see and
thoroughly enjoy what the natives, with pardonable pride, designate as
“the Garden of Italy.”

We travelled in the marchesa's carriage, a party of four, or rather
five; for, in addition to her, her good-humoured spouse, and myself—the
three _padroni_—there was the _cameriera_, whom they would have
thought it most inhuman to have seated on the outside, and the parrot.
This last occupied a great circular tin cage, and wore a dejected
aspect, which perhaps arose from jealousy at his mistress engrossing
the whole of the conversation, though the marchese attributed it to
indisposition, and vainly strove to cheer him by proffering cakes
and sugar, or his own finger to be pecked at, thus beguiling the
tediousness of the well-known road; while his wife, charmed at having a
new listener, held forth about the abuses of the Government, the frauds
of Cardinal Antonelli, the weakness of the Pope, and the insolence of
the Austrians, requiring nothing beyond a shrug of the shoulders, or an
affirmative groan, when she appealed to her husband to corroborate her
statements. Every hour, at least, there was a stoppage at the foot of
some hill, while cows or oxen were summoned from the nearest peasant's
house to assist the horses in dragging us up these ascents, which for
steepness exceed everything that can be imagined, except indeed the
corresponding precipitousness of the declivity on the other side.

With this single drawback, the journey was very pleasant. We dined at
Recanati, a very small but ancient town, crowning an eminence, like
most of the cities in this country, which were built at a period when a
position from whence a good view could be obtained of any advancing foe
was an indispensable requisite for security; and here the parrot so far
recovered his spirits, that the whole inn was thrown into ecstasy with
his performances, which the marchesa, from being seriously occupied
with partaking of needful refreshment, allowed him to exhibit without
a competitor. The _sala_ in which we took our repast was crowded with
an admiring audience, the beggars who infested the courtyard and stairs
having also crept in unreproved; and their comments and exclamations
at every fresh proof of the _pappagallo's_ loquacity seemed to afford
unqualified pleasure to his owners, without any thought of offended
dignity at the intrusion—such as would have disturbed the equanimity,
and spoiled the digestion of British travellers—ever entering their
minds.

It was night when we arrived at the Palazzo Marziani—a handsome pile
of building, of a massive style of architecture, faced with large
square slabs of marble, like the old Florentine palaces, wide balconies
projecting from the windows, and a grand portico, surmounted by
armorial bearings in _alto rilievo_, through which the carriage passed
into a court that in olden time had evidently been surrounded by an
open arcade, with a fountain in the centre. The interstices between the
columns, however, as a daylight view revealed, had been filled up with
brickwork; the fountain no longer played; and the grass sprouted up in
tufts between the pavement, or waved in rank luxuriance amid the rich
cornices of the façade.

On one side of this piazza were the stables—perceptible, alas! to other
senses besides the ocular—and on the opposite one rose the staircase,
in broad and easy flights, with marble busts of various ancestors of
the family in niches upon each landing. The apartments of the marchesa,
as wife of the eldest son, were upon the first floor, and thither were
we lighted, with great jubilee and welcome, by an old white-headed man
in plain clothes—the _maestro di casa_, whose real name had merged into
that of _Rococo_—and one or two subordinates in livery-coats of faded
blue and yellow, just like the lackeys who come forward upon the stage
in Italian theatres to carry away the moss-grown seat upon which the
rustic primadonna has been reclining.

The second brother, the Marchese Oliverotto Marziani, whose patronymic
was a superfluity, inasmuch as I never heard him addressed by it;—his
wife, the Marchesa Silvia, a quiet little body, with two or three
children clinging to her side, the proprietorship of whom alone
enabled her to make head against the overwhelming supremacy of her
sister-in-law Gentilina;—the Marchesina Volunnia, the eldest daughter,
unmarried, and with a great reputation for learning;—and, finally, a
very old man, with a quavering voice and infirm gait, appeared to greet
our arrival.

The brothers, both tall and handsome, fine specimens of the manly
style of beauty of which this part of Italy retains the distinctive
type, loudly kissed and brushed their black beards against each
other with great affection, while the ladies embraced with clamorous
demonstrations, but little warmth; and then, on the approach of
his father, Alessandro, hastening to meet him, bent over his hand,
and raised it to his lips with an air of unaffected tenderness and
respect. These salutations over, they all paid their compliments to
the new-comer with great politeness, eyeing me all the time with very
allowable curiosity, for I am sure it was the first occasion on which a
foreigner and a heretic had ever come thus familiarly amongst them.

After this, supper being announced, we all betook ourselves to that
meal, descending the grand cold staircase, already described, to the
eating-room, which was on the ground-floor, in the vicinity of the
kitchen, and not particularly remote from the stable. We were here
joined by a priest, Don Ciriaco, who lived in the house as a sort of
secretary and companion to the old marchese or _papà_, as they all
called him, and imparted the rudiments of Latin and the Catechism
to the children. He was evidently in a very servile position, being
treated with perfect indifference by all assembled, except the Marchesa
Silvia, who now and then addressed to him a few words, though always
with an implied and unquestioned sense of his inferiority, which
reminded me of Macaulay's delineation of the footing of domestic
chaplains in England at the close of the seventeenth century. Two
of the children sat up to supper, one on each side of their mother,
muffled in huge napkins tied round their chins, and completely
engrossing her attention by the cutting up and preparing of their food.

I thought their presence at this meal was an indulgence conceded to
celebrate their uncle and aunt's return, never dreaming that such a
custom as infants of their tender age sitting up till past ten o'clock
to eat heartily of soup, roast-meat, and salad—of which viands the
repast consisted—could ever be habitual. Such, however, was the case;
for no other reason, as the marchesa humorously confided to me, than
its being in accordance with the practices of former days; which, to
a mind so full of scruples as poor Silvia's, she added, were second
only to the decrees of the Council of Trent or the dictates of her
confessor. After hearing this, and ascertaining that in those families
who partook of supper—some only indulging in one ample meal in the
middle of the day—the custom of the children joining in it was very
general, it was not difficult to account for the variety of ailments
with which the rising generation seemed afflicted, more especially
the vermicular affections—in all the varied phenomena of which, from
hearing them so constantly discussed, I became quite a proficient.

Being tired with our long day's journey, we were glad to retire to
rest; and I was conducted to my room by the marchesa and the erudite
Volunnia, who, I speedily found, was less occupied with lore than
with the vanities and heart-burnings of her sex. My spinsterhood in
this case, however, proved a passport to her affections: albeit nearly
twenty years my senior, she took me to her heart, as her equal in age,
and partner in misfortune—promising, as she kissed me at parting for
the night, to summon me early in the morning, that she might have the
pleasure of introducing me to her own apartments, books, and studies.

The marchesa lingered for a few more words.

“I need not tell you, _carina_, that poor Volunnia is a character.
In fact, this whole family are originals. Nature formed my Alessandro
different from all the rest, and evidently broke the mould that he was
cast in.—First of all,” she continued, raking up the embers in the
scaldino over which she was warming her hands, “there is that poor
old papà, who, with his obstinacy and prejudice, has ruined himself
by lawsuits. His celebrated _processo_ against his brothers, I daresay
you have already heard of: it lasted twenty-five years, because either
side, whenever sentence was given in favour of its opponent, appealed
to some other court, which, under our happy system, can annul the
judgment previously pronounced. At last, this worse than siege of Troy
drew near its close. The case had been brought before every tribunal
in the Roman States, and was finally submitted by the last defeated
party, papà's brothers, to the supreme court in Rome—the conclusive
one of appeal in such instances. My Alessandro was there, awaiting
the result, but comparatively with little anxiety, so confident was
he of success. _Poveretto_, he was too good. Had he known me then, I
would have taken care things should turn out differently! The night
before the judgment was to be pronounced, he was privately warned that
unless he offered a large bribe to one of the prelates of the Rota,
before whom the suit had been pleaded, it would be given against him;
that the other side had bid high, and all he could do was to outbuy
them! 'Bah! bah!' he said; 'this monsignore whose influence will have
so much weight with the other _uditori_ in our cause to-morrow is
above all venal motives: he is too high in the church.' (He was one
of those ecclesiastics, my dear, who wear violet stockings, and talk
so sweetly to your fair compatriots in Rome.) 'O no,' he reasoned with
his heart, _da galant'uomo_, 'the thing is impossible: it is merely a
trick of the enemy,'—and so went to sleep without any misgiving. The
next day”—snapping her fingers expressively—“he found out his mistake,
and the famous _causa_ was irrevocably lost! Poor old papà—they tell me
he has never been the same man since: the very want of the accustomed
excitement must be a blank to him. Now and then he pricks up his ears,
in the hopes of finding some source of litigation with his sons-in-law
about his daughters' portions, or searches out old family claims,
which he wants to revive, and so on—but we take care nothing shall
come of it. So he sits with Don Ciriaco, going over legal accounts and
rummaging among title-deeds in the morning, and spends his afternoons
_in conversazione_ at the Casino, listening to all the stories people
can remember of lawsuits as intricate and unfortunate as his own. All
know his passion for such relations, and good-naturedly try to amuse
him with them. The family affairs Alessandro takes care of now, and
is really getting them into order. Though he says so little, he has a
great head for business.”

To the marchesa's honour, be it added, that it was not from herself I
learned that something beyond Alessandro's clever management had been
requisite here, which she liberally supplied. But on the good services
she thus rendered, as well as her own extensive charities, though so
communicative in other respects, she was always silent; and, perfectly
unostentatious in her dress and other personal expenses, never seemed
conscious of being richer than any of her surrounding kindred.

But I have digressed, while the marchesa is still talking. “Volunnia,
poor soul!” she went on, clearing her voice, I grieve to record, to
the detriment of the floor—“Volunnia has been the chief sufferer by
all these troubles. She was the eldest of the family, senior even to
Alessandro, and considerably older than her sisters. While her parents
were in all the _furore_ of this lawsuit, they had no time to think
about getting her married, or it was not convenient to bring forward
a _dote_ suitable to their position and reputed wealth. So years and
years rolled by, and the _poverina_ not augmenting in good looks, saw
her chances of being settled fast diminishing. It is ten years since I
came into the family, and then she was nearly thirty-four! I soon found
two _partiti_ for the younger sisters; but as for Volunnia, though I
have made immense researches, hitherto they have been without success.
In fact, she is too full of instruction—at least the men think so, and
they are afraid of her—and yet, with all her studies, she is consumed
by mortification at not being married. As for Oliverotto, what you see
him, that he is,—a _buon diavolo_—his only fault an unhappy propensity
for play. He has already eaten up part of poor Silvia's dowry, which
he managed to get into his hands. We have secured the rest now as well
as we can, and he has promised to reform. But what will you have? With
such a little stupid _bacchettona_ (that is, bigot) as that for his
wife, it is not surprising he should seek some distraction. Per Bacco!”
she exclaimed, as the midnight chimes were heard, “I had no idea it was
so late!” and lighting a small taper at my massive silver _lucerna_,
the marchesa at last retired, carrying with her the scaldino, and
saying she would desire one of the women-servants to come and take my
commands.




CHAPTER XVII.

   Comfortless bed-room—National fear of water—Waste of
     time—Occupations of the different members of the
     family—Volunnia's sitting-room—Her acquirements.


When the marchesa was gone, I proceeded to take a survey of my
apartment, which, had I not resolutely set aside all comparison with
England and English customs, would have been mentally noted down as
exceedingly uncomfortable. There was no fireplace or stove, no carpet
on the stone floor, no curtains to the bed, at the head of which was
placed a _bénitier_ for holy water, a palm that had been blessed at
Easter, and a little print of some saint. The rest of the furniture
consisted of an old-fashioned inlaid chest of drawers, surmounted
by a small looking-glass; four walnut-wood chairs, with cane seats;
and a washing-stand, or rather tripod, just holding the basin, and
beneath it a very small jug. But what redeemed the otherwise meagre
aspect of the room was the profusion of oil-paintings, in massive
gilt frames, with which the walls were closely covered. Of many, the
colours were too darkened by time, or they were hung too high, to
enable me to make out their subjects; but, judging from those I could
more easily distinguish, I concluded the collection related either to
the martyrdoms of saints, in their most varied form of suffering—one
picture especially quite disturbed me, St Apollonia kneeling, a tray
full of bleeding teeth in one outstretched hand, while she clasps the
instrument employed in their extraction to her breast with the other—or
to scenes from mythology, singularly inappropriate—all evidently
belonging to the school of Bologna, which, diffused by the numerous
pupils of the Caracci, is the predominant one in the Marche.

The meagreness of the lavatory arrangements, I confess, however, no
pictorial embellishments could redeem; and I made interest with the
good-humoured girl who speedily came to offer her services, to bring me
that British desideratum, a tub, which for the period of my stay should
be considered exclusively as mine. She was much puzzled at first at
this request.

“Is the signorina ill?—has she taken cold, that she wishes, _con
rispetto parlando_, to have a foot-bath?”

It is a curious but authentic fact, that in the middle and south
of Italy feet or foot gear are never spoken of without a prefatory
apologetic expression, such as, “saving your presence,” “with all
respect,” and so forth. The most inadmissible topics, to our way of
thinking, are unblushingly discussed, but an Italian will pause in a
story to ask your pardon for mentioning his boots.

“No, I am not ill,” I said, laughing; “but it is the custom of the
English to be very fond of washing.”

“Madonna mia! signorina! Be careful. Too much may disagree with you.
Shall I bring you a little white wine to mix with the water? The
Marchesa Silvia always does so when the children require to be washed.
The baby is sometimes bathed in broth.”

I was so amused I could scarcely decline with becoming gravity.

“At least for your face, signorina: with that fine
complexion”—remember, reader, her mission as a waiting-maid was to
flatter—“you surely do not risk spoiling it with water. A little _brodo
lungo_ (weak broth) of lean veal, every particle of fat carefully
skimmed off—that is what many ladies in Macerata use; it softens,
and yet nourishes the skin. Others have a custom of spreading a
handkerchief out at night to imbibe the early dew, and then gently rub
their faces with it, soaked as it is with the cooling moisture; but
that can only be done in summer. Then there is milk just warm from the
cow—some prefer it to anything else. Would the signorina at least try
that?”

But as I was deaf to all her persuasions, the abigail at last left me
to repose, having first inquired whether she was to bring me a cup of
_caffè nero_ at seven in the morning, according to the custom of some
members of the family; or whether I would prefer not being disturbed,
or at least not breaking my fast until ten, when _caffè e latte_ would
be served to me in my room, as it was to all the padroni: which latter
alternative I willingly acquiesced in.

It is difficult to give an account of the occupations of people who are
never occupied, or, at best, have so slender an amount of employment,
so few interesting pursuits, that what they contrive to expand into an
entire day's avocations, would not engage two hours with a person to
whom the economy of time was a precious consideration. The healthful
excitement of a day divided between intellectual employment and
active bodily exercise—the eagerness with which every spare moment
is husbanded, as if time were wanting for what it is thought needful
should be done; all this is comparatively unknown amongst a class which
has found, by bitter experience, that energy of mind and pre-eminence
in learning are dangerous gifts, tormenting, or even fatal to their
possessor.

Italians are not great sleepers in general, and several members of the
family, after the early cup of black coffee, would be dawdling about
their rooms in dressing-gown and slippers, though not visible till
after the second refection of _café au lait_ which was served to me,
with a little round plateful of cakes, on a waiter of silver, richly
chased, but rarely cleaned. Amongst the early ones were papà, who rose
with the lark to pursue, barnacles on nose, his legal researches; the
marchesa, who carried on a tolerable amount of letter-writing with
political malcontents—the manœuvres and harmless intrigues attending
which were an indispensable stimulus to her existence—though, for
the sake of Alessandro, as well as to avoid the unpleasantness
of banishment or sequestration, she took care to eschew directly
compromising herself or any of her correspondents; and Silvia,
engaged from morning to night with the children, who were bribed with
sweetmeats to be quiet, deluded by promises of visionary rewards into
submission when rebellious, and taught to wreak their vengeance on
the chairs and tables whenever they gave themselves a knock. Besides
the two small individuals I had seen at supper to claim their mother's
care, there was a most important personage wholly dependent on her—an
uninteresting infant of eight months old, just released from his
swaddling-clothes, and already attired in high frocks, long sleeves,
and trowsers; the light costume peculiar to English babies, technically
termed “short coats,” being looked upon, it may interest British
mothers to know, as exceedingly incorrect.

As to the others, they appeared at different hours, Oliverotto the
latest: he never showed himself till noon, when, dressed in a very
elaborate morning costume, he sauntered out to the caffè to hear the
news, play a game at billiards, and get an appetite for dinner. The
good Alessandro always went to _far due passi_, and have a little
conversazione before three o'clock also, but then he had been busy for
two or three hours in his _scrittojo_ with the _fattore_ or bailiff,
who was his prime-minister in the complicated family concerns. The
revenues of landed proprietors in this country, as I have already
explained in detail, being derived from the division of the produce
of their farms with the peasants by whom they are cultivated, much
vigilance is required in looking after the different contadini, and
ascertaining that each one sends in the padrone's moiety of wine, oil,
wheat, and Indian corn, without more peculation than is inevitable;
which done, there is the care of disposing of the stores of grain and
other articles of consumption, which, after retaining what is necessary
for the household, the possidente sells to traders, either for home
supply or foreign exportation.

According to her promise, Volunnia came to fetch me, that I might be
introduced in form to her own apartments, which were on the second
floor. On our way to them, we passed through the two saloons and large
entrance-hall appropriated to the marchesa, which had evidently been
the state-rooms of the palazzo in its palmy days, and in their general
arrangements resembled others of the same description with which I
had become familiar in Ancona: gilded sofas and arm-chairs, covered
with faded damask, stationed immovably along the walls, a profusion of
pictures and carved _consoles_, embellished by tall mirrors. In the
one, where she told me her sister-in-law habitually received, there
were a few modern additions, some light chairs, a round table, strewn
with such newspapers as she could contrive to get together, and a
number of little squares of carpet placed in array before the grim,
high-backed seats, that seemed to look frowningly on these tokens of
that modern degeneracy which shrank from contact with the marble floor
whereon, in their day, the feet of the best and fairest had contentedly
reposed.

Volunnia's sitting-room contained tokens of her tastes and attainments,
which, to do her justice, were of no common order, especially when
it is borne in mind how much difficulty she must have overcome in
acquiring the accomplishments of which a piano, or rather spinet, a
harp, and a number of paintings on ivory, gave the indication—to say
nothing of the severer studies that a score or two of Latin and old
French and English authors, on a dusty book-shelf, revealed to my gaze.

After she had played a sonata from Paesiello, and taken down some
of her paintings, framed in those circles of ebony familiar to our
childhood as containing effigies of old gentlemen in bag-wigs and
white frills, for my approving inspection; after reading aloud a page
of English to show me her proficiency, and obtaining a promise that
I would give her a lesson every day while I remained there; after
permitting me to turn over her books in the vain hope of finding
anything more modern than Young's _Night Thoughts_ and the _Spectator_
in the English department, or Pascal and Madame de Sévigné in the
French, while she proffered, as some light reading in Italian,
Alfieri's translation of Sallust's _Conspiracy of Catiline_—after, I
say, all these preliminaries, Volunnia laid aside her homage to the
Sacred Nine, and, betaking herself to a minute inspection of my toilet,
seemed more intent upon a sacrifice to the graces, than the singular
_négligé_ of her attire had at first led me to anticipate.

Having made her very happy by the assurance that she might have
whatever she liked in my wardrobe copied for her own wear, she took
me into her bed-room to see an elaborate bonnet that had just come
from Rome, which she intended to appear in at Easter. As she tried it
on complacently, the droll effect of the smart _coiffure_ over the
dingy wrapper and coarse woollen shawl pinned round her throat to
conceal all sorts of deficiencies, irresistibly reminded me of Miss
Charity Pecksniff in the wedding-bonnet and dimity bed-gown. The one in
question was a bright yellow, and Volunnia asked me, as she adjusted it
before the glass, whether it did not become her complexion, which, she
had been told, was quite Spanish in its tints.

Of course I did not disturb the harmless conceit, and we went
down-stairs to turn over my stock of finery as lovingly as possible.




CHAPTER XVIII.

   Volunnia's inquisitiveness—Her strictures on English
     propriety—The Marchesa Silvia's dread of heretics—The
     dinner—The Marchesa Gentilina knits stockings and talks
     politics.


I was very much diverted, during the investigation of my wardrobe, at
noticing how keenly Volunnia eyed the make and quality of my garments,
as if furnishing some clue to my position in society; still further
to elucidate which, she proceeded to a diligent cross-examination
respecting my birth, parentage, and the reasons which had brought me so
far from my own country.

Strange as it may seem, there was nothing I felt disposed to take
offence at in these interrogatories. They showed so much ignorance
of the world beyond the narrow limits in which she lived; so
much curiosity to learn something of a country that, despite her
school-learning, was almost as much an Ultima Thule to her as to her
Roman ancestors; and displayed besides so amusingly the impression
left upon foreigners by some of our everyday customs, that I should
have been foolishly sensitive, as well as have deprived myself of a
good deal of entertainment, had I resented Volunnia's inquiries, or her
comments upon my answers. But I was evidently an enigma to her, which
it would have required a second Œdipus to unravel.

“_Ma, ma_,” she said at length, as if musing upon the subject—“when
you return to England, will it not hinder your ever marrying to have it
said that you have been abroad, away from your nearest relations?—and
who, after all, will be able to certify where? _We_, in these parts,
know and respect your uncle and his family, and can answer for their
manner of life; but supposing a _partito_ in your own country is
found for you, might not injurious inferences be drawn from your long
absence? Who will vouch for your having been really under the care of
your uncle, or furnish proofs of his excellence and fitness for the
charge?”

I had not weighed all these important considerations, I told her
gravely—nevertheless had no fear, in the event of their being mooted,
that any unpleasant remarks could be applied to my stay with my
relations in Ancona.

“I suppose you know best, carina; but a person who contemplates
marriage has certainly a right to be particular as to the previous
proceedings of the young lady who may be proposed to him as a wife—and
who can satisfy the doubts of a man in such a case? With us, believe
me, the injury to a woman's prospects would be incalculable.”

I rejoined meekly, that in England it was not usual, and, above all,
not deemed advisable, for persons to enter into matrimony without such
knowledge of each other's characters, and mutual trust and confidence,
as rendered it impossible that suspicions like those she hinted at
could ever be entertained.

“You are a singular people, you English!” she exclaimed; “such licence
allowed women when single—such severity shown towards them when
married. I saw a little of your manners several years ago, when I
spent a winter with my parents in Rome. Alas! we were drawn thither
by that ill-fated _processo_, and became acquainted with a family of
your compatriots. I was astonished! Young men were allowed to come
constantly in the evening to the house, and would stand by the piano
while the young ladies played, and turn over the leaves of their
music-books, or assist them in the duties of the tea-table, laughing
and talking without the least restraint; nay, more, hold tête-à-tête
conversations over an embroidery-frame or a chess-board, while the
mother sat at the other end of the room, perfectly indifferent as to
what they might be saying.”

“Because she, doubtless, had confidence that neither the young
Englishmen she permitted to visit at her house would dream of uttering,
nor her daughters so far forget themselves as to listen to, a single
word incompatible with the strictest propriety.”

“Precisely: that is what this lady said when my poor mother,
_buon'anima_, ventured some remark on these proceedings, so singular
to our eyes. Then, what astonished us exceedingly was the great
familiarity with their brothers, by whom I have frequently seen them
kissed, without any motive—such as saying farewell before a long
absence, or a return from a journey—to authorize it; while they were
permitted to walk or ride out without any other escort—one or two
of the sons' most intimate friends sometimes even joining them; the
mother calmly acquiescing, nay, encouraging them, by saying her sons
were the natural guardians of their sisters, and would admit no one to
their society unworthy of that distinction! But the crowning stroke of
all was when a marriage was combined with some _milor_ for one of the
young ladies, or rather when she had combined it for herself—for he
spoke to _her_ before declaring himself to the parents—she was allowed
to take his arm on the Pincian Hill or the Villa Borghese, with only
a sister or a young brother of nineteen or twenty as a chaperon; and
I myself have seen them, under their mother's very eyes, stand for
half-an-hour in the evening on a balcony, under pretence of looking at
the moonlight, and unconsciously turning my head in that direction, I
could not help witnessing ... Ahem!” Volunnia blushed and hesitated.

“A little of the same proceeding you had objected to in the brothers?”

“You are right! At the moment I was so amazed I hardly dared tell my
mother what I had beheld; she would have been too much scandalized!”

“And yet you did not count it worthy of remark, among your own
Roman friends, to see a young woman, but two or three years married,
surrounded by a bevy of admirers; carrying the arts of coquetry to
their utmost height, and taking pride in inspiring attachments and
receiving declarations which would be esteemed an insult to a modest
English wife. And you did not feel shocked, when the first novelty of
her gay life was over—when the society from which she had been shut
out in her girlhood had lost its intoxicating influence—to hear of
her exchanging the homage of the many for the exclusive devotion of
a recognized _cavaliere_, replacing, by his daily assiduities, the
presence of a husband who has found similar occupations for himself
elsewhere! _Scusi_, Signora Volunnia: you are at liberty to call us a
strange people, but permit me to say our system, even taken from your
own point of view, is a thousand times preferable to yours.”

“_Via, via_,” she replied; “you exaggerate a little. What you say
might be applicable fifty years ago, when it used to be stipulated in
the marriage-contract that the wife should have but one _cavaliere
servente_, and the husband often selected a friend whom he thought
trustworthy for that office. But things have changed now: it is no
longer looked upon as indispensable; and I could tell you of several
ladies of my acquaintance who have never had a _cavaliere_, nor the
shadow of one. My own mother, dear soul! I can cite as an instance—a
remarkable one, I admit, for the period when she was young—but then
she had a singular affection for my father, who on his side was always
ready to accompany her to the theatre or the casino; or else, as I
myself remember, whenever she was indisposed, for two or three hours
together would sit in her room, talking most agreeably: altogether, he
showed extreme amiability in paying her those little attentions which
others, less fortunate in their marriage, are glad to receive from
their _cavalieri_. Then take Silvia for another example: I do not think
she has ever had an idea upon the subject; in fact, she has no taste
for amusements, and never cares for anything except her children and
her religious duties, in which last, indeed, she is exemplary.”

The conversation was here interrupted by a servant coming to inquire
whether the marchesina intended to drive or walk before dinner, which
reminded her of the lateness of the hour, and the necessity of retiring
to dress. About one o'clock, the ladies of the family went out—not
together, nor indeed frequently, except Silvia, who daily repaired
with her pale children and two nurses to an avenue of trees outside the
gates of the town, where they descended from the carriage, and crawled
up and down for an hour or so, and then drove home again.

The marchesa seldom cared to leave the house; she always had visitors
at that hour, and preferred talking to any other exercise. Volunnia was
the only one who found any pleasure in a walk—a taste in which she had
no sympathy from the other members of the family, as even her brothers
never dreamed of going further than the caffè, or, at the utmost, a few
steps upon the public promenade. She was, therefore, glad to enlist
me as a companion, and, followed by one of the liveried attendants,
who was especially dedicated to Volunnia's service—being her nurse
in sickness as well as body-guard in health—we took several walks in
the environs of Macerata. Sometimes, too, I went with the marchesa to
pay visits; and once or twice, to propitiate Silvia, I accepted her
invitation to drive with her and the children; but we never became
cordial. I was too much at variance with all her preconceived ideas
of propriety ever to find favour in her eyes; besides, my being a
Protestant was an insurmountable disqualification. I accidentally
discovered she firmly believed that the transmigration of human souls
into the bodies of animals was a dogma of the Church of England—a
conclusion founded upon the circumstance, that some years before, an
English family holding this theory had resided in Macerata, where they
excited much notice by purchasing and fondly cherishing sundry diseased
horses, half-starved sheep, and other suffering quadrupeds, in whom,
they declared, dwelt the spirits of their departed relations. Silvia
could never quite believe that I did not hold this tenet. She did not,
indeed, like conversations on such subjects; and once, when I said
something laughingly in allusion to myself, thus retorted, “Well, what
does it signify, after all? You do not pray to the Madonna, so the rest
matters little.” And on my offering to lend her an Italian translation
of the English Prayer-book, she shrunk back, colouring deeply, and
abruptly declined.

But stay, it is three o'clock, and Rococo stands with a napkin under
his arm, knocking at each door—“Eccellenza in tavola.” And their
excellencies being very hungry, no time is lost in assembling in the
room down-stairs, where the parrot, on a lofty perch, is sounding the
note of preparation with right good-will. “Presto! Presto! La Zuppa.
Ho fame—Ho fame!”—he exclaims in shrill accents, flapping his wings,
while the family, hastily crossing themselves, are taking their places,
and addressing each other in voices almost as piercing to the ear; for
the high key in which Italians carry on their familiar discourse is
one of the peculiarities to which an English person finds it the most
difficult to become reconciled.

The large table is very simply laid; the dinner-service is of the
plainest white-ware, and the glass is equally ordinary. Between
every two places there is a bottle of wine—the growth of their own
vineyards—and a decanter of water; and beneath every napkin a small
loaf of bread. In the centre, a number of small dishes are disposed in
a circle, called the _ghirlanda_: these contain anchovies, caviare,
olives, Bologna sausage cut into thin slices, butter, pickles, and
raw ham, and are partaken of after the soup; broth, thickened with
semolina, has been served out from a sideboard by the _maestro di
casa_, and handed by the other servants, of whom there are three
in attendance. Then are brought round, successively, boiled fowls
stuffed with chestnuts; fried fish; roast lamb; a pie of cocks' combs
and brains, with a sweet crust; polenta—Indian-corn meal—in a form
enshrining stewed birds, and seasoned with Parmesan cheese; onions
dressed _all'agro dolce_ with vinegar and sugar; and, lastly, chocolate
cream—each dish being carved, where carving is necessary, by Rococo.

When these comestibles have been fully done justice to, the cloth is
swept, the _ghirlanda_ is removed, and the dessert, in the same sort of
white dishes, put upon table: apples and pears piled together, oranges
opposite; cheese and celery—all taken indiscriminately on the same
plate.

The repast occupies a long time, for tongues, as well as knives and
forks, are busy, and as great an amount of talking as of eating is got
through. Being the first general gathering of the day, there is all
the out-door gossip, as well as domestic intelligence, reciprocally to
be imparted. In the conversation, the servants even occasionally join,
volunteering an opinion as to whether it will rain the next quarter of
the moon, or announcing that the Signora Marchesa So-and-so is laid up
with a tooth-ache, or that Monsignor the Bishop has the gout; and as
for Rococo, he is continually appealed to, being evidently recognized
as an authority by the whole house.

In conclusion, finger-glasses, with slices of lemon floating in
the water, are presented to us, and we adjourn to the marchesa's
drawing-room, where coffee is served; and after a few minutes, the
majority disperse—Silvia to her babes, the priest to his breviary,
Volunnia to her bower. Papà calls for his cloak and stick, and departs
for the casino, leaning on the arm of Oliverotto, who, having dutifully
accompanied his father thither, adjourns to the caffè, and will
probably not reappear in the bosom of his family until supper.

I remain with the marchesa and Alessandro, who always passes the early
hours of the evening at home, only going out to pay some accustomed
visit or look in at the casino, from eight to ten, at which early
hour, to their great discomfort, they sup on account of papà. It soon
grows dark, and a large _lucerna_ is brought in, before which the
servant adjusts a green shade, effectually precluding the possibility
of reading or working by its light, except, indeed, that marvellous
knitting which the marchesa carries on mechanically, never looking at
her needles, and yet producing all sorts of complicated patterns for
her stockings, the fabrication of which is her sole manual employment.

It is unusually cold for the middle of February, and there is a
contention about the fire, which they insist upon lighting out of
compliment to me; but this I stoutly refuse, knowing that every
indisposition of the family or their visitants for the next fortnight
at least would be attributed to it. So I wrap myself in a large shawl,
have a _cassetta_ filled with live embers for my feet, and feel quite
comfortable. But I must learn to knit too, for then I shall be able to
keep my attention from wandering while the marchesa talks, and really
she is worth listening to, though Alessandro yawns so audibly. She is
holding forth warmly against the English Government for having deluded
the Italians, and especially the Sicilians, by encouraging them to
revolt in 1848, and abandoning them to their fate when defeated in
1849. It is indeed a sorry tale, and there is little to be said in
extenuation, though naturally one tries to make the best of it. Not
with me, not with the English people, is she angry, the marchesa over
and over again repeats; it is with that cold selfishness which is
here considered the blot upon English policy in all its relations with
foreign nations.

There is a ring at the bell! Alessandro rouses himself. It is past six.
The friends who form the conversazione begin to arrive, each person
staying from one to two hours, according to the number of other houses
at which he also habitually visits. Though they come every evening,
they never shake hands, at least not those of the old _régime_, and
they have always something new to say.




CHAPTER XIX.

   A conversazione verbatim—Admiration for Piedmont—An attack of
     banditti—The Marchesa describes the actual wretchedness of
     the country—Cardinal Antonelli's addition to the calendar
     year—Monopoly of the Corn trade—Entrance of the Knight of
     Malta.


The conversazione, in its outward features, I have elsewhere
sufficiently dwelt upon; but its portraiture of domestic life, of
fettered thoughts, of quaint opinion, as exhibited in one evening at
the Palazzo Marziani, I would fain reproduce for the English reader,
who may probably live to see the day when a mighty revolution will
uproot all traces of the system of society feebly, though truthfully,
mirrored in these pages.

I should, however, be sorry to convey any idea of the ponderous
formality of some of the frequenters of the Marchesa Gentilina's
circle; or the fatiguing effect which the unvarying ceremoniousness
of their demeanour on entering produced upon me. Though accustomed to
visit the family every night for scores of years, having formed part
of the old Marchesa Marziani's _società_ while she lived, as regularly
as they now did that of her successor, they never presented themselves
without the same profound bow, and the same “Marchesa, I rejoice to
see you well! How is the Marchese Alessandro? I met your esteemed
father-in-law, the marchese, not long since, on his way to the casino.
I concluded, from this circumstance, that his cold was better; the
violet-tea he was ordered to take last night, doubtless produced a
copious perspiration.” Or else: “I hope the Marchesa Silvia and her
children are in good health. I thought her looking rather fatigued when
I saw her taking her accustomed airing to-day. Perhaps nursing does
not agree with her;” and so on, uniting the most punctilious etiquette
with the most detailed minutiæ of everyday life, such as is now seldom
seen except in the heart of Italy, where intercourse with foreigners
is still too rare to have any influence in modifying the old-fashioned
tone of conversation.

Then the budget of news would be unfolded, and every murder or highway
robbery within the circuit of fifty miles, every accident that has
taken place in the town that day, is as circumstantially related as
if a reporter from Scotland Yard had been in attendance. Next, there
are the maladies of all their invalid acquaintances to be discussed;
while any remarkable complaint amongst members of the _mezzo cetto_ and
shopkeepers, whom of course they all know by sight and name, is also
gratefully admitted to the general repository. Add to these the births,
present or anticipated, in the high world of Macerata, and, above all,
the marriages—an unfailing source of speculation and interest—and a
tolerable idea may be formed of the home department of the Colloquial
Gazette, which supplies the place of newspapers and weekly periodicals,
&c., to an Italian interior. The foreign intelligence is almost equally
well supplied, though not so widely, or, more properly speaking, not
so unreservedly communicated. How they contrived to know all they did
of what was passing in other countries, considering that the newspapers
allowed to be circulated only gave the official report of some events,
and pertinaciously ignored others, was always a surprise to me, though
fully weighing the stimulus to inquiry of which the Government's
senseless restrictions were naturally productive.

But this information, as I have remarked, was not common to all,
nor dispensed to all equally. The happy possessor of any contraband
political novelty could be detected by his air of mysterious
importance, his unwonted sententiousness, his impatience till the one
or two old _codini_, who had devolved like family heir-looms upon the
marchesa, had taken their leave; when it would be related, with the
accompaniment of many gleeful expressive gestures, how such and such
tidings had been received, that must have been like gall and wormwood
to the existing powers.

Piedmont—constitutional Piedmont, progressist Piedmont—generally
furnished the substance of these discourses. One day it would be
whispered that a law was being contemplated in that contumacious
little kingdom, for the suppression of many among the monastic orders;
another, that its clergy were rendered amenable to civil tribunals
for offences unconnected with ecclesiastical discipline: or else it
would be ecstatically reported that the minister Cavour snapped his
fingers at the threatened interdict, and answered the vituperation
of the exiled Archbishop of Turin by fresh concessions to liberty of
conscience. These graver themes were but interludes, however. As if
fearful of lingering too long upon them, they used to pass to more
trivial subjects with strange versatility, though losing no opportunity
of levelling a shaft against their own Government, and inveighing
at the existing and daily-increasing grievances, which not even the
respectable codini any longer attempted to defend.

The marchesa's _società_ had not more than four or five unvarying
frequenters; but in a small town like Macerata, where most of the
ladies received, this was considered quite a brilliant circle. No
refreshments of any kind were served or thought of, and no other light
was supplied than what the _lucerna_ furnished. If the reader, who has
followed me through my first day in the bosom of the Marziani family,
likes to hear something of its conclusion, he may fancy himself seated
on a brocaded chair in that corner—he need not fear being discovered,
the lucerna's rays do not penetrate so far—he may put on his cloak if
he is cold—there! I have pushed a little square of carpet towards him
for his feet, while for the first time he _assists_, to use a foreign
idiom, at a genuine Italian conversazione.

“Has the marchesa heard of the strange adventure at the Villa D——,
two nights ago?” inquired a young physician, who, uniting some
poetical to a considerable share of medical reputation, had the
_entrée_ to the palazzo, which its mistress was only restrained
by the fear of compromising her husband, from throwing open to all
the disaffected professional men in Macerata and its environs. “The
house was attacked soon after midnight by a number of banditti, some
of them with fire-arms, of which the people left in charge were
of course destitute—our new-year's gift from the Austrian general
having been, as you remember, a peremptory refusal to our petition
that country-houses in isolated situations might retain one or two
fowling-pieces as a defence. Well, the wind was high, so that the
unfortunate inmates feared their cries for help, and the ringing of
the alarm-bell, would be alike unheard; while the robbers, finding the
coast clear, after having, luckily enough, lost a good deal of time
in trying to force open the strongly-secured house-door, bethought
themselves of _undermining_ it. They had almost finished their labours,
when the storm beginning to lull, the beleaguered garrison succeeded
in attracting attention. A picket of _finanzieri_ (custom-house
officers) who chanced to be patrolling, on the look-out for smugglers,
hastened to their assistance; and the enemy, hearing them approach,
precipitately dispersed.”

“_Ehi poveri noi!_” sighed the old Marchese Testaferrata, the strongest
advocate of retrogradism in the società, “we are indeed in a bad case!
The boasted improvements of this century, its fine liberalism, its
socialism, its toleration to heretics, ahem, ahem!—it is all being
visited now upon us! I grant you, yes, even I confess, that this
military law is a little severe. But if we had not this, ugh! we should
have worse. _This_ is what the Mazziniani would give us if they could.
_We_ can speak of that with some experience, _ehi_?” and tapping his
heart with his forefinger, to denote stabbing, he then extended it
horizontally as an emblem of shooting; after which he drew in his two
hollow cheeks, so as to form a still greater cavity, and slowly nodding
his head, looked as if he thought quite enough had been said upon so
unpleasant a subject.

The young doctor shrugged his shoulders; the marchesa took up the
gauntlet.

“If we had not this! _Per Bacco_, you are right, we _should_ have
worse. If the Austrians go on in this way, who will reap the harvest
of the odium they have plentifully sown? Why, the priests, of course,
whom they are now supporting with their bayonets and the stick! _They_
are safe from popular vengeance. What has an army like theirs to fear?
But let their backs be once turned—let the last sail of the fleet which
will bear them from our shores have sunk beneath the horizon, and who
can estimate the violence with which the torrent, so long forcibly
restrained, will break forth? Who can assign any limits to popular fury
under provocation, such as daily, weekly, yearly, is crying to Heaven
for redress? And who will be the sufferers along with the priests? Why,
we nobles, of course, whom the people, right or wrong, identify with
them, and hate with equal hatred.”

“_Per carità_, marchesa,” interposed a very timorous-looking little
man, turning pale, and wiping his forehead, “let us not speak of
such things. Those who have outlived the Reign of Terror of '49, have
reasonable grounds for not expecting to see anything so horrible again.
Besides, we are all friends here; but still, walls have ears.”

“It cannot be denied, however, that we are in a cruel position,” said
a quiet, benevolent-looking man, with a stoop of the shoulders, and a
great weakness of sight—the latter an appanage of old descent in many
of the noble families in the Marche. “It is quite true that the people
place us in the same category with the priests, while the priests drain
us like a sponge! We shall have soon to choose between the excesses of
Mazzinianism or beggary. This additional claim for the land-tax from us
poor _possidenti_—coming after the long-standing prohibition to sell
our grain for foreign exportation, and the losses consequent upon the
low price at which we have been compelled to dispose of it—is really
almost too much for mortal patience to endure.”

“_Come, come?_ What do you mean?” cried old Testaferrata, one of the
largest landed proprietors in the country. “I pay the bi-monthly tax
upon the produce of my estates every two months in anticipation. It
is heavy enough already, in all conscience; but I remember an army of
occupation cannot be maintained for nothing, and they who necessitated
the Austrians being here are those we have to thank for it. _Ma, ma_,
I think we bear our part sufficiently. You surely do not mean to say
anything more is expected from us?”

“_Caro mio_,” answered the lady of the house, “in this extremity,
miraculous powers have developed themselves to aid the suffering
Church. The calendar year, without disturbing the order of nature,
will henceforth consist of fourteen months! No _new_ measure is in
contemplation; tranquillize yourself on this point; simply, we are
to pay seven _bimestri_, instead of six, as heretofore, to supply the
exhausted coffers of the treasury—or, in more straightforward terms,
to line the pockets of a certain _eminentissimo_ and his amiable
relations.”

“Impossible! impossible!” groaned the poor codino, “it is too hard.
Surely some distinction should be made.”

“Without arguing upon differences of opinion,” mildly remarked the good
Alessandro, whose office it was to spread oil upon the troubled waters
of political discussion, “I am sorry to assure you, marchese, that what
Gentilina tells you is too true. You may always trust to her sources of
information.”

“Yes, he is right,” said the marchesa, looking at her husband with
a pleased expression. “Alessandro knows I have never misled him yet
in any news of this kind; and you will see that, at the end of this
month, although you paid punctually at the beginning of last, you will
be again summoned to do so; and then, just as if it was in the proper
course of things, your usual _bimestre_ will, a few days afterwards, be
called for!”

By way of parenthesis, I must state that the correctness of the
marchesa's information, in the course of a few days, was fully
demonstrated, while this singular arrangement is still continued
yearly.

“But this is not the worst,” she continued. “Our good Conte Muzio
there”—indicating the quiet man who had first alluded to the increased
taxation—“lamented our losses by this long prohibition upon the
exporting corn-trade—a measure rendered indispensable, we were told,
by the fears entertained respecting a scarcity after next harvest;
so, although commerce languished, and in the seaports thousands of
people were thrown out of their usual employment, we did not complain,
but acquiesced in its necessity. We sold our grain meantime—at low
prices, it is true—but still we sold. There was a silent yet almost a
simultaneous demand for it all over the country. Once or twice I had
my misgivings, and asked who the buyers could be, and what part of
the State it was principally intended to supply. 'The interior, the
interior,' was always the answer. There was nothing to say against
that. Notwithstanding, I remarked once or twice to Alessandro: 'There
will be some _diavoleria_ here yet.' Now my words have come true! The
prohibition is removed for a limited period; the ports are open again.
At Civita Vecchia it is known to-day; the welcome news will reach
Ancona to-morrow morning. For a moment there will be great joy. The
merchants will scour the country to buy grain, but there is nothing
left for them. It has all been sold—sold unsuspectingly into the
hands of one person, the Cardinal Antonelli's brother. He has it all—a
perfect monopoly of the corn-trade. Ha! ha! was it not cleverly done?
There will be just time given for it to be all shipped, and then down
comes another courier. The ports are once more closed, and the curtain
falls upon the brother—or somebody else—chuckling over a few hundred
thousand dollars he has realized by this pretty little transaction.”

“I cannot believe that till I have seen it,” said Testaferrata.

“You need not shake your head, marchese,” she retorted; “it is as
true as that we are all sitting here. As for ourselves, nobody forced
us to sell our corn: so, although to a certain degree we have been
dupes, I see no particular cause of complaint. But it is the juggling,
the pretence of sparing the country's resources, only to drain them
tenfold more than by legitimate commerce, which it stirs my bile to
contemplate! And if the coming harvest is _not_ plentiful, and the
price of bread rises in the autumn, what will become of the miserable
population, already poor enough?”

The entrance of another personage at this moment gave an opportune
turn to the conversation. The new-comer was a handsome, graceful young
man about thirty, with an ease and sprightliness of manner that was
remarkably opposed to the formality and ceremoniousness of those who
had previously appeared. He was hailed with evident pleasure by the
whole società; and the marchesa, with an exclamation of joy, gave him
her hand to kiss, and inquired what good-fortune had sent her dear
Checchino (the diminutive of Francesco) down from Rome.

“I am only here _di passaggio_, dear lady! My duty summons me to
Ancona, to await our grand-master who is expected there next week from
Venice; and my affection prompted me to leave Rome a few days earlier
than necessary, that I might stop at Macerata with my friends.”

While the marchesa asked half a dozen questions in a breath about
her Roman acquaintances, Alessandro, who had not yet gone out, told
me, _sotto voce_, that this Checchino was a young cousin of theirs, a
knight of Malta, whom they were all very fond of.

“A knight of Malta?” I answered, surveying him with increased interest.
“I had fancied the order no longer existed.”

“No more it ought, to say the truth. You should hear Gentilina rave
about it,” he said, raising his eyebrows, and emitting a sibilating
sound from his lips, to denote the excess of her eloquence; “and I
cannot deny that she has reason. It is _un voto iniquo_, a wicked,
unnatural vow—an order which, if I were Pope, I would abolish the
very first hour of my reign. The knights of Malta are rich; they
have large revenues: Checchino receives one thousand dollars a year
(£200), and has his apartments rent free in the palace of the Order in
the Via Condotti in Rome, besides other advantages; so, for a single
man, he is amply provided for. Then it is a distinction in society;
only members of the best families are admitted; and a _cavaliere di
Malta_ is fit company for kings. But he cannot marry: he is bound by
a vow as irrevocable as that of priests or friars, although exposed
to far greater temptations; for he may go to every ball, theatre, or
concert in Rome, or wherever he may be, without censure. He dances,
he dresses in the height of fashion, he pays court, and yet he cannot
marry—anything but that! What will you have? Gentilina has too much
justice in all she says!”




CHAPTER XX.

   Conversazione continued—Match-making—The Codini opposed
     to travelling—Hopes of the liberals centred in
     Piedmont—Volunnia's pleasantries—Story of the young noble and
     his pasteboard soldiers.


Meanwhile the representative of the knights-hospitallers of St John
of Jerusalem, and the defenders of Rhodes and of Malta, did not seem
at all to regard himself as an object of commiseration, but went on
talking and laughing in the highest spirits, giving a rapid summary of
all the recent Carnival gossip of Rome, and then asked, in his turn,
the news of Macerata in the same gay, careless strain.

“So the Marchese Ridolfi has married his _gobbina_ daughter at last,
I am told? It was no easy achievement, I should say. Who arranged the
affair?”

“As for that, I do not exactly know,” answered the timid old count,
brightening up as he entered on a genial topic; for having disposed of
his own daughters very advantageously some years before, he assumed an
air of superiority whenever the subject was introduced, conscious that
he was regarded with a sort of admiring envy by fathers still burdened
with the care of settling theirs. “I do not exactly know,” he repeated,
rubbing his hands, “whether it was some _amico di casa_ (family friend)
or a matrimonial broker, who arranged the partito; but whoever did,
it was clumsily done enough! The sposo, a Neapolitan baron, thought
the _dote_ very fair, and was tolerably satisfied with the portrait
they sent him before he signed. Ridolfi, on his part, had no cause to
complain of the information he received concerning the young man, his
fortune, and so forth; and accordingly, near the end of Carnival, he
arrived for the celebration of the marriage. Then _corbezzoli!_ there
is a pretty piece of work! The baron perceives that one of the young
lady's shoulders is much higher than the other, a fact the painter
had omitted in her portrait—by the by, it was only a medallion that
was sent—merely the head, ha! ha!—and says, _tutto schietto_, just in
two words, that unless a bag of three thousand additional dollars is
produced, to give her form its required equipoise, he will go back to
his own country as he came, and annul the contract! You should have
seen the way Ridolfi was in. Nothing could bring him to reason for some
time, and a lawsuit seemed inevitable. But then I and some others, who
had not been consulted before, came forward, and we mediated, and we
talked. _Basta!_ there was a compromise, and the wedding took place the
last Tuesday of Carnival. I was really glad, for I had it upon my heart
to get that poor girl married.”

“I don't deny the sposo had some reason on his side,” said the
other Nestor of the group, the Marchese Testaferrata. “But if
Ridolfi had taken my advice, after what we heard of his vagabond
dispositions—instead of thinking it rather a fine thing that his future
son-in-law had been to Paris, and who knows where—he would have had
nothing to say to the match. '_Senti, caro_,' I said to him, 'I have
lived a few more years than you, and I never yet saw any good from
wandering about the world. Let each man stay among his own people,
where his fathers lived and died. What did for our parents, is surely
good enough for us.' But he thought he knew better, _poveretto_; he
would not listen to me, so I washed my hands of the business.”

“What was he to do?” returned the other. “There was the girl to find
a husband for, and he was obliged to adapt himself to what he could
get. Besides, it is agreed that the sposi are to spend alternately six
months with her family here, and six with his in Calabria.”

I could not help mentally pitying the young couple when I heard of this
arrangement; but the next moment's reflection served to remind me that
a _ménage tête-à-tête_ between persons united under such circumstances
could present nothing very inviting, and accordingly I withdrew my
superfluous sympathy.

“And young Della Porta?” ashed Checchino, “he has got into a lawsuit
about something like Ridolfi's affair—has he not?”

“No; not precisely. It appears he employed a regular _sensale_ (broker)
to negotiate his marriage with a rich heiress of Ancona; and as she was
really a capital match, and several other candidates were in the field,
he promised him a large percentage—I do not recollect how much—upon
the total amount of her fortune, should he succeed in arranging it.
Everything went on smoothly, and the marriage took place; but somehow
our good friend did not find it convenient to fulfil his agreement. So
the broker cites him before the Tribunal, where Della Porta justifies
himself by declaring it is through other channels that success was
obtained, and that the plaintiff's boasted influence _alone_ would
have been ineffectual. So they have gone regularly to law, and a fine
affair they will make of it. To crown the whole, the father of the
sposa is furious, for he finds the broker purposely deceived him about
Della Porta's fortune; he is not half so well off as he gave him to
understand. Ah, well, I can pity him, poor man: I pity all those who
have daughters to marry.”

“And I am sure I pity those who have married his daughters!” cried
Checchino, as the door closed upon the two old gentlemen, who always
went away together at the same hour, to the evident relief of the rest
of the company. “And that old Testaferrata, too, with his still more
ultra-codino theories. He ought certainly to have been a Chinese. I
remember when his grandson wanted to visit the Great Exhibition of
London. _Corpo di Bacco!_ he might as well have requested leave to go
to the infernal regions.”

“Oh, as for that, I could tell you of scores of young men whose
passports were refused them by our most enlightened Government for that
dangerous expedition.”

“If I was to repeat that in England,” I said, “I should either be
accused of wilful exaggeration, or of being misled by party feeling.”

“The signorina is right!” exclaimed the doctor. “It is easy to conceive
that these miserable puerilities, these minutiæ of despotism, are below
the comprehension of a people who have never been denied either freedom
of action or of speech.”

“This condition of things cannot last, however,” said the Conte
Muzio, who, since the departure of the two codini, had become more
animated; the presence of the old conte, so exulting over all those
oppressed with matrimonial cares, always sensibly affecting him—so
they afterwards told me—burdened as he was with five marriageable
nieces, for whose sake he had long laid aside all projects for himself,
devoting his little patrimony to augmenting his widowed sister's scanty
resources. “No, no, it cannot last. From what my nephew writes me from
Turin, of the steadiness of the ministry amidst the attacks of the two
extreme parties—the Retrogrades and Republicans—and their determination
to uphold the constitution to the utmost, I augur better times for
ourselves. Let it be but consolidated by a few more years, that
precious constitution, the only reality left of the dreams and hopes,
and alas! the excesses of a period so bright in its dawning, so dark
in its close—let this be, and all of us, lifting up our drooping heads,
looking to Piedmont as our example and regenerator, will yet find those
beautiful words, '_Italia unita_,' are no delusion.”

“Then he is as enthusiastic as ever with his adopted country, your
nephew, _ehi_?” inquired Checchino. “He is quite a Piedmontese.”

“He is Italian, I hope,” said Muzio, quietly. “I look for the day when
_that_ will be the only designation of all born within the length and
breadth of the fairest country in Europe.”

“You are an optimist, _caro_, as well as the king of uncles. I hope
we shall see him a general some day. Do you know, signorina,” turning
to me, “that this unparalleled Conte Muzio, to gratify his nephew's
martial genius, took him to Turin, and has placed him in the military
academy, where—But who have we here at last? Signora Volunnia, I
congratulate myself on seeing you so well. It appeared to me a thousand
years till I saw you again!”

Volunnia received her cousin's greeting with great friendliness,
reciprocating his compliments on the pleasure of meeting, but assured
him her health was far from good, and announced that she purposed
taking some cream of tartar the next morning as a _rinfrescante_, and
would stay all day in bed. These particulars having elicited great
sympathy from the assembled friends, she next playfully tapped the
knight of Malta on the lower part of his waistcoat, remarking: “Ah,
Checchino mio, comminci a metterti un po' di pancia,” which, delicately
translated, signifies, “You are growing rather corpulent;” a proceeding
I could not help looking upon as singular, especially after her
strictures on English propriety.

Checchino, who evidently piqued himself upon his figure, bore the laugh
this sally elicited with tolerably good grace, but revenged himself by
telling Volunnia of the marriages of two or three young ladies in Rome
whose mothers, he well knew, had been her contemporaries; and asked
with tender interest after her sisters and their children, which last
topic always irritated her extremely.

Then, when he thought her sufficiently punished, with the tact that is
almost instinctive to an Italian, he brought back the conversation to
the Conte Muzio's nephew, on whom the good uncle's hopes and affection
were evidently centered.

“So he passed his examinations well on entering? That must have been
a great consolation to you, after all the sacrifices you made, and the
difficulties you had to overcome beforehand. Ah, it is a fine service,
no doubt: the Piedmontese _are_ soldiers!”

“My friend,” said Muzio, “they are also sailors and engineers, and
manufacturers and politicians—in a word, they are MEN. I would sooner
my nephew had chosen another than the military profession: to some
honourable employment I had always destined him; for I resolved at any
cost to emancipate him from the life of caffès and theatres, which
foreigners say is the sole aim of an Italian's existence, but that,
more truly speaking, he is driven to by the peculiarities of his social
position; and it would have suited better with our limited fortune had
the boy made a different selection. But the bias was too strong: it
would have been cruel to resist it.”

“If he had not had you for his uncle,” cried the marchesa, “he would
have turned out a second Paolo Pagano with his toy-soldiers.”

“Who is he?” I asked. “Is not Pagano the name of the old gentleman who
went away with the Marchese Testaferrata?”

“_Per appunto_,” she answered, “he is his father; but you do not hear
so much of poor Paolo, though he is more than thirty years old, as of
the blessing of having disposed of all his daughters. He wanted to
be a soldier too, but it was not to be thought of; so his military
tendencies, denied their natural vent, have displayed themselves in
a ludicrous form. For years he has been employed in the construction
of thousands of little pasteboard figures, which he paints and equips
with the utmost care, according to the uniform of different nations.
To place these in line of battle, to repeat manœuvres he sees the
Austrians practise while out exercising, to go through the routine of
drill, parade, and bivouac, constitutes the occupation and enjoyment of
his life.”

“But you should see the order in which he keeps them,” said Checchino:
“the last time I was here, I got a sight of the army, all equipped
for the winter campaign. You must know, it is believed that, being
perplexed as to the means of providing for so large a body, he once
appropriated the ample cloak of his uncle, a canon, and cut it up into
wrappings for his soldiers!”

“We laugh at this,” broke out the young doctor, rather fiercely;
“but we have more need to weep at the reflections it calls up on
the condition of our country, where it is impossible to gratify
the yearning for military life so common to young men, unless by
following the example of Conte Muzio, and, in addition to great
personal sacrifice, incurring the suspicion and resentment of the
Government—which there are few ready, like him, to brave. Here, in our
States, to be a soldier is synonymous with disgrace! No career, except
the church, is open to the patrician youth. And yet it is in presence
of these abuses, this palsying idleness, that you find men of good
faith, like Testaferrata and Pagano, whimpering after the good old
times, which means, if possible, a greater state of slavery than the
present, and anathematizing every prospect of reform!”

“_Carissimo dottore_,” said Checchino, taking up his hat, “one must be
just after all. Trees of liberty bearing bullets and poniards, do not
tend to enlarge the understanding, or give a taste for another season
of such fruits and foliage. We laugh at Testaferrata, and those who
think like him; but, upon my conscience, if you or I had been stabbed
and shot at in the open daylight, as both he and Pagano were in Ancona
in 1849, simply because it was known we did not coincide with the party
which had got the uppermost (it was during the Pope's absence at Gaeta,
and the short-lived republic at Rome, signorina), I don't imagine we
should ever entertain very amiable sentiments towards the system whose
advocates indulged in such questionable pleasantries.”

“Those were exceptions, not the rule,” cried the marchesa. “Who can be
answerable for the excesses of a faction? It is not fair to bring up
the assassinations of Ancona to the signorina.”

“I am just—I am just,” he answered, laughing; “it is but right to show
the reverse of the medal. You were having it all your own way, if I had
not put in a word on the other side. You have enough left to make out a
very good case, my friends: console yourselves with that. As for me, I
do not expect to see better times, whatever our excellent Muzio may say
to the contrary; so I do not kill myself with care, and endeavour to
make the best of what we have, laugh and amuse myself, and keep out of
politics.—_Signori miei_, good night.”




CHAPTER XXI.

   Unwillingness of the Italians to speak on serious
     topics—Indifference of the majority to literature—Reasons for
     discouraging the cultivation of female intellect—The Marchesa
     Gentilina relates her convent experiences—Admiration of
     English domestic life.


One day so closely resembles another in the general course of existence
in the provincial towns of Central and Southern Italy, that it would
be difficult, with any regard to truth, to throw much more diversity
into the description of twelve months than of twelve hours; the only
variation of any importance being connected with the seasons when the
Opera is open, for which the majority of the population retain the
absorbing attachment that grave thinkers, like the good and enlightened
Ganganelli, so far back as a century ago, lamented as the bane of the
inhabitants of the Marche. On this, however, as on a variety of other
matters, his successors held different opinions from Clement XIV.;
and by their encouragement to the taste for theatrical performances,
fostered the levity which that pontiff in his correspondence so much
deplores—well content to see the eagerness, the interest, the hopes
which in other countries men are _taught_ it is more fitting to
bestow on questions of science, politics, and religion, centre among
their own subjects on the _trilli_ of a prima donna, or the legs of a
_ballerina_.

That which, perhaps, out of a hundred other traits, most forcibly
attracted my notice, as evincing the most striking contrast to English
manners—for, he it remembered, I never set up for a cosmopolite, but,
conscious of my inherent insularities, measure everything by the gauge
of English opinion and English custom—was the complete absence, in
their familiar conversation, of all allusion to a topic which, more or
less, for better or for worse, is always a predominant one with us.

It was some time before I could assure myself that the silence
connected with religion, in all save its most material forms—such
as just saying, “I am going to mass;” or, “How tiresome! to-morrow
is a vigil, and we must eat _maigre_!”—did not arise from reserve at
the presence of a heretic; but at length I was convinced that there
was no design in this avoidance of themes which, in England, you can
scarcely take up a magazine, or a fashionable novel, or pay a morning
visit, or go twenty miles in a railway, without encountering. Instead
of interweaving their conversation with phrases akin to those which,
either from piety, or habit, or, alas! from cant, are so frequently
upon the lips of English people, the Italians seemed anxious to put
aside whatever tended to awaken such unpleasant considerations as the
uncertainty of life or a preparation for eternity; casting all their
cares in this last particular—when they considered it worth caring
for—upon their priests, with a confidence it was marvellous to witness.

Never, certainly, judging them as a totality, was there a set of people
who “thought less about thinking, or felt less about feeling;” who went
through life less troubled with self-questionings of what they lived
for, or whether they lived well; or who, dissatisfied and listless as
they might be in their present condition, manifested less inclination
to dwell upon the hopes and prospects of futurity.

Yet, although thus opposed to any serious reference to sacred things,
they resemble the French in the levity with which they will introduce
them on the most unseasonable occasions, without any apparent
consciousness of impropriety. Nay, there was thought to be nothing
profane in a _tableau vivant_ which I heard them talking of, as having
recently taken place at the house of one of the noble ladies of the
society; the subject—a Descent from the Cross, or the Entombment, I
know not which—impersonated from an ancient picture. Suffice it to say,
that our Saviour was represented by a remarkably handsome young student
from Bologna, whose style of features and long brown hair resembled the
type which all painters have more or less followed in their pictures of
Christ; and that the Magdalen was the lady of the house, a Florentine
contessa, whose Rubens-like colouring and billowy golden hair had first
suggested her fitness to sustain a part for which her detractors, of
course, added she was also in other respects well qualified.

The sentiments I expressed at this exhibition evidently caused
surprise, as, in fact, was invariably the case at the manifestation
of any religious tendency on my part. I think I have before mentioned
that _Protestant_ amongst these worthy people was but a polite term for
Atheist; as in the case of the Marchesa Silvia when I offered her one
of our prayer-books, the superstitious shrink from being enlightened
upon our tenets; while to the unbelieving, they are a matter of
profound indifference, respecting which they never dream of asking
information. And under these two heads, with but rare exceptions, and
a vast and increasing preponderance to the side of infidelity, it is no
want of charity to say that the population of the Pontifical States may
be classified.

Second only to the avoidance of all serious subjects, that which most
struck me was their complete indifference to literature, even in its
simplest form. Unknown to them is the veneration we cherish for the
popular authors of the day, our familiar reference to their works, our
adoption of their sayings. During childhood they have no story-books to
fill their minds with images which, converted into pleasant memories
in advancing life, it is like letting sunshine upon the soul to muse
over. Their ripening years see them with the same void; for, however it
may be objected that a nation possessing Dante and Tasso, Filicaja and
Alfieri, Monti and Leopardi, should never be taxed with the barrenness
of its literature, I reply that I am here speaking of the requirements
of the generality of the masses, for whose capacity such authors
range too high. The only attempts to supply this deficiency which the
present time has witnessed—or rather, it should be said, the jealous
surveillance over the press has permitted—have been half-a-dozen
historical novels from the pens of Azeglio, Manzoni, Guerrazzi, and
one or two others. But as yet the experiment has failed: you may say
of the Italians as of a backward child, “They do not love their books!”
Reading is looked upon as inseparable from study; as a monopoly in the
hands of a gifted few; and the most hopeless part of the case is, that
they are not sensible of their deficiency, nor lament the deprivation!
Were scores of what we consider unexceptional works for youth to be
spread before Italian parents and preceptors—tales, travels, and
biographies—they would not bid the rising generation fall to and
read. “Let them alone,” they would say; “the boys must attend to their
education: reading for mere amusement will distract their thoughts.” As
for girls, the refusal would be still more decided, for they could be
expected to gather only pernicious notions about seeing the world, or
independence, or choosing for themselves in marriage, from the perusal!

I talked this over one day, not long before my return to Ancona, with
the Marchesa Gentilina, who was sufficiently free from prejudice to
listen quietly to some of my remarks, and sometimes even to acquiesce
in their justice. But on this last point she was not amenable to my
reasoning.

“It is all very well, _carina_; in England, I daresay, it may
answer. But your women are of a different temperament, and society is
differently constituted. As long as parents have the right, as with us,
of disposing of their daughters in the manner they think best suited
for their eventual benefit, the less they learn beforehand of the
tender passion, the better. There are reforms enough wanted amongst our
political abuses, without seeking to introduce innovations into private
life. The whole system must be changed, or else girls had better be
left in their present ignorance and simplicity.”

“But, marchesa——! This from you, who are such an advocate for progress!”

“_Cosa volete?_ I do not think the warm hearts of our daughters of the
south could read as phlegmatically as Englishwomen those tales in which
love and courtship are ever, must ever, be predominant.”

“And if they could thereby learn to form a more exalted idea of what
we tax you Italians as regarding in too common-place a light? If they
were led to look upon marriage less as a worldly transaction than as a
solemn compact, not to be lightly entered into, but to be lovingly and
faithfully observed?”

“If, if, my dear Utopist! If, instead of all these fine results, you
gave them glimpses of a liberty and privileges they could never know,
and so ended by making them miserable? Take my own case for an example.
I was sixteen. I had never left the convent for nine years; I was
always dressed in cotton prints, of the simplest make and description,
and thick leather shoes, with great soles, that clattered as I walked
along the mouldy old corridors, or ran about with the other pupils
in the formal alleys of the garden, of which the four frowning walls
had so long constituted our horizon. My pursuits and acquirements had
varied but little from what they were when I entered the convent; and
to give you in one word the summary of the infantile guilelessness
in which the _educande_ were presumed to exist, I had never seen
the reflection of my own face except by stealth, in a little bit of
looking-glass, about the size of a visiting-card, which I had coaxed
my old nurse to bring me in one of her visits, and that we smuggled
through the grating of the _parlatojo_ concealed between two slices of
cake!

“I knew this was to go on till a partito was arranged for me, for my
parents did not like it to be said they had an unmarried daughter at
home upon their hands; besides, many men prefer a bride fresh from the
seclusion of the convent, and in those days especially, this was the
strict etiquette. I had seen my eldest sister discontented and fretting
till she was nearly twenty, before the welcome sposo could be found,
and I had no inclination to be incarcerated so long, though hope, and
certain furtive glances at my mirror, kept encouraging me to look for a
speedier deliverance.

“At last, one Easter Sunday—how well I remember it!—I was summoned to
the parlatojo, and there, on the outer side of the grating, stood a
group of my relations: my father and mother, my sister and her husband,
and one or two of my aunts. I was so flurried at the sight of so many
people, and so taken up with looking at the gay new Easter dresses of
my visitors—my sister, I recollect, had an immense sort of high-crowned
hat, with prodigious feathers, as was the fashion then, which excited
my intense admiration and envy—that I had not time to bestow much
notice upon a little dried-up old man who had come in with them, and
who kept taking huge pinches of snuff and talking in a low tone with
my father. My mother, on her side, was engaged in whispering to the
Mother-Superior, and from her gestures, seemed in a very good humour;
while the rest of the party drew off my attention by cramming me with
sweetmeats they had brought for my Easter present.

“The next day but one, I was again sent for, and, with downcast eyes,
but a bounding heart, presented myself at the grating. There I found
my mother, as before, in deep conversation with the Superior, who, on
my bending to kiss her hand, according to custom, saluted me on both
cheeks with an unusual demonstration of tenderness.

“'Well, Gentilina,' said my mother, 'I suppose you begin to wish to
come out into the world a little?'

“I knew my mother so slightly, seldom seeing her more than once a
month, that I stood in great awe of her; so I dropped a deep courtesy
and faltered, '_Si, signora_;' but I warrant you I understood it all,
and already saw myself in a hat and feathers even more voluminous than
my sister's!

“'The Madre Superiore does not give you a bad character, I am glad to
find.'

“'_Ah davvero!_' was the commentary upon this, 'the contessina has
always shown the happiest dispositions. At one time, indeed, I hoped,
I fancied, that such rare virtues would have been consecrated to the
glory of our Blessed Lady, and the benefit of our order; but since
the will of Heaven and of her parents call her from me, I can only
pray that in the splendour and enjoyments that await her, she will
not forget her who, for nine years, has filled a mother's place.' At
the conclusion of this harangue, I was again embraced with unspeakable
fervour.

“In my impatience to hear more, I scarcely received these marks of
affection with fitting humility; while forgetting all my lessons of
deportment, I opened my eyes to their fullest extent, and fixed them on
my mother.

“'Ha, ha! Gentilina,' she said, laughing, 'I see you guess something
at last! Yes, my child, I will keep you no longer in suspense. Your
father and I, ever since your sister's marriage, have never ceased
endeavouring to find a suitable match for you. The task was difficult.
You are young, very young, Gentilina; and we could not intrust our
child to inexperienced hands. It was necessary that your husband
should be of an age to counterbalance your extreme youth. On no other
condition could we consent to remove you from this so much earlier than
your sister. But at last a sposo whom your parents, your family, the
Madre Superiore herself, think most suitable, has been selected for
you; and——'

“But I waited to hear no more. The glorious vista of theatres, jewels,
carriages, diversions, which we all knew lay beyond those dreary
convent-walls, suddenly disclosing itself before me, attainable
through that cabalistic word matrimony, was too much for my remaining
composure; and clapping my hands wildly, I exclaimed, '_Mamma mia—mamma
mia_, is it possible? Am I going to be married? Oh, what joy, what
happiness!' and then checking my transports, I said earnestly, 'Tell
me, mamma, shall I have as many fine dresses as Camilla?'

“I declare to you, signorina, that the name of my destined husband was
but a secondary consideration; and when they told me he was rich and
noble—the same individual who had come to the grating on the previous
Sunday to satisfy his curiosity respecting me—I acquiesced without
repugnance, ugly, shrivelled, aged as he was, in the selection of my
parents. Knowing nothing of the world, having scarcely seen a man
except our confessor, the convent gardener, and my father, I went
to the altar eight days afterwards without a tear!—This sounds very
horrible to you, I dare-say,” she resumed, after a short pause, in
which, notwithstanding her careless manner, I saw some painful memories
had been awakened; “but let me ask you—had my head been filled with
notions of fascinating youths, as handsome as my Alessandro when I
first remember him kneeling at my feet, and saying, 'Gentilina, I
adore you!'—should I not have added a vast amount of misery to what,
Heaven knows, was already in store for me—in resisting a fate which was
inevitable, or whose only alternative would have been the cloister? No,
no; since our domestic code is thus constituted, and as long as parents
retain such arbitrary sway, let girls be left in happy ignorance that
they have so much as a heart to give away! If they are to be married,
they will then not dream of any opposition; if, on the contrary, as
in the case of my poor sister-in-law, a suitable match has not been
attainable, why, they will not, like her, be full of romantic ideas
gathered from their books: and so, instead of wearying their family
with their blighted hopes, will take the veil, and retire contentedly
to a convent, limiting their notions of happiness to standing high
in the good graces of the father-confessor, or the preparation of
confectionary and cakes.”

“If I believed you to the letter, marchesa, you would have me conclude
that all the women of the Roman States are, or should be, totally
uncultivated.”

“Before marriage, I meant, remember that! Afterwards, all is changed.
A woman of intelligence soon gets wearied of the frivolities she has
been brought up to prize so highly, and will eagerly seek to instruct
her mind. Study will then be her greatest pastime and her greatest
safeguard.”

I knew she alluded to her own experiences, but I could not forbear
pressing the subject: “And for those who have no refined understanding
to cultivate, no desire to study, and yet have learned too late they
have a heart which they were not taught must be given with their
hand—what safeguard is there for those, marchesa?”

“_Per Bacco!_” she cried, shrugging her shoulders, “that is the
husband's affair; nobody else need meddle with it! You see, my dear,”
she added, laughing at my dissatisfied air, “we are a long way off from
the state of things you would desire to bring us to; and if you would
wish for any reformation in this as well as in any of our other abuses,
you must request your friends the English ministers, next time we try
to shake them off, not to lure us on by sympathy and approbation, and
then abandon us to worse than our former condition.”[6]

Subsequently, I ascertained that the marchesa did not advance any
more than the opinions generally held by her country-people upon this
subject; although there seems a strange inconsistency in persons
ever disposed to rail at the defects of their internal policy,
upholding these _rococo_ ideas, alleging in their justification that
the impulsive Italian character in youth is unsuited to the liberty
conceded at so early an age to Englishwomen.

A lady I conversed with upon this system, some time afterwards in
Ancona—supposed to have had a liberal education, having been brought
up in Northern Italy under her mother's roof—told me that, although
she did not marry till twenty, she had not previously been allowed to
peruse any work of fiction, excepting one after she was betrothed,
and that was _Paul and Virginia_! For which restriction, it may be
parenthetically remarked, she fully indemnified herself in the sequel,
being of a studious turn, by devouring all the French novels she could
lay her hands upon. I must add, however, in fairness, that although
they considered our national manners in respect to the training of
young women ill adapted to themselves, they were all warm admirers of
the virtue and harmony in married life which they believed to be the
general characteristic of English people. _Un Matrimonio all'Inglese_,
meant mutual fidelity, love, and devotion. In arriving at this
conclusion, they were aided by an example of twenty years' standing
constantly before their eyes: that of the English Consul at Ancona.
From my uncle they judged that Englishmen make good fathers. Mr * * *
showed them what an English husband is like. His family lived retired
in the country, and mixed but rarely in the society of the place; but
they were sufficiently known and respected to be still quoted as an
illustration of English wedded happiness.




CHAPTER XXII.

   On the study of music in the Marche—Neglect of painting—The
     young artist—His hopeless love—His jealousy—His subsequent
     struggles and constancy.


I must now devote a little space to speak of the cultivation of the
fine arts in the Marche; which, judging by the limited patronage and
still scantier remuneration accorded to their professors, would seem
to be considered by many as dangerous as reading to a maiden's peace
of mind. Of late years, however, music enters much more frequently
into the Italian programme of female education. Though not yet
introduced into the native convents, it is taught at the Sacré Cœur
at Loretto, and in many private families, happily as yet with more
discrimination than in England—the absence of voice or ear being
considered insurmountable disqualifications. The art, especially
in its vocal department, can boast, even in so remote a corner of
Italy, of instructors superior to any procurable in England, except
at those rates which some parents complacently mention as if to set
a higher value on their daughters' acquirements. Blessings on the
Italians in this respect, for they have no purse-pride! If you admire
a lady's singing—and it is no rarity to hear streams of melody poured
from those full rounded throats, such as would electrify a London
drawing-room—some member of her family will not immediately inform you
that she learned from the first masters at two guineas a lesson; that
no expense was spared, and so forth. They do not understand John Bull's
delight at framing all he does in rich gilding, and can enjoy the fine
singing of their country-women, notwithstanding that, in Ancona at
least, instruction from no mean professor was attainable at two _pauls_
(ten-pence) a lesson.

The music-master who taught my cousins was director of the opera,
composed and understood music thoroughly, and devoted himself, heart
and soul, to his profession: to these recommendations he added a
very handsome exterior, great attention to his dress, gentlemanly and
respectful bearing, and, nevertheless, gave twelve lessons, of an hour
each, for a sum equivalent to ten shillings, and thought himself lucky
too to get pupils at that rate!

Painting, the twin-sister of Music, does not enjoy the same amount of
popularity. In a country, of which the churches and palaces teem with
evidences of the estimation in which it was held scarcely two centuries
ago, I saw only one instance, that of Volunnia's miniatures, where,
even in its humblest branches, it was studied by one of the higher
ranks. It is cast as a reproach upon the modern Italians that they can
no longer furnish good painters; but the censure is more applicable
to those who do not care to foster the talent so often doomed to
languish in the ungenial atmosphere of poverty and neglect. The young
artist, whose only pupils in Ancona were those furnished by my uncle's
family, had studied several years in Rome, Florence, and Venice, had
distinguished himself in his academical career, was full of enthusiasm
and feeling, and yet so little encouragement did he receive in his
native city, that it was difficult for him to earn his bread. It is
almost superfluous to add that he was as poor as any painter need be.
He had one coat for all seasons; never ate but once a day, besides a
cup of coffee at six in the morning, which he procured at a caffè, no
fire being lighted so early at his mother's, where he lived; and had a
starved, hungry look, like a lean grey-hound, with large hollow eyes,
and an attempt at an artistic beard. Poor fellow! his story presents so
perfect an illustration of a new phase of Italian life, that I must not
be considered too discursive if I fill this chapter with an account of
it.

He had known my uncle's family for years, and considered himself
under obligations to them, so that a little of the old Roman patron
and client system was kept up in their intercourse; a respectful
affection on his side, and a kindly interest in his welfare on theirs.
His knowledge of art was really wonderful. As a boy, he had drawn
his first inspirations from Raphael's frescoes in the Vatican, and
worshipped him almost as a divinity; then ascending a step higher in
_purista_ principles, he devoted himself to the study of that branch
of the Florentine school of which “Il Beato Angelico da Fiesole” is
the chief; and to hear him descant on his purity of outline and grace
of composition, was in itself a lecture on design. A timely removal to
Venice luckily saved him from the exaggerations into which all votaries
of any peculiar style, however excellent in itself, must inevitably
fall; on which, in fact, he was fast verging, as two or three
pictures he had in his possession, painted while the impressions of
Florence were still predominant, of ashy-hued saints, with marble-like
draperies, abundantly testified: and leaving his legitimate admiration
for the Beato Angelico unsubdued, yet sent him back, at the conclusion
of his studies, glowing with rapture for Titian and Paolo Veronese.
From the great works of the former, he had made a number of sketches
and spirited copies; while he thought—as what young artist does
not think?—that he had discovered his peculiar secret of colouring,
detailed to us as he held forth triumphantly upon his flesh-tints and
_impasto_. In addition to all these artistic disquisitions, he used,
while we were taking our lessons, to give us all the political news,
or rather the whispers which were stealthily in circulation, and often
repeated that ours was the only house in which it was safe to express
an opinion.

Then he would tell us a great deal about the crying evils of his
country, much to the purport of what I have already stated; the
ignorance of the women, the idleness of the nobles, the extortion and
injustice of the Government, and the insolence of the Austrians who
supported it—all being related in beautiful and poetic Italian; for he
spoke his own language with great refinement, although he did not spell
it correctly.

And yet, notwithstanding these constant discussions and conversations,
never was he known to pass the limits of difference tacitly laid
down, never once to venture on the verge of familiarity: years
of intercourse, resumed at intervals since his boyhood, made no
difference. He never came to the house but as a teacher; and at the end
of each lesson, he always bowed with the same ceremonious respect, and
backed out of the room with the same “servo umilissimo” as if he had
been a mere stranger.

I wish I could detail some of the stories we heard from him—little
romances in themselves, and, admirably illustrative of the quick
feelings and exaggerated sensibility of the Italian temperament,
allowed more room for the development in the _mezzo cetto_ than in
the strict etiquette of the nobility. How a young cousin, becoming
desperately in love with a young man she had only seen from an opposite
window, pined rapidly away; and on hearing he was already affianced,
insisted on taking the veil in a convent of a very strict order: how
his own sister, a very beautiful girl, nearly broke her heart from
the cruelty exercised by her mother-in-law, who tried to sow discord
between her and her husband, opened all the letters she received from
her parents, took away all her best clothes, and distributed them
among her own daughters—in fact, behaved like a _suocera_ in all the
acceptation of the term. But nothing interested us so much as his own
history, in which he at last made us the recipients of the misery and
uncertainty that were destined to be inseparable from his existence.

We had observed that for some weeks he looked more than ordinarily
woe-begone, scarcely spoke, and his unbrushed hair stood erect with
an air of distraction it was pitiable to witness. The usual inquiries
about England, the lectures upon art, the pæans to Raphael, were all
at an end, and our lessons were becoming very stupid, common-place
affairs, when, one day, as he was cutting a crayon, he suddenly laid it
down, and said, falteringly: “Signorine, will you excuse my temerity,
if, knowing all your benevolent interest in me, I tell you what makes
me so ill. I have fallen in love.”

“Indeed!” we exclaimed; “tell us all about it. Where is the lady?—how
long has it been going on?—when will the _sposalizio_ take place?”

“Alas!” he replied, “what can I say? I have never spoken to her; it is
two months since I first saw her; it was one evening outside the gates:
she was with her mother. I beheld that modest ingenuous face, and my
fate was decided. Miserable was I born, miserable have I always been,
but never so miserable as now.”

“Wherefore?” I inquired, with a perplexed expression.

“Because I have no means of maintaining her—not even a few hundred
dollars of my own: therefore it is of no use attempting to make
the acquaintance of her family, or presenting myself as a suitor. O
signorine! I have suffered so long, my secret was wearing me to the
grave.”

“But you have an _avvenire_—a future, at least,” said my cousin Lucy,
who, under all her sedateness, was rather of an enthusiastic turn.

“Ah!” answered he, shaking his head, “that is easy to say for you
English: we poor Italians have no future; we never can rise; we are but
fools to dream of it.”

“Then do you not mean even to try to improve your fortunes, so as one
day to be able to marry?”

“Heaven knows whether I do not try,” was the rueful response; “but
the days for art in Italy are gone by. You are witness, ladies, to the
patronage accorded to me here. What have I to look back upon since I
established myself in Ancona? One or two commissions from convents
for the apotheosis of some new saint—a few portraits—at such rare
intervals, and on such hard terms, that I verily believe, if I were a
house-painter, I should succeed better than with my aspirations to be
an historical one.”

“Yet, why despair?” I persisted; “why not obtain an introduction to the
family of the fair _incognita_, explain your views, and if they hold
out any hopes of your ultimately being accepted, you will work away
with redoubled energy. You might go and paint signs in California.”
(That was all the rage just then.)

“The signorina is laughing at me, I see; but it would not be right
according to our ideas. _She_ had better know nothing of me; her
peace of mind might be disturbed. Those friends whom I have consulted,
tell me I ought even to avoid passing her when she is out walking, or
going to look at her at mass. Her character is evidently so full of
sensibility that it would be easy to destroy her happiness.”

“How can you be so sure of all this, if you have never spoken to her?”

“I see it all perfectly in her face,” he answered, with a determined
belief in his own powers of observation, which no ridicule or reasoning
could shake. His romantic passion amused us all excessively, and as he
evidently liked to talk of it, the disclosure having been once made,
we were in future kept fully informed of all his tortures, fears, and
despondency; but fancied that an attachment, hopeless and baseless
as this, could not be of long duration. Contrary, however, to what
we anticipated, he became more and more in love; he looked every day
thinner, his hair more wiry, his eyes unnaturally brilliant and deeper
sunk.

One morning—a real wintry morning, one of the few we ever saw—he came
in, livid and trembling, with a wildness in his appearance that was
startling. He did not leave his hat in the hall, as was his custom,
but entered with it in his hand, and making a few steps forward, paused
abruptly, and said in a hoarse voice:

“The signorine will excuse me if I pray them to dispense me from my
attendance for a few days. I am going into the country—yes, into the
country!”

When an Italian goes into the country at such a season of the year, he
must be in a desperate plight, and we anxiously demanded the reason of
this rash step.

“Signorine, I am mad—I am jealous! Yesterday I was looking up furtively
at her window; another man was standing in the street near me; I
fancied I had seen him there before: still a suspicion never crossed my
brain when the window opened, and she looked out. Never had she deigned
to do this for me. As I live, her eyes rested upon him! All the furies
seized me; I rushed to the house of my friend, my best friend, the
Avvocato D——. I raved, I tore my hair, I imprecated curses upon her. He
took me by the arm. 'To-morrow, you must go into the country,' he said;
'I will accompany you.' Yes, signorine, with twelve inches of snow upon
the ground, I go into the country!”

And into the country he went, and from the country he returned in two
or three weeks' time, unrecovered; although convinced that his jealousy
was groundless, the national specific had failed in this case. Then
I fear we did him harm, for on the “nothing venture, nothing have”
principle we counselled him to embody his hopes, prospects, and honest
determinations in a letter to be submitted to the young lady's family,
belonging, like his own, to the middle classes, though more affluent in
their circumstances.

Taking an injudicious _mezzo termine_, he humbly presented this epistle
to the fair Dulcinea herself, as she was coming one day out of church
under the care of some aunt or elderly female relation.

Haughtily flinging it on the ground, the damsel indignantly said, “I
do not know how to read letters of this description,” and passed on.
Her virtue and discretion increased his admiration, while the repulse
almost broke his heart. He never made any further attempt to press
his suit, but moped and pined away perceptibly; in fact, he was dying
of mortification and grief—so common an occurrence in this part of
Italy, that they have a distinct name for the affection, and call it
_passione_.

At this juncture, some friends of his, who had emigrated to Tunis
in the recent troubles of Italy, wrote to recommend his joining them
there; and urged on by the representations of all who were interested
in his welfare—his desperate condition sanctioning so desperate a step
as foreign travel was usually looked upon—encouraged especially by
ourselves, with our restless, enterprising British notions, he embarked
in a small trading-vessel, almost reduced to a skeleton.

Months, nay, years have passed since then, and it seemed as if all clue
to the poor young painter were completely lost, when, by a strange
coincidence, I received a letter from him at the very moment when
the ink was still wet upon the page where I had been relating his
ill-starred attachment. I wish I could transcribe the whole of this
letter—I wish it could be laid tangibly before my readers—so clumsily,
squarely folded, with its coarse red seal, stamped with some copper
coin very probably, its stiff handwriting and deficient orthography;
and its contents, so simple, so poetical, so unassuming, of which a few
extracts, to give the continuation of his vicissitudes, can furnish but
a very imperfect idea.

After relating the failure of the hopes with which he had landed at
Tunis, he says that, resolved to leave no path that might lead to
independence unexplored, he even set his beloved art comparatively
aside, and had betaken himself to whatever honest employment he might
find. Entering the service of the Pacha of Tripoli, he had been sent as
a mineralogist—“for amongst the Turks,” he naïvely remarks, “one may
do anything—far into the interior, amongst men and manners completely
different from our own, to explore a mine reported to be of silver,
but which, with my usual ill-luck, turned out of very inferior iron.”
Then, encouraged by the Pacha's promises, he accompanied him to
Constantinople, where, finding to his cost that he must put no faith
in princes, he turned to his painting again. But the city was swarming
with Italian refugees, artists among the rest, all contending for the
bare means of subsistence; so, after a few months of painful struggles,
he went back to Africa, and entered into some trading speculations.
Neither in this new career was he successful. Perhaps he worked with
a sinking heart, for the tidings reached him that the young girl so
faithfully loved was about to be married; and “what imbittered this
announcement, was learning that the character of her future husband
offered but slender prospects for her happiness.” His little ventures
failed; his resources were exhausted; and he was under the necessity
of returning to his native country. There he found strange reverses
had suddenly befallen her whom he had schooled himself to look upon
as irrevocably lost. Her parents were both dead; the marriage had
been broken off; and from comparative affluence she was so reduced as,
jointly with a widowed sister, to have opened a day-school for little
girls.

“I saw her then,” he goes on, “under the pressure of sorrow. I found
her, in the words of Petrarch, _più bella, ma meno altera_; and yet,
even at that moment, my cruel destiny prevented me from saying, 'I am
here to comfort and sustain you!'”

Once more he went forth, hoping against hope, with the aim of
establishing himself as a portrait-painter and drawing-master at ——, on
the shores of the Mediterranean, whither many English families annually
resort; and the object of his letter was modestly and unaffectedly to
request that if I knew any of my country-people intending to winter
there, I would recommend him to their notice.

I felt very sad to perceive how he overrated the _signorina
forestiera's_ influence, and the extent of her acquaintance; or else
in his simplicity imagining that to be English is synonymous with
belonging to a vast brotherhood, giving and demanding the hand of
fellowship on every side. I wish it were thus in this instance at
least, for the first use I should make of this blissful state of
fraternity, would be to claim patronage and encouragement for the
poor artist, whose history then could soon be pleasantly wound up like
orthodox story-books, in these words, “and so they were married, and
lived very happily all the rest of their days.”




CHAPTER XXIII.

   From Ancona to Umana—Moonlight view—The
     country-house—Indifference of the Anconitans to flowers
     and gardening—Ascent of the mount—Magnificent prospect at
     sunrise—Trappist convent.


The famous _Santa Casa_, or Holy House of Loretto, has long been
recognised as the principal attraction of the Marche; indeed, it
is so well known to tourists, that I should have left my excursion
thither unrecorded, had not this omission rendered my picture of local
manners and customs incomplete. Little as the Anconitans are given
to locomotion, I never met an instance of one who had not visited the
shrine at least once in his or her life, whilst a few make it a point
of conscience to repair thither every year. The distance from Ancona,
by the high-road, is twenty miles—a journey of five hours, in that
country of steep hills and slow coaches; but travellers are generally
disposed to overlook the tedium of the way in their admiration of the
scenery it discloses. Few, however, have any conception of the still
more picturesque features of the circuitous route through which, one
lovely evening in June, we pursued our pilgrimage to Loretto.

There was nothing very original or brilliant in our party. The V——
family—the same with whom we went to the rural christening—joined
the expedition, too adventurous for any of our Italian friends; the
consul, the Chevalier V——, this time escorting his wife and lively
Polish daughters, very proud, as he protested, of the charge my
uncle had delegated to him as his representative towards my cousins
and unworthy self. He was a good man, that dear chevalier, in every
acceptation of the term, but his sphere was certainly not a scrambling
gipsying enterprise, such as we contemplated, and his presence would
have proved hopelessly depressing, had it not been for the antidote
furnished by the indomitable spirits of a lieutenant and two little
midshipmen belonging to an English frigate lying in the harbour,
who had obtained permission to accompany us. The fair hair and ruddy
cheeks of the middies, reminding Madame V—— of her own absent boys,
had pleaded irresistibly in their favour; their extreme juvenility too,
she argued, screened her from any breach of the _convenances_ she was
always so solicitous to maintain. As to the young lieutenant, he was a
married man, carried about his baby's likeness in a locket, and spent
fabulous sums in presents for his wife. No anxiety could therefore be
felt on his score, no dread of exciting the remonstrance of a certain
black-browed parish priest, who, I very well know, left the poor
lady no peace on the impropriety of throwing her daughters into the
temptations of English male heretical society.

It had been arranged that we should walk the first five miles of the
way, with the exception of the _consolessa_, who was provided with
a donkey, as far as an occupied country-house, or _casino_, kindly
placed at our disposal by its owners; thence, after needful rest and
refreshment, we were to ascend the Monte d'Ancona, a lofty mountain,
famed for a Trappist convent on its summit, and a magnificent range
of prospect. To reach the top before daybreak, in order to see the
sun rise, was an essential feature in our programme; it was the only
subject connected with nature on which the Anconitans ever showed any
enthusiasm. Several of our acquaintances had, in their youth, they
told us, braved the exertion and loss of rest to witness the _levata
del sole_ from the mount. Others regretted they had not the energy
to attempt it. None ridiculed our undertaking. I felt very curious to
behold what awoke such unusual admiration.

We were all in a cheerful mood, and not a little diverted, as we passed
through the narrow streets on our way to the gate, at the astonishment
excited by the appearance of Madame V—— on a very antiquated
chair-saddle, upon her long-eared steed. The people flocked to look at
her with unrestrained curiosity, till the consul turned suddenly round,
and apostrophizing the gazers, inquired sternly whether they considered
the foreign custom of riding upon an ass more wonderful than their own
of being driven by a cow. The justness of this reasoning, or rather the
energy with which it was enunciated, having produced an instantaneous
effect in the dispersion of the crowd, we were suffered to proceed
unmolested, followed by a second donkey laden with provisions.

Our route, immediately after quitting the town, lay near the cliffs
forming the line of coast behind the promontory on which Ancona is
built, in singular contrast to the sandy beach extending northward
towards Sinigaglia and Pesaro. Sometimes the road quite skirted the
edge of the precipice, and deviating from the undulations of the
cliffs, would change the marine to a pastoral landscape, and lead
to paths shaded by trees and flowering hedges, admitting occasional
glimpses of mountains in the distance.

For the next two or three miles, our course lay entirely between
hedges, screening the _possessioni_, or small farms, into which the
land is subdivided, from the road. It was rapidly growing dark; for
it must not be forgotten there is no twilight in Italy, and the moon
was not yet visible; so we had nothing to do but admire the fireflies
which the midshipmen ruthlessly persisted in ensnaring in their caps
and handkerchiefs, or laugh at the efforts of _l'officier marié_, as
our friends had named the young lieutenant, to sustain a conversation
in French. No fear of robbers crossed our minds; the consul and our
countrymen were armed, it is true, but more as a security against
danger in the vicinity of Loretto, than in the unfrequented districts
we were traversing, where there were no travellers or wealthy
house-holders to attract the gangs which swarmed on the papal highways.

At last, after the consul's lamentations on the weariness of the way
had begun to find an echo in our own hearts, we emerged from a narrow
path, shut in by steep banks, upon the casino. But it was not on its
open doors, or the hospitable lights kindling for our reception, that
our eyes were turned. I do not remember being ever so enchanted by
any view as that now presented to us. I know not whether daylight
would rob it of any portion of its beauty and soothing influence;
I can only speak of it as it impressed me then—so calm, so pure, so
still. We were standing on the verge of a lofty cliff that stretched
precipitously forward like a crescent, and formed a bay on whose waters
the moon, which had just risen, poured a flood of trembling silvery
light; while, on one side, dark, ominous, and frowning, rose the mount,
projecting far into the sea, and towering in its sullen grandeur above
the rippling waves which bore their snowy wreaths of foam in tribute to
its feet. Clear and defined against the moonlit sky, with no trees or
verdure to clothe its rocky steeps, there was something inexpressibly
sublime in the aspect of this mountain, and the lonely character of
the surrounding scenery. No sound invaded the perfect quietude of
the hour except the reverential murmur of the sea, and faintly in the
distance, the voices of some fishermen, whose barks were gliding forth,
their sails filling with the evening breeze, and glistening in the
moon-beams.

The preparations for supper were soon completed. The peasants left
in charge of the house had eggs and fruit and wine in readiness, and
Madame V—— had taken care that our donkey's panniers should contain
all the substantial requisites for a repast. The midshipmen delightedly
superintended the laying of the cloth, and then summoned us to table,
where their libations of the sparkling Muscatel, profusely supplied,
did credit to the excellence of our friend the conte's vintage.

When the meal was over, the old _contadina_, who officiated as
housekeeper, her Sunday costume and strings of pearls donned in honour
of our visit, recommended us to take a little sleep before midnight,
at which hour we were to set out for the mount in _birocci_—those
primitive-shaped carts drawn by oxen or cows, that I have elsewhere
minutely described. This reasonable advice the consul forthwith
enforced by example as well as precept, and was soon slumbering
sonorously on a sofa in the dining-room. Not feeling inclined to
follow his admonitions while the moonlight shone almost as bright
as day, we all preferred exploring the casino and strolling in its
vicinity, accompanied by the dear patient _consolessa_, who evidently
did not think the _convenances_ permitted her to lose sight of us, and
consequently protested that she was not in the least fatigued.

The house was soon looked over. No arm-chairs, no couches, no ottomans;
nothing but stiff high-backed cane sofas, that seemed intended for
anything but repose. There was a billiard-room, and a little chapel, or
rather recess, divided by a pair of folding-doors from the principal
sitting-room, where mass was celebrated when the family were in the
country: but we could discover no books or traces of aught resembling
a library. In fact, as I have before remarked, as most Italians
consider reading _a study_, and have no idea of it as a recreation, all
appliances thereto are generally left behind when they come professedly
in search of health and mental relaxation to their _villeggiature_.
From six weeks to two months is the utmost amount of time they devote
for this purpose. What with looking after their farms and a little
shooting, the men get through this period with tolerable satisfaction;
to the ladies, it is always fraught with intense _ennui_.

The resources of floriculture, with rare exceptions, are unknown to
the women of the Marche. There was one lady of rank in Ancona who had
laid out a garden at one of her country-houses with considerable taste.
It was the only innovation I witnessed upon the orthodox quadrangular
enclosure, fenced in by high walls with espaliers of lemons, and little
three-cornered flower-beds, intersected by gravel-paths, which graced
a few of the _casini_ of the wealthiest proprietors. Her example,
however, found no imitators; and with a soil and climate exquisitely
adapted for their cultivation, flowers receive less attention and seem
less prized in the Roman States than in any other part of Italy. Here,
in this secluded villa, where the interest and occupation attendant
on such a pursuit would have beguiled the weariness of the contessa's
banishment from the fleas, bad smells, and stifling atmosphere which
render Ancona, during the hottest months, a somewhat questionable
Elysium, a small wood adjoining the house, a few rose-bushes planted
round cabbages, and two or three cobwebby arbours, were all the
evidences of ornamental gardening we could trace.

About midnight, we heard the slow dragging of wheels, and presently
the peasants of the _possessione_ came up with two _birocci_ to the
gate. Mattresses were then placed at the bottom of each, on which we
were to sit; and after Madame V—— had carefully arranged the cloaks and
shawls her prudent care foresaw would ere long be necessary, we took
our places, and in good earnest commenced the ascent. With a singular
defiance of all engineering, it was carried abruptly up to the tops
of hills, merely to descend with corresponding rapidity on the other
side, reminding me more of the Russian sliding mountains than any other
illustration I can think of, and occasionally becoming so disagreeably
perpendicular, and so distressing to the poor cows, which panted
loudly at every step, that we often preferred getting out to walk, to
overtasking their strength and risking our own safety.

When the moon went down, the air became chill, and all of us gave
tokens of weariness. As it approached three o'clock, our conductors,
pointing to a faint break in the horizon, urged us to hasten our
steps, as day would soon be dawning. Thus admonished, a few minutes
of brisk walking brought us to the top of the mountain, which, so far
as we could distinguish in the dull greyness pervading every object,
was an irregular platform, on three sides overhanging the sea, and on
the fourth commanding a wide, dark, boundless expanse, on which the
blackness of night still rested. A little lower down, in a sheltered
hollow, amid dusky groves of evergreen, cold, stern, and desolate, rose
the white walls of the celebrated Trappist monastery. The strange tales
current of the austerities of its inmates, and of the disappointment or
remorse which had driven them to its seclusion, seemed appropriate to
the surrounding gloom and the spectral aspect of the building, when the
tones of the matin-bell broke the oppressive silence that prevailed,
and the _Ave Maria del giorno_ summoned the monks to their orisons
in the choir. Our guides, reverently uncovering, made the sign of the
cross, and then flung themselves wearily upon the ground, screened by a
low parapet from the wind, which circled in keen gusts around; while we
looked forth upon the sea, and the glowing light that was stealing fast
upon it.

Brighter and brighter grows that radiance, until, as by the lifting of
a veil, the distant peaks of the mountains on the opposite Dalmatian
shores become distinctly visible, thrown into bold relief by the
illuminated background, and we span the breadth and borders of the
beauteous Adriatic. Fleeting as a dream is that unwonted spectacle, for
lo! the glorious sun has leaped upwards from his mountain-bed, and the
glad waters quiver and exult beneath his presence. Higher and higher
still he rises, and Night flies scared before him, as if seeking a
refuge in that vague dim space where yet she holds her sway. It is a
wondrous contrast, the golden sparkling sea and sable land, nature's
mingled waking and repose—but short-lived as wondrous, for like the
gradual uprolling of a scroll, so does the darkness recede which covers
the face of the fair and wide-spread prospect; and hamlets and towns,
hills and valleys, fields thick with corn, olive trees and vineyards,
seem to start into being while we gaze.

The peasants pointed out exultingly a number of towns distinguishable
with the naked eye—Osimo, Loretto, Recanati, Macerata, besides
many others, all with an individual history of their own, in feudal
times having boasted of an independent existence, and waged petty
wars with each other. Nearly a hundred towns and villages are said
to be discernible from this height; but it was not on any of these
in particular that the attention of a stranger would be admiringly
directed, but rather to the grand panoramic effect of the whole,
bounded by its unrivalled background of Apennines, rising in
terrace-like succession, till the last range blended with the clouds.

After nearly an hour's survey—it was much longer according to the
chevalier's impatient calculation, in which he was abetted by the
midshipmen—we prepared to depart. After bidding farewell to our
_birocci_, we descended upon the opposite side of the mount on foot,
accompanied only by a boy to act as guide; not without casting many
lingering looks at the convent, and longing for a glimpse of those
white-robed monks who—each isolated in his own cell, and occupied
in the cultivation of the patch of ground whence he derives his
subsistence—holding no communion of speech without the permission of
the superior, except on three great festivals in the year, and never
permitted to go beyond the walls of the convent—have voluntarily
delivered themselves to a foretaste of the silence and confinement of
the tomb.




CHAPTER XXIV.

   The bishop's palace at Umana—Inroad of beggars—The grotto of
     the slaves—The physician's political remarks—Approach to
     Loretto—Bad reputation of its inhabitants—Invitation from the
     Canonico.


An hour's quick walking brought us to Umana, where carriages were to
be in readiness to convey us across the country to Loretto. Formerly
of some importance as an episcopal see, Umana is now reduced to a mere
harbour for fishing-boats; still, however, containing some handsome
though half-ruined buildings, and having its grass-grown piazza, dingy
_caffè_, and aristocratic loungers. The bishopric has been merged
into that of Ancona, but the palace yet remains, in readiness for an
occasional pastoral visitation. We had been courteously promised we
should find it open for our reception; and dusty, tired, and hungry, we
were glad to cross its threshold. But before allowing us to sit down,
the old couple who had charge of the palazzo insisted on conducting us
through all the apartments, that we might see the best accommodation
they had to offer was placed at our disposal. Accordingly, we were
forced to perambulate long corridors and innumerable rooms full of
doors, opening one into the other, through which it seemed vain to
search for one that was not simply a passage to the rest. The brick
floors were sunken and uneven; and the furniture, which consisted
of tarnished mirrors, high-backed stamped-leather chairs, carved
worm-eaten tables, with discoloured gilding, all looked faded and
decaying. The beds, with their heavy brocaded quilts, canopies,
and hangings, did not look particularly inviting; but in the total
absence of sofas, they served for an hour or two of repose: after
which, refreshed by such ablutions as the scanty washing arrangements
permitted—nothing beyond the usual tripod containing a small basin
and jug being allotted to each chamber, or procurable throughout
the whole palace—we assembled for breakfast. Here one of the middies
narrowly missed upsetting the general harmony by relating his fruitless
attempts to obtain a tub, winding up his narrative by the remark,
“that these padres must be a queer set, decidedly not hydropathic.”
This observation being unfortunately overheard by the chevalier,
who perfectly understood English, was immediately interpreted into a
want of reverence for the priesthood. Turning very red, he said with
emphasis, “It was extremely unfair and narrow-minded to cast _that_ as
an imputation upon one class of the community, which was decidedly a
national characteristic;” and an awkward pause ensuing, we should have
felt very uncomfortable, if the entrance of several _bottegas_, waiters
from the _caffè_, bearing a number of little brass trays containing
each person's cup, tiny coffee-pot, milk-jug, and allowance of powdered
sugar, had not given a happy turn to the state of affairs. The price of
this collation, including a liberal supply of rolls and cakes, did not
exceed five _bajocchi_ a head (twopence-halfpenny). More substantial
fare was supplied by the remaining contents of the basket that had
furnished last night's supper; and being now completely recruited, we
all sallied out to see something of Umana.

Our appearance on the piazza created an immense sensation. It was
evident that the presence of strangers was no common occurrence to the
industrious citizens pursuing there the _dolce far niente_. Then, too,
in addition to the flattering notice of the out-door population—the
barber, the apothecary, the keeper of the lottery-office, the
tobacconist, besides whoever happened to be making _conversazione_ with
them at the moment, all stood at their respective doors to look at
us, and bowed with flattering urbanity. This tranquil demonstration,
however, was soon eclipsed by an inroad of beggars, who had at first
presented themselves in limited detachments; but as nothing could
restrain our sailor-friends from distributing small coins in profusion,
their numbers soon became astounding, and we ran the risk of being
pulled to pieces in their eagerness, or deafened by their clamour. At
this juncture, the consul and the three delinquents, forming themselves
into a body-guard, faced round and menaced the most importunate with
their sticks, while we availed ourselves of the opportunity to escape
further pursuit, and laughingly descended a steep stony path leading to
the beach.

Here some fishermen at once gathered round, and assailed us with
inquiries as to whether we would not like to see the famous Grotta
de' Schiavi, distant half an hour's row along the coast. This had not
formed part of our projected itinerary; but the sea being exquisitely
calm, and the weather delightful, the majority of the party were
strongly inclined to follow the suggestion. While the point was
still in discussion, an unexpected ally in surmounting the opposing
side presented himself in the _Chiarissimo_ and _Dottissimo Signor
Dottore_——(most enlightened and most learned, thus he would be styled
officially), the most popular physician in Ancona, and an especial
favourite, as I have already mentioned, in my uncle's household.
Summoned the previous night to Umana for a consultation, he had
promised to remain till evening to await the result of the treatment he
enjoined, and not being a frequenter of _caffès_, was now beguiling the
time by a stroll on the sea-shore.

Assuring the _consolessa_, who had a vision of banditti before her
eyes, that even a delay of two hours would not hinder our reaching
Loretto before sunset, and offering his escort in lieu of Monsieur V——,
whose politeness was combated by his dislike to any marine expeditions,
we soon obtained the good pair's acquiescence. The consul went back
to the episcopal palace to take a second nap; his spouse, faithful to
her duties, cheerfully prepared to accompany us, too amiable to give
herself the satisfaction of looking victimized. Two boats were soon
selected from a host of applicants, who remained furiously wrangling
among themselves, and hurling imprecations at the head of their
successful comrades, long after we had pushed out to sea.

Although the men pulled vigorously, rather more than the stipulated
time elapsed before we descried a dark speck at the base of the white
cliffs which rose, without a strip of intervening shingle, abruptly
from the water's edge. As we approached, this proved to be an aperture
wide enough to admit the entrance of a boat, and crouching as we glided
under the low, dark passage, we found ourselves in a lofty circular
cavern, with no place for the foot to rest upon except a narrow
ledge of rock, two or three feet wide, that ran round it. A mournful
interest, derived from well-authenticated facts, is attached to the
Grotta de' Schiavi—that is, of the slaves—to which its name especially
bears reference. It was here, as the sailors told us, and the _dottore_
confirmed, that in those times when the Adriatic coast was ruthlessly
swept by the Algerine corsairs, they used temporarily to confine their
prisoners, and deposit the booty they had collected. Landing them upon
the narrow ledge within the grotto, they would leave them securely
bound while they went in quest of further plunder, confident that no
means of egress, or possibility of rescue, lay before the wretched
victims they had torn from their homes and kindred.

Upon this natural platform the party now landed; and while the
greater number, laughing and talking, made the circuit of the rocks,
the physician stood near my cousin Lucy and me, and dwelt upon the
associations to which such a spot naturally gave rise.

“I never come here,” he said, “without a host of mournful fancies
presenting themselves to my mind. What shrieks and wailings, what moans
of agony must have resounded within this gloomy cave!—How truly must
hope have died in the hearts of those who entered it!—How many forms
of beauty, and strength, and helpless childhood, have here writhed
and struggled, and swayed to and fro in impotent despair, waiting till
their pitiless captors should return with fresh companions in slavery
to greet them!”

“And I,” exclaimed Lucy, the wonderful English spirit which animated
those Italian-born girls causing the blood to mantle in her cheeks, “I,
in a scene like this, can never sufficiently thank God for having made
me of a nation to whom it is owing that such things have ceased to be!
It was my dear England which sent forth Lord Exmouth's fleet in 1816
to the bombardment of Algiers, the liberation of Christian captives,
and the suppression of piracy in all the Barbary States. Oh, Signor
Dottore, it is a noble privilege to be English!—I value it next to
being a Christian!”

He had known her from childhood, and smiled at her enthusiasm, while
he rejoined:—“Would to Heaven, Signora Lucia, that your country, great
and wonderful as she is, would not now-a-days content herself with
reminiscences of her past exertions in the cause of freedom.[7] You
say such things have ceased to be. What has ceased?... The inroads of
Algerine corsairs, I grant you—but not the tears of Italian captives.”

He looked round. Madame V—— and the others were still at some distance;
the boatmen were resting on their oars at the mouth of the cave.
Eagerly, as if catching at every moment, he went on:—

“Who can count the political prisoners rotting in loathsome dungeons in
various parts of Italy at this moment? Your countryman Gladstone has
laid bare the horrors of the Neapolitan state prisons; but he did not
tell you of Mantua, of Ferrara, of Pagliano! In the galleys of Ancona
many persons, guilty of no other crime than the unguarded expression of
their liberal opinions, are now wearing the felon's dress and chain. I
know of some young men now languishing there, who, for having let off
a few fireworks on the anniversary of the proclamation of the Roman
Republic, were sentenced by the restored Papal Government to twenty
years' companionship—daily and nightly companionship—with the foulest
murderers. I could relate to you such stories of our prisons,—of men
worn to premature dotage; of strong hearts crushed; of noble intellects
palsied,—as would make you own that a worse slavery than that of
Algiers exists for us!”

We would willingly have heard more, but the approach of Madame V——
checked the speaker. Good, amiable as she was, she was known to be
too completely under the control of her confessor, for any liberal to
venture to speak unreservedly on politics before her. The conversation
was at once turned into a new channel; and in a few instants more,
the bright sunshine, the sparkling waters, the ineffable beauty of
the cloudless sky, as we emerged from the grotto, proved irresistible
spells to chase away the gloomy impression of what the doctor had just
related.

Duly drawn up on the piazza, we found, on regaining the shore, the two
_vetture_ previously bespoken, surpassing specimens of that delectable
style of equipage—each with three spectral horses, whose mean bodily
appearance was supposed to be atoned for by an extra supply of jingling
bells and scarlet worsted tufts; the drivers fierce and bravo-like; and
the interiors painfully redolent of musty straw. There were six places
in each, two in the _cabriolet_, and four inside; and the consul and
Madame V—— respectively taking the command of a division, with many
expressions of thanks and good-will to the _dottore_, whose presence
had formed a very agreeable interlude to some amongst the party, we
set forth in great style. The whole mendicant population, at least
half apparently of the inhabitants of Umana, escorted us, like a guard
of honour, as a tribute to the largesses of our good-humoured tars,
and filled the air with their benedictions; while a number of boys and
girls, even after the horses had been urged into a feeble trot, pursued
us indefatigably for at least a mile, the former making wheels of
themselves, and bowling along after the most approved fashion; and the
latter springing up to the windows to offer their bunches of flowers,
and obtain a farewell token of English liberality.

After a drive of four hours or thereabouts, through country equally
fertile and diversified, we drew near Loretto, situated on the brow of
a very steep hill, crowned by the church of the Santa Casa. As we wound
slowly up the ascent, we met the peasants in large numbers returning
from some neighbouring fair, and were struck by the scowling looks
with which they eyed us, and a general air of menace and defiance.
Singularly enough, it is notorious that the population in the vicinity
of this venerated shrine is the worst throughout the whole pontifical
dominions. This is a perplexing fact to persons who, like the V——
family, were perfectly sincere in their belief of the legend of the
holy house's miraculous transportation by angels from Nazareth; and
who naturally would infer that the immediate presence of such a relic
ought to have produced a salutary effect upon public morals. Their
explanation of this inconsistency was briefly, that the town having
been for centuries the resort of pilgrims of all ranks and from every
clime, the Loretani had become corrupted by ever-changing intercourse
with these strangers: an hypothesis we unquestioningly accepted, for
it must not be forgotten we were now on delicate ground, and many an
observation that might have jarred on our foreign companions, had to be
altogether suppressed or carefully kept amongst ourselves. The sinister
aspects of the groups we encountered gave a clue to the numerous
robberies perpetrated in the neighbourhood; to say nothing of the
darker tales of murder and revenge, of which the way-side crosses, so
frequent during the last few miles, were ominously suggestive.

Equally unfavourable were our first impressions of the town, as we
drove through a narrow street, lined on each side with booths, where
every description of medals, chaplets, rosaries, and other objects
of devotion lay exposed for sale, which we were loudly called upon
to purchase. Slipshod women, their black hair escaping, matted and
disordered, from the coloured handkerchiefs bound about their heads;
beggars in every stage and form of human misery—blind, palsied, maimed;
squalid children; lean, fighting dogs; portly priests; dirty pilgrims
with staff and scallop-shell: such is the appearance of the crowd that
greets the traveller on entering Loretto.

On reaching the inn, we found a fresh assemblage of mendicants drawn
up in array in the courtyard; objects so dirty and revolting, that
one involuntarily shrunk from contact with them: and clamorous, even
peremptory, in their demands, which are in general liberally complied
with. Their trade is supposed to be a thriving one, since the majority
of persons repairing to the town, do so from religious motives, and
esteem this promiscuous alms-giving a stringent duty. Besides these,
we encountered upon the unswept stairs several women with baskets of
rosaries and medals, which they kept importuning us to buy, that we
might have them blessed at the Santa Casa; and lastly, two or three
tottering old men waylaid us on the landing, and pressingly offered
themselves as our _ciceroni_ to the shrine. But it was too late, or
rather we were too weary for any more sight-seeing that day; and as
soon as dinner was concluded, we were glad enough to betake ourselves
to repose.

Recruited by a night of well-earned sleep, the next morning found us
assembled in the general sala of the inn, waiting for breakfast and the
return of the V—— family, who, the servants told us, had gone out soon
after dawn. They speedily came in with cheerful faces, having fulfilled
all the devotional exercises prescribed to devout Roman Catholics
on their first visit to the Santa Casa, and were now ready to enter
cordially into the survey of the church and all the curiosities it
contained.

While we were still at table, we heard a voice in rich oily tones,
accompanied by a boisterous laugh, inquiring for the _Signorine
Inglesi_. Presently a short, stout, very stout, priest entered the
room, and, apostrophized as _il Signor Canonico_, was greeted by my
cousins with unfeigned friendliness. It appeared he had known the
family some years before, having been the curate of their parish in
Ancona. The exercise of his duties used occasionally to lead him to my
uncle's house—at such times, for instance, as blessing it at Easter, or
distributing the tickets for confession to the servants—opportunities
which he never failed to improve in a little attempt at converting the
signorine. Now it would be the present of a life of Santa Filomena,
or some other saintly legend, which they were implored to substitute
for other reading; or again, a medal or relic to be suspended round
their necks, and win them to the fold. These simple devices invariably
proving abortive, the poor padre would shake his head, look at them
with tears in his eyes, and plunging his hand into a capacious pocket,
draw thence a goodly packet of sugar-plums, in the discussion whereof
all controversial bitterness was soon forgotten.

These amicable relations had for some time been suspended, owing to
his prospering in the world, and having been translated to a canon's
stall at Loretto—evidently an easy and thriving post. As soon as
the first expressions of pleasure at this unexpected meeting were
over, the canonico was introduced in form to the V——s, the officers,
and the _cugina forestiera_, and had a varied compliment for each
member of the party; after which, without the slightest modulation of
voice, but rather, if possible, pitching it in a higher key, and with
an indescribable play of feature and vivacity of gesture, he began
inveighing against his young friends for not giving him timely notice
that they were coming to Loretto, when they might have eaten _due
bocconi_ (two mouthfuls) at his house. Precisely for this reason, they
replied, had they determined not to apprize him beforehand, knowing his
hospitality would have led to the commission of some _pazzia_ or folly
upon their account. At this pleasantry he laughed and wheezed till he
was nearly black in the face; but on recovering his breath, insisted
that, although it was certainly too late to think of preparing a
dinner, they should not be let off so easily as they expected, and must
therefore, with all the honourable company—making a circular movement
with his hands—come at noon and take _la cioccolata_ under his poor
roof.

The good man was clearly so much in earnest, that it would have been
ungracious to decline, and an appointment was accordingly made for that
hour. This important business being satisfactorily adjusted, he took
his leave, and we set forth to visit the fane where pilgrim-kings have
worshipped.




CHAPTER XXV.

   The Santa Casa—Pilgrims—The treasury—Exquisite statues
     and bassi-rilievi—Chocolate at the Canonico's—La Signora
     Placida—A survey of the house—The rich vestments.


Strangers were evidently no rarity in Loretto, and the admiring gaze of
the population did not greet our appearance as at Umana. Simply looked
upon as travellers, and legitimate objects of prey, we were soon beset
by the vendors of the trinkets peculiar to the place, and imposed on
without mercy. I have no hesitation in saying that the _corone_, or
chaplets, with which the midshipmen persisted in filling their pockets,
and the bracelets of ten beads called _corone alla moda_—an indefinite
supply whereof _l'officier marié_ seemed to consider indispensable to
his wife—were charged them at least three times their value. The main
street, already noticed, opens upon a spacious square, adorned by a
fountain and two handsome colonnades, and flanked by the palace of the
bishop and the Jesuits' College; at the upper end, on arising ground,
stands the church of the Santa Casa, a large and commanding edifice.

The interior is profusely decorated, and contains numerous side-chapels
enriched with pictures in mosaic; but the object on which the eye first
rests on entering is a structure of an oblong form of white Carrara
marble, completely incrusted with statues, Corinthian columns, and
exquisite bass-reliefs, placed on a platform accessible by three or
four broad steps, immediately beneath the cupola. This is the far-famed
Holy House, or, more properly speaking, the costly building raised
over the reputed cottage of Nazareth, at once to impede its future
migrations, and preserve it for the edification of the faithful.
Passing into the sacred tabernacle, a gorgeous vision strikes upon
the senses—golden lamps, suspended from the ceiling, shed a mellow
but subdued light upon an altar, where jewelled chalices, crucifixes,
and candelabras are arrayed in glittering profusion, surmounted by
an image, whence literally a blaze of diamonds is radiating. Here
prostrate forms are always seen, and brows bent low in penance or
adoration; and here many a guilt-worn wretch, coming from distant
realms, in penury and toil, has sunk rejoicing on his knees, and deemed
his pardon won!

Above, around, on every side, are evidences of the piety and liberality
of the princely votaries to the shrine, whose offerings were pointed
out with conscious pride by the young priest who had attached himself
to our party. The figure of the Madonna and Child, rudely carved in
cedar, and said to be the workmanship of St Luke, is absolutely covered
with gems. The two heads are encircled with tiaras of immense value,
and the black velvet in which the shapeless trunk of the image is
enswathed, is scarcely discernible amid the ear-rings, necklaces, and
chains of the most sparkling brilliants overlaying it. Each jewel,
and candlestick, and lamp, has its donor and its history, all duly
registered in printed catalogues annexed to the authenticated relation
of the house and its mysterious fittings. This book sets forth how, in
the year 1294, the Santa Casa, where the Virgin had meekly dwelt, and
watched the childhood of her son, was first lifted from its foundations
by angel hands, and borne from Palestine to Dalmatia. After a short
interval, the same supernatural agency transported it across the
Adriatic to a hill in the vicinity of Ancona; thence, after one or two
brief haltings, it was finally conveyed to Loretto, where the speedy
erection of a church over the precious deposit attested the piety of
the inhabitants, and secured them the continuance of its presence.

From that time the cottage of Nazareth went on increasing in fame
and riches; miracles were wrought by its influence, and princes and
pontiffs contended who should do it honour, until 1797, when the sun
of its prosperity became clouded. The pitiless exactions of the French
compelled Pius VI. to have recourse to the treasures of the Madonna
di Loretto to meet his conquerors' demands; and in the following year,
the fierce invaders captured the town, and sent the venerated image to
Paris. It was restored, however, a few years afterwards, to the joy of
all sincere adherents to the church, and was solemnly crowned by Pius
VII. with those same diadems whose rainbow lustre dazzles the beholder.

The internal dimensions of the Santa Casa are those of a mere hut—27
English feet in length, 12-½ in breadth, and proportionably low.
The ceiling is blackened by the smoke of the many lamps which are
perpetually burning; the lower walls are covered with plates of
silver, gilded and wrought into bass-reliefs, except on one side
where a portion of the original masonry is left exposed. It is of
course brickwork, discoloured by time, and worn smooth by the kisses
continually pressed upon it. The priest pointed to a rude sort of
recess, which he told us was the fire-place of the Holy Family, and
then produced a cup or bowl, called _La Scodella Santa_, from which the
Madonna used to drink. All the faithful reverently press their lips to
this relic, and then place in it their chaplets, crosses, or medals, to
be blessed.

The well-known story of a channel being worn on the pavement
immediately surrounding the Holy House, by the knees of pilgrims,
is not in the least exaggerated. There are two distinct furrows in
the marble, traced there by the thousands who have yearly dragged
themselves, in this attitude of devotion, for a given number of times
around its walls. At the moment of our visit, several peasant-women
were thus shuffling along, seemingly without much inconvenience, with
the exception of one, whose attitude and appearance produced a painful
impression on my mind. She was working her way round on her hands and
knees, drawing as she went a line with her tongue upon the pavement.
I know not how long she had been in that position, but it was horrible
to view: her face was black and swollen; her eyes starting from their
sockets; the veins on her forehead standing out like tight strained
cords, and mingled blood and saliva flowing from her mouth. Our
conductor looked unconcernedly at the poor wretch as we passed, and
said in answer to my appealing glances: “It is only a great penance;
you may be sure she richly deserves it: there are many who come here in
this way to expiate their sins;” and then walked on, leading the way
to the treasury, as if the subject were too commonplace for further
consideration.

The _Sala del Tesoro_ is a magnificent hall, richly painted in fresco,
the ceiling representing the death of the Madonna, surrounded by the
apostles, and the walls furnished with immense presses with glass
doors, in which are deposited the numerous and yearly increasing
offerings to the shrine. Many of these are of great value, although of
course not equalling the splendour of those displayed upon and around
the image. Some evidence considerable eccentricity in the donors, such
as the king of Saxony's wedding-suit, a full court costume of gold
and silver brocade, estimated at I forget how many thousand crowns;
others, again, are of a devotional type—silver statuettes of saints,
crucifixes, and church vessels; but the majority of gifts comprise
necklaces, gold chains, rings, brooches, watches, cups, flagons,
silver hearts—contributions from every nation and every class—from the
gemmed _sevigné_ that lately sparkled in the saloons of the Quartier
St Germain, to the coral pendants a poor _contadina_ has proffered in
gratitude for last year's vintage.

At a moderate computation, the present collection would amply stock a
score of jewellers' shops; nevertheless, as a grey-haired sacristan
informed us with a sigh, it is not worthy to be named in the same
breath with the glories of the ancient treasury.

Thence we were reconducted to the church, to see the mosaic pictures
in the side-chapels, full-sized admirable copies of celebrated
masters, and of course most valuable from the tedium and minuteness
requisite in their execution. Besides these, there are some originals
by Guercino, and other celebrated artists, their subjects mostly
referring to different passages in the life of the Virgin, as supplied
by legends of the east, the writings of Dionysius the Areopagite, and
other traditional sources. But of all the monuments of the piety or
ostentation of the Roman pontiffs, who for centuries lavished large
sums on the adornment of this edifice, nothing can compete with the
marble casing that encloses the Santa Casa. This costly monument of
the best times of Italian art, projected by Julius II., was commenced
under Leo X.; and in its execution the most eminent sculptors seem
to have vied in leaving worthy memorials of their skill. Designed by
Bramante—Sansovino, Bandinelli, Giovanni da Bologna, besides others
scarcely less illustrious, were employed on the bass-reliefs, and
those groups of prophets and sibyls, which in majestic beauty still
rivet the admiration of the beholder. There is a figure of Jeremiah, by
Sansovino, at the angle of the western façade, the sublime mournfulness
of which haunts me even now.

We were still engaged in our survey, when we were joined by my cousins'
friend the canonico, panting for breath, who had come to remind us of
our engagement. Accordingly, we adjourned _en masse_ to his habitation,
situated in a very miserable narrow street, or rather lane; and
climbing up a steep, dark, and indescribably dirty staircase, arrived
at last at the _ultimo piano_, where the door was opened with many
courtesies by a middle-aged, demure-looking personage, introduced by
the canonico as La Signora Placida, his niece and housekeeper.

The entrance-hall was in the usual style of dwellings of this
description, with four carved-back settles or benches, some
undistinguishable oil-paintings in frames that had once been gilded, a
clothes-horse, a broom, and dust-pan—whose offices were mere sinecures,
to judge by the appearance of the floor—and so on. From this we were
ushered into the _sala_, which contained a horse-hair sofa, so hard
and high that one was perpetually slipping off, and six chairs to
correspond; a folded card-table whereon stood a silver _lucerna_,
and a press with glass doors, in which a set of cups and saucers was
displayed.

To accommodate their numerous guests, our host and his niece brought
in a number of chairs from adjoining rooms, and seated us with
great bustle and ceremony; an operation diversified by the Signora
Placida's continually darting into some obscure region of the
house, whence she could be overheard disputing with a shrill-voiced
attendant, or energetically clattering glasses and plates, in a
manner that singularly belied her name. Meantime the canonico talked
and gesticulated, patted the youngest midshipman on the head, to
his evident disgust, entertained Madame V—— with the history of his
relative, on whose virtues he pronounced a glowing panegyric, and
recounted to the consul the latest miracles performed at the Santa
Casa, while he shook his finger playfully at my cousins, as if menacing
them with a return to their ancient hostilities. Presently the circle
received an addition in the shape of another priest, Don Antonio, a
great friend of our canonico's, and almost as rosy, and pursy, and
jovial as himself, who now came to have his share of the good things
and see the _forestieri_.

This was one of those quaint Italian friendships I have so often
noticed. It commenced in boyhood at the seminary, had been renewed on
our host's establishing himself at Loretto, and would probably continue
unbroken till the end of their days. Regularly as clock-work used Don
Antonio to come every evening to make _la società_—limited to himself,
I believe—play at cards, and discuss the petty scandal of the place.
I asked him if they ever read, at which he shrugged his shoulders, and
said that after going through the daily office in the breviary, for his
part he must own he had had enough of study. This facetious response
was loudly echoed by the canonico, and they laughed over it in chorus,
with a sound more resembling the shaking of stones in a barrel than any
human manifestation of hilarity.

The chocolate was now brought in by the _serva_, and handed to us
by the two friends and the niece. It was made thick, and served in
cups without handles, and teaspoons not being apparently considered
requisite, the uninitiated found some difficulty in discussing it with
propriety; but after watching our entertainers, we perceived that the
approved method was to steep in it morsels of rusks which had been
distributed at the same time, and then convey them daintily to one's
lips through the medium of the thumb and forefinger. This was followed
by trays of ices and sweetmeats from the caffè, the canonico observing
significantly, he well remembered the signorine were always fond of
_dolci_; and when, to please him, every one had eaten as much as he
possibly could, he insisted on pouring all the remaining bon-bons into
our handkerchiefs, to amuse us, as he expressed it, on our way home.

When it was time to think of going, he declared we must first see
the house, and took us into a small adjoining room, containing a
writing-table with a dried-up inkstand, and two or three shelves
adorned with some very dusty, dry-looking folios in parchment covers.
This den, he told us, he retired to when he studied or had letters to
write—both rare occurrences, it was evident. Next we were shown the
dining-room, with no furniture but a table and rush-bottomed chairs,
and opening into the kitchen—a custom also generally followed in houses
of higher pretensions, but opposed to all our notions of quiet or
refinement; and, lastly, into his and the niece's sleeping apartments,
in each a clumsy wooden bedstead, rickety chest of drawers—on which,
under a glass shade, stood a figure of the infant St John in wax, with
staring blue eyes and flaxen curls—two chairs, the usual tripod-shaped
washing-stand, and an engraving of some devotional subject, with a
crucifix, a little receptacle for holy water, and a palm that had been
blessed at Easter, hanging near the pillow. You may enter a hundred
bed-rooms in families of the middle class in this part of Italy, and
see them fitted up after the same pattern; those of the provincial
nobility have a little more display in mirrors or pictures, but no
greater comfort.

The introduction of all the visitors into the canonico's chamber was
not, I suspect, wholly without design; for our attention was speedily
attracted to a _cotta_ or alb of fine white cambric lying upon the bed;
the most elaborate specimen of the art of _crimping_ it was possible
to behold. The niece immediately held it up for our closer inspection,
while the uncle stood by smiling; and in answer to our praises of the
exquisite designs of flowers, leaves, &c., with which it was wrought,
entirely by a manual process, told us it was the work of the nuns of
a particular order—I forget the name—a very strict one, moreover, who,
by way of serving the altar, dedicate themselves to the preparation of
this part of the priestly vestments. This marvellous example of fine
plaiting, however, was but the least recommendation of the ephod, which
was trimmed with a deep flounce of the most magnificent point-lace.

“Look at that, look at that!” chuckled the canonico, rubbing his hands
with glee; “that is the lace which all the ladies of Loretto, and
Recanati, and Macerata—yes, all of them together—are envious of, when
I walk in the procession of the Corpus Domini. I have been offered
five hundred dollars for it by a Russian princess who came here on a
pilgrimage; but I could not make up my mind to part with it. Look at
that tracery—look at that ground, it is perfect—not a thread broken;”
and he descanted on it with the zest of a connoisseur.

When he paused in his raptures—“Signor Canonico,” meekly suggested La
Signora Placida, “may I fetch the stole you have just had worked?”

“Ah, the little vain thing!” was the rejoinder; “she is so proud of my
vestments! It is a trifle though—Well, well, bring it out.” And from
a long pasteboard box, duly enveloped in tissue paper, the Signora
Placida drew forth a gorgeous stole, the original texture cloth of
silver, but almost concealed by raised embroidery in gold.

“The canonico has not worn this yet; it is for the great
_funzione_—that is, church ceremony—of the Madonna in August,” said the
niece, with as much earnestness as if she were a lady's-maid talking
of her mistress's preparations for a ball, and disposing it so that it
might be viewed to the greatest advantage. It really was beautiful as a
work of art, due to the skill, as Don Antonio informed us, of another
set of nuns, who exclusively applied themselves to needlework in gold
and silver.

The pleasure this good man took in the display of his friend's
possessions impressed me very favourably. “_Per Bacco!_” he exclaimed,
handling the vestment with respect—“each time I see it, it strikes me
more! It is worth—ss—ss—ss—ss,” emitting a long sibillatory whistle,
expressive in the Marche of something unlimited, whether of good cheer,
astonishment, money, or so forth.

“_Via, via_,” said the canonico modestly, “it is not much a poor priest
can do. Still, we may place it at the same value as the lace, and be
within the mark.”

Our reiterated admiration evidently enchanted the trio; in fact, it
was altogether with the most amiable feelings, and with mutual thanks
and protestations, we took our leave, the politeness of our entertainer
and Don Antonio leading them to give us their company in visiting the
bishop's palace and the Farmacea, or pharmacy of the Santa Casa, the
last renowned for its collection of _majolica_, consisting of three
hundred vases coloured from designs by Raphael and his pupils.

No adventures befell us in these perambulations, except that we were
more beset and pestered than before, if possible, by the beggars, who
followed us in troops, and for whom I learned, with astonishment, no
alms-house or refuge of any kind existed. Concluding our sight-seeing
with another visit to the Santa Casa, there remained but time for
a hasty dinner, ere we set out on our return to Ancona—the state of
the neighbourhood, as we were repeatedly reminded, necessitating our
departure in broad day-light.

The usual scene of clamour, begging, imprecations, and blessings
attended our exist from Loretto, a place which presents the strongest
contrast of wealth and poverty it has ever been my lot to witness, or
entered my imagination to conceive.




CHAPTER XXVI.

   Visit to the Carmelites at Jesi—Our joyous reception—The Casino
     and Theatre—Infractions of Convent Discipline—The Dinner near
     the Sacristy—In company with the Friars we visit some Nuns.


A few days after my excursion to Loretto, I had my last glimpse of
_real_ scenes and life in the Marches, in a visit to Jesi, a small
city of great antiquity, about twenty miles distant from Ancona. The
circumstances that led us thither hinged upon the acquaintance of
my uncle's family with an Irish priest who belonged to a convent of
Carmelites in that place. Father O'Grady was a jovial, burly personage,
with a round bullet-head, an athletic frame, and a stentorian voice,
that always reminded me of the holy clerk of Copmanhurst in _Ivanhoe_.
His great delight in his occasional visits to Ancona, where he always
lodged in a monastery of the same order, was to be invited to our
house to have “a raal English dhinner,” as he termed it, which he
dolorously contrasted with the fare provided by the cook at the Jesi
convent. Once, too, the provincial of the order, a fine, dignified
old man of seventy-five, with a silvery fringe of hair, and regular,
impressive features, like one of Perugino's saints, came to dine with
us, attended by another monk, a certain Padre Forenzo, as well as
Father O'Grady—both of them very much subdued in his presence. Our
Hibernian friend, however, always protested himself indemnified for
this restraint, by his gratification at the approval the entertainment
drew from his superior, who, as the spring advanced, was urgent that we
should test the hospitality of Jesi in return.

Some English travelling friends, waiting for the steamer to Trieste,
were comprised in this invitation, which my uncle, though not without
some sighs at the long hours of _conversazione_, and making the amiable
with the brotherhood, which lay before him, was coaxed into accepting;
and a beautiful morning in the latter part of June saw the two families
in motion.

After following the high road towards Senigallia along the curve of
the bay for some miles, the way to Jesi turns inland in a westward
direction. Long rows of mulberry-trees, connected by ample festoons
of vines; cornfields nearly ripe for the sickle, interspersed with
plantations of young maize, beans, and olives, equally indicated
the fertility of the country and its staple productions. Less hilly
and romantic than the scenery near Loretto, it still had no lack of
beauty; a background of mountains was never wanting, and gifted with
that marvellous brightness and diversity of colouring peculiar to this
clime, the landscape rarely sank into monotony.

Jesi is an interesting little town, of some 5000 inhabitants, tracing
its origin to an indefinite number of centuries before the foundation
of Rome, and famed in the middle ages as the birthplace of Frederick
II., the great emperor of Germany, whose constant wars with the Roman
pontiffs and encouragement of literature, render his memory very
popular amongst Italian writers. A thriving trade in silk has preserved
it from the squalid misery discernible in most of the inland towns of
the Marche; and it can boast of some palaces in tolerable preservation,
a casino, a very pretty theatre, and several churches, that of the
Carmelites being amongst the principal.

Father O'Grady, radiant with joy, was awaiting us in the street, to
show us the way to the hotel where we were to take up our quarters—for
within the cloister itself no woman may set her foot—until two
rooms adjoining the church and sacristy were prepared for the day's
festivities. They had been up since daybreak, the good man said, but
“the last touch was still wanting.”

The last touch being a lengthy process, and the inn barren of
resources, a walk was proposed. We were conducted by the father and
Padre Fiorenzo, his great friend, through the market, the principal
square, and the main street called the Corso, the worthy pair being
evidently desirous the citizens of Jesi should all participate in
the novelty of the presence of strangers, for the town, lying out of
the general route of travellers, is very rarely visited. After this
promenade, somewhat fatiguing under a noonday's sun, we went over
the casino. The billiard, conversazione, and ball-rooms, all well
arranged, and in good taste, incomparably superior to any corresponding
establishment in towns of far higher pretensions in England; but then,
as Lucy was at hand patriotically to remark, had we not mechanics'
libraries, and schools, and charitable institutions, to atone for this
deficiency? Admitting all this to its fullest extent, I cannot see
why casinos, on the same simple footing as those so common in Southern
Italy, should not be advantageously grafted on English county society.
In towns too small to have a _casino de' nobili_ to themselves, the
higher and middle classes are content to waive questions of caste, and
meet, as at Ancona, or Macerata, or Jesi, on this neutral territory.
Once a week, during Lent or Advent, when there is no opera to serve
as a rallying-point, reunions for music and cards draw together the
subscribers, without any extravagance in dress on the part of the
wealthier ladies, provoking the less affluent to foolish emulation.
Two or three times in the course of the year, balls are given, where
a greater display is permitted, yet still without the inequalities
of fortune thus rendered more apparent leading to any offensive airs
of superiority. No refreshments are supplied on these occasions,
the low amount of the subscription, twelve dollars a year for each
member—inclusive of his family, however numerous—not furnishing funds
beyond those necessary for attendance, lights, and music, and keeping
up the establishment for the old bachelors and heads of houses, who
frequent it regularly every day and every evening the whole twelvemonth
round.

We concluded our peregrinations by the inspection of the theatre,
Padre Fiorenzo having an acquaintance with one of the _employés_,
through whom access to it was obtained. Even with the disadvantages of
being seen by daylight, it might be pronounced a very elegant little
structure; the columns and ceiling ornamented in white and gold, and
the three tiers of private boxes draperied with blue silk. Father
O'Grady trod the stage with a mock-heroic air, and favoured us with two
or three _roulades_ of so much effect, that we protested he must often
be hearing operas, and hinted he perhaps occasionally ventured there in
disguise. At this insinuation, he shook his portly sides with laughter;
but Padre Fiorenzo related with complacency that in fact, one night the
previous Carnival, they and several others of the brotherhood had been
present at a concert given in that same theatre on behalf of the poor,
which the bishop permitted all the clergy and _religiosi_ to attend;
dwelling with the simplicity of a child upon the great enjoyment this
had afforded them.

From these mundane resorts—a messenger having come to say all was now
in readiness—we adjourned to the church of the Carmelites, where a
side-door gave admission to the sacristy, and beyond this to a dark,
low-ceiled room, lined with massive walnut-wood presses, in which all
the vestments and ornaments for the great religious solemnities were
deposited. An iron-barred window looked into the inner quadrangle of
the monastery; and through a half-opened door we had glimpses of a
long table spread for dinner; around which several dark-robed figures
were hovering, the silvery head of the provincial himself now and then
discernible as he directed the arrangements.

Father O'Grady being troubled in his mind about a certain plum-pudding,
on the manipulation of which the dawn of morning had found him engaged,
now ceded his post as chief spokesman and squire to Padre Fiorenzo,
who, with two other elderly monks, very gladly engaged to do the
honours.

The next half-hour saw the good father revolving perpetually between us
and the kitchen, now disputing with the cook, an octogenarian artist,
who had no sympathy for such outlandish compounds; now restraining
the merriment of some of the younger visitors, for whom the idea
of transgressing convent etiquette was irresistibly attractive. A
door from the sacristy temptingly stood open, leading down by two
or three steps into the court, of which the church and the rooms we
occupied formed the southern extremity and barrier. Under pain of the
severest excommunication, the monks repeatedly assured us, females
were interdicted from proceeding further; the threshold on which we
crowded on hearing these particulars being the utmost boundary. The
two blooming, joyous sisters, just out of the school-room, who had
accompanied us from Ancona, with a mother too indulgent to act as
any check on their spirits, and an elder brother, a barrister, almost
as full of sport as themselves, proved amusingly refractory on this
occasion. Whenever the provincial—who had come in once or twice to
pay his compliments—was out of the way, or my uncle's attention was
engaged, they made a feint of dancing down the steps and rushing into
the forbidden ground; just for the amusement of being chased back again
by the terrified Padre Fiorenzo, and rebuked by Father O'Grady, who
evidently enjoyed the joke, though he tried to look serious upon it,
with: “Childhren dhear, why can't ye remain quiet? Shure, now, it's
excommunicated ye'll be! Ah! more's the pity that ye don't care for
that! Now jist be asy, and don't turn the house out of windows.” But as
the “childhren” would not be “asy,” after one or two more _escapades_,
the door was locked; and they were fain to resort to some new device
to beguile the time. Visible from the iron-barred window were some of
the younger brethren walking up and down the prohibited quadrangle,
trying to get a glimpse of the English heretics, whose visit had thrown
the whole community into such pleasurable excitement. With black silk
scarfs and white handkerchiefs, the delighted mad-caps extemporized
some nuns' costumes, in which they took their stations at the window,
and confronted Father O'Grady as he was crossing the enclosure on his
return from one of his expeditions to the kitchen.

The admiration of Mother Hubbard, in that renowned epic of our infancy,
on finding her faithful canine attendant travestied in a court-suit,
has its parallel in the father's astonishment and laughter at this
apparition, in which he was chorused by Padre Fiorenzo, and the others;
until, hearing the provincial approaching, they wiped their eyes, and
entreated them to remove their impromptu attire; while, to keep them
out of further mischief, and provide some employment for the more
sober members of the party, they asked the superior's permission to
show us the church vestments. This was graciously accorded; and one
after another the presses were opened by the monks; and rich brocades,
tissues of gold and silver, silks embroidered in various colours, were
successively drawn forth, the provincial himself deigning to explain
for what they were designed.

The welcome announcement of dinner still found us thus engaged. We were
ushered with great glee—for I cannot repeat too often that, with the
exception of the provincial, they all seemed as easily set laughing
as a parcel of school-boys—into the next room, where our venerable
host and the fathers who had previously been making _conversazione_,
took their seats with us at the table. We were waited upon by two
lay brothers, whose broad smiles and occasional remarks showed they
participated in the general hilarity; the provincial himself playing
the courteous, attentive host to perfection, seeming to sanction and
approve it. To say the repast was seasoned with Attic salt would be a
flower of speech; neither was there anything peculiarly droll in the
sallies with which Padre Alberto, the _bel esprit_ of the convent,
sustained, or, in Father O'Grady's opinion, enhanced his reputation;
but there was something so pleasant in the intense childlike happiness
of these good Carmelites, that it would have been invidious to
scan their intellectual attainments at such a moment. Dr Primrose's
oft-quoted words were exactly applicable to that party: “I can't say
whether we had more wit among us than usual, but certainly we had more
laughing.”

Of the dinner itself, I shall say but little; the readers of these
sketches must be by this time familiar with Italian bills of fare.
The soup of clear broth, wherein floated little squares of a compound
resembling hard custard; the unfailing _lesso_; a _frittura_ of brains
and bread-crumbs, sprinkled with powdered sugar; larded capons; a dish
of fennel-root, dressed with butter and cheese; roast kid; a pie, of
which cocks'-combs were the principal ingredients, with a sweet crust;
a _zuppa Inglese_, “on purpose,” the provincial said, “for the English
ladies, accustomed from childhood to mix spirits with their food;”
and, lastly, Father O'Grady's plum-pudding, but, alas! served in a
soup-tureen, for the flour had been forgotten in its composition, and
no amount of boiling had availed to give it the desired consistency.
Still the innumerable jokes this furnished, amply compensated for its
partial failure; the young barrister told them it was exactly like the
plum-broth served out at Christmas at St Cross's Hospital, one of the
most famous institutions in England, he asserted, for good cheer, and
incited every one by example as well as precept to do justice to Father
O'Grady's culinary achievements. Though he had already shown himself
emulous of a boa constrictor's capacity, he now sent his plate for a
second supply, compelling Padre Fiorenzo, as a tribute to friendship,
to do the same.

At the conclusion of the banquet, Fra Carmelo, the old cook of whom
we had heard so much, and who was declared to have acquitted himself
right manfully, was summoned to receive the thanks of the company. The
messenger found him playing the guitar, with which he was wont daily
to solace himself at the completion of his duties in the kitchen,
and triumphantly led him forward. In his brown Carmelite dress, he
certainly looked a most interesting cook. Though past eighty, his tall
spare figure was only slightly bowed; and there was a vivacity in his
light-blue eyes and ruddy complexion which led to the conclusion that
his alleged occasional shortcomings in his art were more the result of
inattention than incapacity.

On rising from table, the provincial offered to _fare due passi_,
a great distinction, which was of course accepted. Again the whole
party sallied forth, he and my uncle—who won golden opinions, though
suffering martyrdom throughout the day—leading the van. We went to see
two or three churches, and then, at Father O'Grady's suggestion, were
taken to a nunnery, which he knew would be a treat for us. All the
sisters crowded to the _parlatorio_ to see the strangers. It was not a
grating, as in the stricter orders, but simply a large aperture like a
wide unglazed window, at which they clustered, talking eagerly to the
monks, asking questions about the little world of Jesi, and gazing with
unrestrained and delighted curiosity upon us.

Amongst fifteen or sixteen thus assembled little beauty, less mind,
was discernible. I saw but one interesting face—a face that had, or
might have had, a history written on it. Indeed, several of these
nuns were positively ill-favoured, evidently devoted to the cloister
because their parents had found it impracticable to get them otherwise
disposed of. Some told us they had never left the convent since
their first entrance as _educande_, seven or eight years of age; they
grew attached to the nuns and their companions, and as the time for
returning home drew nigh, estranged by many years' separation from
their families, besought that they might not be removed, and passed
through their novitiate, and took the veil, without ever going beyond
the walls. They all talked as fast as possible, as if to make the most
of the opportunity; interspersing whatever they said, or commenting
on whatever they heard, with invocations to the Madonna and saints,
and ejaculations of simple wonder. I was amused, though, at noticing
how well informed they were of all that was passing in Jesi society;
their information being derived, the monks told us with an air of
pitying superiority, through whatever they could glean from occasional
visitors; but especially from the gossip collected at market by the
woman charged every morning to purchase their supplies, and who, in
consigning the provisions at the convent-wicket, communicates any
novelties she has picked up. A single observation denoting deep thought
or enthusiasm, I sought in vain to hear; indeed, as I reflected at
the time, it would be difficult to convey any notion of their limited
capacity. Not tending the sick, not instructing the poor; with
only four or five _educande_ to bring up till the age of sixteen or
seventeen, exactly as they themselves have been educated—embroidery and
the making of confectionery filling up all the leisure left after the
performance of their stated religious exercises, which call them for
several hours daily to the choir, what a dreary, unsatisfactory life,
according to our notions of existence and its duties, stretches itself
before these women. But they said they were happy; and, looking at
the bevy of English girls before them, lifted up their eyes and hands
in sadness to think their hearts were not disposed to follow their
example.

It was pleasant to know what delight our visit had afforded them, and
to note the earnestness with which they begged us to return to Jesi
and come to see them; to have the conviction that we had furnished
the whole sisterhood with materials for at least a fortnight's
conversation, and several years' reminiscences.

The good Carmelites, too, if our self-pride did not greatly mislead
us, marked this day with a white stone; and long after the pursuits
and interests of a busier life have dimmed its recollections with the
majority of their guests, will continue to treasure every incident of
their visit.

My leave-taking of the good monks of Jesi was soon followed by a long
farewell to Ancona and its kindly people. In bringing these sketches
to a conclusion, I feel as if the pain of parting were renewed, while
many unrecorded traits of courtesy, sympathy, and friendship crowd
upon me. If such omissions have arisen, it has been from no spirit of
depreciation. In reminiscences like the foregoing, the peculiarities
a stranger cannot but fail to remark, must be prominently brought
forward; those good qualities no impartial observer can deny to the
national character being often left in the background, simply because
offering less scope for comment or description.

The sole merit of what I have written is its truth. Not an anecdote,
not an incident, is here given but what is scrupulously authentic.
With a little exaggeration I might have been much more amusing, but I
preferred delineating these things as they really are—in their light
and darkness, in their fairness and deformity—in what our pride might
stoop to imitate, or our gratitude make us thankful that we differ.




CHAPTER XXVII.

   The writer's motives for not having dwelt minutely on
     political or historical subjects—Antiquity of Ancona—Its
     reputation under the Roman Empire—Its celebrated resistance
     to the Emperor Frederic Barbarossa—Stratagem employed
     by its deliverers—Continues to be a free city till
     1532, when it is surprised by Gonzaga, General of Pope
     Clement VII., and subjected to the Holy See—Flourishes
     under Napoleon—Restoration of the Papacy—Pontifical
     possessions—Explanation of the terms, legations, and
     Romagna—Bologna conquered in 1506, by Julius II., but retains
     a separate form of government—Ferrara, Urbino, &c.—Dates of
     their annexation.


The foregoing pages were written solely with the view of describing
the social and domestic condition of a part of Italy little visited by
travellers, but which presents features of quaintness and originality
not easily met with in this era. Even in the Marche these peculiarities
risk speedy annihilation. Should they be fortunate enough to be
included in the emancipation from Pontifical government, of which the
neighbouring Legations now seem secure, these sketches in ten years'
time will be looked upon as monstrous caricatures. Should they on the
contrary undergo no change of _régime_, what I have said will be as
applicable a hundred years hence as it was six months ago.

The fear of compromising my friends was one great motive of my
avoidance of political subjects, further than in the exact measure
necessary to illustrate the life and conversation of the Ancona and
Macerata _società_. I have been guilty of no breach of confidence
in quoting their sentiments or anecdotes; for even if the veil of
fictitious names were seen through, the expressions attributed to
them are to be found in the mouths of every man or woman in the Papal
States, who combines intelligence with honesty. It is no want of
charity to say that no member of the anti-liberal party unites _both_
these qualities. I know and esteem a great many _Codini_, but their
mental capacity is undeniably limited. It is only those whom no one
esteems who are really clever.

Any historical retrospections I also purposely left aside, as out
of keeping to the purpose I had in hand, and not likely to interest
the generality of readers, overdone with “the Italian question.”
The condition of the Roman States, however, has of late been so
widely discussed and inquired into, that I believe an outline of
the history of Ancona, and the provinces adjoining it, will now be
found interesting, though with reference to the events of last summer
and autumn, much minuteness of detail is purposely avoided. The
consequences might be fatal to many, were I to give publicity to their
revelations, their sufferings, and their hopes.

Ancona, as already observed, lays claim to high antiquity. It is
supposed to have been founded by a Doric colony, and its Greek name is
derived from the angular, elbow-like form of the promontory on which
the town is situated. In the time of Cæsar it was a celebrated port;
and its importance under Trajan is attested by the magnificent works
undertaken by that emperor, upon which more than seventeen centuries
have scarce left a trace. The mole he built at the entrance of the
inner harbour is a monument of true Roman durability, formed of huge
stones, bound together by iron, and rising to a considerable height
above the level of the sea. The triumphal arch which bears his name was
erected by his wife and sister in his honour. Considered by many as the
finest marble arch now extant, it stands on the old mole, more vigorous
in its decay than aught of the present which surrounds it.

During the dark ages the city sustained many vicissitudes, and was
successively ravaged by Totila, the Saracens, and the Lombards. The
latter placed over it a governor, whose title, Marchese, gave rise to
the general term of Marchesato to the provinces under his rule. Hence
the abbreviation of La Marca, or Le Marche, still in use. In the latter
part of the eleventh century, the March of Ancona was bequeathed to
the Church by the famous Countess Matilda, whose sway extended over a
considerable part of central Italy, but the town was not comprehended
in this donation. It maintained itself as a free city, flourishing
in trade, and steadily opposed to the Ghibeline, or imperialist,
faction. For this Frederic Barbarossa, in 1174, brought it to a deadly
reckoning, and jointly with the Venetians, who were jealous of its
commercial prosperity, entered upon the famous siege which is one of
the most brilliant episodes in Italian mediæval annals.

Then, as now, the harbour had no adequate defences, and the Venetian
galleys were able to moor themselves in the very face of the quays,
establish the most strict blockade, and harass the town by their
military engines, while the German army ravaged the country, and
hemmed the garrison within the narrow compass of the walls. Time had
failed the inhabitants to lay in supplies before the approach of the
enemy, and the pressure of famine early made itself felt. Ere long
they were reduced to such grievous straits, that the skins of animals,
whose flesh is commonly rejected as unclean, as well as sea-weed, and
the wild herbs growing on the ramparts, were all eagerly devoured. A
young and beautiful woman, of the noble class, bearing an infant at
her breast, one day remarked a sentinel who had sunk upon the ground
at his post. To her rebuke for his neglect, he answered that he was
perishing from exhaustion. Her reply has been preserved as worthy of a
Roman matron. “Fifteen days”, she said, “have passed, during which my
life has been barely supported by loathsome sustenance, and a mother's
stores are beginning to be dried up from my babe. Place your lips
however upon this bosom, and if aught yet remains there, drink it, and
recover strength for the defence of our country.”

Dauntless courage, as well as sublime endurance, was displayed by
the besieged. On one occasion the Venetians took advantage of the
garrison's attention being drawn off by an assault of the imperialists
on the land side, to effect a disembarkation. They already thought the
town their own, when they were charged by the inhabitants, who drove
them back in confusion; and a woman rushing forward with a blazing
torch, under a shower of stones and arrows, set fire to a lofty wooden
tower which was the most formidable of their beleaguering works. The
daring of a priest inflicted another loss of equal importance upon
the Venetians. Among their ships employed in the blockade, was one
distinguished for its enormous bulk, bearing towers on its deck,
and known by the name of _Il Mondo_. To destroy this was the brave
priest's aim. Carrying an axe in his teeth, he swam across the harbour,
and succeeded in cutting the cable which moored the vessel to her
anchorage. _Il Mondo_ drifted among the rest of the shipping, and
caused the loss of seven galleys ere it could be secured, at the cost
moreover of its cumbrous engines, and much of its stores.

The hardness and arrogance of Christian, the Arch-chancellor of the
Empire, to whom Frederic had delegated the chief command, contributed
to the Anconitans' obstinate resistance. His disdainful rejection of
their proposals to treat on honourable terms, nerved them to face the
deadliest extremity ere they yielded to his mercy. Help came at last
from the Guelphs of Ferrara and Ravenna. Much inferior in numbers to
the enemy, a classical stratagem adopted by their leader, Marcheselli,
deceived even the astute Christian. It was night when they reached the
heights of Falconara, whence Ancona is plainly seen. To give notice
of his approach to the besieged, and at the same time strike terror
into the German host, he ordered every soldier to bind to the head of
his lance as many lighted torches as he could dispose around it, and
extending his ranks, deployed slowly from the mountain.

Dismayed at the long and glittering lines of light bearing down upon
him, the Arch-chancellor imagined a force was marching to the relief
of the city, of such magnitude as his own troops, already jaded and
dispirited at their want of success, were in no condition to encounter.
He precipitately broke up his camp, and retired upon Spoleto. The
Venetians at the same time raised the blockade, and Ancona remained a
memorable example of what may be borne and done by a free people in the
preservation of their freedom.

Ancona enjoyed its independence until 1532, when it was surprised by
Gonzaga, general of Clement VII., who, under the pretence of defending
it against the incursions of the Turks, erected a fort, and filled the
city with Papal troops. The magistrates, or _Anziani_, were expelled,
the principal nobles beheaded or banished, and the absolute dominion
of the Holy See was established beyond the power of the inhabitants to
resist the usurpation. From that time Ancona remained in subjection
to the Church until the wars of the French Directory, when the Roman
States were occupied by Napoleon; and subsequently, incorporated by him
with the rest of Central and Northern Italy into the _Regno d'Italia_,
under the viceroyalty of Eugène Beauharnais, enjoyed a brief season of
unaccustomed prosperity.

The pacification of Europe placed Italy on its former footing. The
award of the Congress of Vienna restored the successor of St Peter to
the possessions of which he had been stripped by the French Revolution.
By conquest, cession, or inheritance, these possessions had increased
from the original scanty and barren territory, bestowed by Pepin and
Charlemagne to a State containing three millions of inhabitants,
and extending from the shores of the Adriatic to those of the
Mediterranean.

In 1815 the pontifical dominions were divided into twenty provinces,
six styled Legations, governed by cardinals; thirteen Delegations,
under prelates; and the Comarca of Rome. I shall merely name those on
the Mediterranean:—the legation of Velletri, and the delegations of
Perugia, Spoleto, Rieti, Viterbo, Orvieto, Civita Vecchia, Frosinone
and Benevento. It is on the provinces lying on the other side of the
Apennines that at the present moment general interest is concentrated.
The most important of these are the four legations of Bologna, Ferrara,
Forli, and Ravenna, lying between the Po and La Cattolica,[8] and
usually known as the Romagne;—the legation of Urbino and Pesaro; and
the delegation of Ancona. The delegations of Macerata, Camerino, Fermo
and Ascoli, are of less extent and less political importance. The
collective designation of Le Marche is applied to the entire tract
between La Cattolica and the Neapolitan frontier.

Most of these territories and towns do not belong to the Holy See by
the ancient tenure commonly supposed. We have seen how the city of
Ancona became annexed in 1532. Nearly thirty years before, Bologna
had been conquered from its _Signori_, the Bentivogli, by the
soldier-pontiff, Julius II., who, however, allowed it to continue,
except in name, almost independent of his authority. The same pope
also extended his victories over Ravenna, which he obtained from the
Venetians; and compelled Cæsar Borgia to yield up the Holy See, Forli,
Cesena, Rimini, and other smaller towns of the Romagne that he had
wrested from their petty princes, and of which the sovereignty had been
conferred on him by Alexander VI. Ferrara was attached to the Church
in 1598 by Clement VIII., after the extinction of the direct line of
the house of Este in the person of Duke Alfonso II., on the plea that
Cæsar D'Este, the representative of the family by a collateral branch
was disqualified by illegitimacy. The provinces of Urbino and Pesaro
were ceded in 1626 by their last duke, Francesco Maria della Rovere,
to Pope Urban VIII., along with Senigallia, an appanage of the same
family. The towns which give their names to the four delegations last
enumerated, besides Osimo, Recanati, Tolentino, &c., were acquired at
different times, under similar circumstances. Camerino was given up by
the treaty; others which had been taken under the special protection
of the German emperors, who in the Middle Ages claimed a sort of
suzerainship over Italy, reverted to the popes on the decline of the
Ghibeline influence; the rest were governed by their own _Signori_ till
subjugated by Cæsar Borgia, who, while shaping out his own ambitious
ends, did Rome good service by bringing these elements of feud and
bloodshed into the recognition of one supreme authority.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

   Injudicious policy of the Government at the
     Restoration—Non-fulfilment of the _Motu proprio_ of Pius
     VII.—Disappointment of the pontifical subjects—Inability
     of Cardinals Consalvi and Guerrieri to contend against
     the narrow views of their colleagues—Reasons of Austria's
     animosity against the former—Guerrieri's projected
     reforms bring about his fall—The constitutional movement
     of 1820-21—Its effect in the Papal States—Abuse of
     Consalvi's instructions—Extreme political rigour under Leo
     XII.—Distracted condition of the country—The _Sanfedisti_
     rising of 1831—First Austrian armed intervention in
     Romagna—Conferences at Rome—Mr. Seymour's protest—Fresh
     disturbances in the Legations—the Austrians again occupy
     Bologna—The French land at Ancona—The reign of Gregory XVI.


The Italian princes summoned back from exile or captivity, by the
downfall of Napoleon, to the exercise of sovereignty, bad, all of
them, learnt a little from adversity. Upon none, however, had its
lessons been so completely thrown away, as the Pope,—or, to speak more
correctly, the Papacy.

From the first resumption of its functions, the aim of the Roman
Government seems to have been to blot out all traces of the enlightened
and vigorous administration of the French; not by continuing whatever
they had introduced of good, or improving on whatever they had left
imperfect, but by forcibly reviving the usages of an almost obsolete
generation. It was seriously deemed possible, by the most puerile
restrictions, the most inquisitorial surveillance, to compel men
to recede a quarter of a century, and return submissively to the
stagnation which characterized Italy before the Revolution—a period
when literature, art, morals, were all at their lowest ebb, and the
test of a good citizen was to be regular at his barber's, spotless in
his ruffles, and assiduous as a cicisbee.

At the restoration of Pius VII., promises had been held out of a
thorough revision of the Legislature; but before long the publication
of a civil and criminal code, based upon by-gone institutions and
totally opposed to the requirements of the age, coupled with the
augmenting influence of the clergy, opened the way for a weary
succession of evils. It soon became apparent that neither the
moderation of the pontiff, nor the good intentions and activity of one
or two amongst the cardinals could counterbalance the hostility of the
vast majority of the Sacred College to aught connected with reform.
Victims of one revolution, they fancied any innovation on time-hallowed
observances would infallibly precipitate them into a second.

Consalvi and Guerrieri, the one Prime Minister, the other
Cardinal-Treasurer, stood alone in their endeavours to remedy the most
crying abuses. Unsupported as they were, for a few years at least they
kept up a semblance of decency and justice. With their disgrace every
vestige of common sense departed from the councils of the Vatican.
Italians always date the commencement of their worst times from
the triumph of the Austrian intrigues which brought about Cardinal
Consalvi's downfall. Metternich had never forgiven his energetic
protest at the Congress of Vienna against the occupation of the
citadels of Ferrara and Commacchio in the papal territory. Though the
protest remains a dead letter, and both received Austrian garrisons,
the independence of spirit, the impatience of foreign control, which
he had revealed, were little in accordance with imperial policy; and,
conjoined to his successful opposition to designs upon Ancona in 1821,
stamped him as too _national_ for Austria to tolerate in the Church
Cabinet. Immediately upon the decease of his firm friend Pius VII.,
Consalvi was displaced; and Cardinal Albani, of avowedly absolutist
principles, succeeded him in the direction of affairs.

Guerrieri was the victim of his devotion to political economy, and his
projected financial reforms. Amongst these was a thorough revision of
the land-tax, to effect which he sent for experienced engineers from
abroad. But Albani would not suffer him to carry out this much-needed
undertaking. When interrogated as to the motive of this hostility,
he is said to have replied: “My large estates in the Marche are not
probably assessed at more than at third of their value. I do not choose
to treble the tax at my expense.”

The years 1820-21 were equally memorable and disastrous for the whole
of Italy. Revolutions broke out in Naples and Piedmont, of which
the object was to obtain a Constitution. But neither Ferdinand of
Bourbon, nor Charles Felix of Savoy, were reformers. Both monarchs had
recourse to arms; the one solicited, the other accepted, the assistance
of Austria, who, dreading nothing so much as the establishment
of representative institutions in Italy, eagerly seized on this
opportunity for intervention. Naples Was guarded for six years by the
Imperial troops;—the Piedmontese sustained what they still remember
as the indignity of a six months' occupation of the citadel of
Alessandria.

Though the Roman States had taken no part in these disturbances, it was
apparent that a dangerous amount of sympathy for their purpose existed
in the population. The absolutist party urged stringent measures
of precaution; and Austria was desirous of throwing a garrison into
Ancona. By diplomatic address Consalvi eluded compliance with this
proffer; but, to clear himself from the imputation of inability or
disinclination to make head against the liberals, took a step which
entailed consequences he was the first to deplore. He wrote to the
four legates of the Romagne, authorizing them to send temporarily
out of the country a certain number of individuals suspected to be
members of the Carbonari, Freemasons, and other secret revolutionary
societies. The cardinal-legates used this faculty with indiscriminating
rigour; and drew upon themselves the prime minister's grave rebuke.
Shocked at finding the arrests considerably exceeded one hundred,
Consalvi declared that the pope would pass for the most relentless
of persecutors, deprecated the abuse of force and of justice which
had been employed, and gave orders to desist from any further
proceedings.[9]

But this act had been as the letting in of waters. The proscriptions
which Consalvi lamented as being so large, were insignificant to those
that desolated the Romagne two years later under the blind intolerance
of Leo XII., and Albani, when he himself had been thrust from office.
Five hundred and eight persons were accused of high treason by the
tribunals presided over by the fanatical Cardinal Rivarola. Of these
offenders, a hundred and twenty-one, belonging to the upper classes of
society, were exiled into Tuscany. But ere long the Government became
apprehensive that they would conspire afresh if left at large. They
were, therefore, summoned back to their own residences. With a fatal
reliance on the good intentions of their sovereign, into which no Roman
subject will ever again be betrayed, they obeyed the command. Scarcely
had they entered the country when they were seized, imprisoned, and,
after a protracted trial, condemned. Seven were beheaded, forty-five
sent to the galleys, and the remainder imprisoned in State fortresses.

The hatred generated by this violation of humanity and good faith,
hopelessly widened the breach between the people and their rulers.
Political assassinations and conspiracies grew more and more frequent,
and these in their turn led to fresh arrests and fresh severities.
But it is with political as in religious persecutions; the secret
societies, which had not comprised more than two thousand members
before 1824, rapidly acquired a vast number of proselytes.

The organization of the _Sanfedisti_ by the Government introduced
another element of discord, terror, and oppression. This association,
intended as a counterpoise to those of the liberals, required of its
adepts the utmost mystery and devotion; they were bound together by the
most solemn oath for the defence of the holy Roman Apostolic faith,
and the temporal authority of the Pope. No family tie, no impulse of
compassion, neither “the tears of women, nor the cries of children,”
were to stand in the way of its fulfilment. So long as they were
faithful to the material obligations of this pledge, the _Sanfedisti_
enjoyed almost complete immunity for any amount of crime, and their
services were requited with a liberality which attracted many to their
ranks. The spy and the informer plied thriving trades, and no class of
society was secure from their baneful presence.

In 1831 the smouldering embers again kindled into flame. The
revolutions of France and Belgium revived the desire of the Italians
for emancipation. Risings took place in Piedmont, Modena, Parma, the
Romagne, and Marche. But this time the insurgents were less moderate in
their aims. The tyranny of the last ten years had borne its accustomed
fruit, and a large leaven of republicanism was now mingled with what
had been the constitutional party of '21. In the papal provinces,
however, the malcontents demanded little beyond the accomplishment of
the reforms promised by Pius VII. But Gregory XVI., the newly-elected
Pope, at once turned to Austria, and three large bodies of imperial
troops speedily restored these importunate subjects to his authority.

Subdued, but not convinced, the Romagnuoli addressed such indignant
remonstrances to France, whose support they had been led to anticipate
before the commencement of the struggle, as aroused that Power to seek
some mitigation of their sufferings. A Conference was proposed to be
held in Rome, at which the representatives of France, England, Russia,
Austria, and Prussia were to deliberate on the means of bringing about
an amicable settlement of the differences between the Pope and his
people.

They were not long in discerning the main defects of the Roman
administration, and in their memorandum of 10th May, 1831, pointed
out the appropriate remedies. These embraced the secularization of
many of the chief offices under Government, and in the courts of law,
hitherto an ecclesiastical monopoly; the complete revision of the
civil and criminal code; the nomination of municipal councils by their
respective communes, instead of by the State; the selection from these
of a deliberative body for each province, to protect local interests;
lastly, these provincial assemblies to furnish the members of a
_Consulta_, which was to have its seat at Rome, regulate the public
debt, and have a voice in the general management of affairs.

These suggestions, it is scarcely necessary to say, were not carried
out. It is universally believed that, though ostensibly favouring their
adoption, Austria, and Russia also, secretly backed the Papal Court
in evading all compliance. Gregory XVI., a native of Belluno, was an
Austrian subject by birth, and showed himself throughout his career a
steady partisan of the House of Hapsburg. He began his reign with the
promise that a _new era_ was about to open;[10] but how little was done
towards its realization may be gathered from the protest of Mr Seymour,
the English minister, on withdrawing from the conferences.

“More than fourteen months,” he says, “have elapsed since the
memorandum was given in, and not one of the recommendations it contains
has been fully adopted by the Papal Government. For even the edicts
which have either been prepared or published, and which profess to
carry some of those recommendations into effect, differ essentially
from the measures recommended in the memorandum. The consequence of
this state of things has been that which it was natural to expect. The
Papal Government having taken no effectual steps to remedy the defects
which had created the discontent, that discontent has been increased
by the disappointment of hopes which the negotiations at Rome were
calculated to excite: and thus, after the Five Powers have for more
than a year been occupied in endeavouring to restore tranquillity to
the Roman State, the prospect of voluntary obedience by the population
to the authority of the Sovereign, seems not to be nearer than it was
when the negotiations first commenced.

“The court of Rome appears to rely upon the temporary presence of
foreign troops, and upon the expected service of an auxiliary Swiss
force, for the maintenance of order in its territories. But foreign
occupation cannot be indefinitely prolonged; and it is not likely
that any Swiss force of such an amount as could be maintained by the
financial means of the Roman Government could be capable of suppressing
the discontent of a whole population; and even if tranquillity could be
restored by such means, it could not be considered to be permanently
re-established, nor would such a condition of things be the kind
of pacification the British Government intended to be a party in
endeavouring to bring about.”...

The concluding sentence is prophetic:—“The British Government foresees
that if the present system is persevered in, fresh disturbances
must be expected to take place in the Papal States, of a character
progressively more and more serious, and that out of those disturbances
may spring complications dangerous to the peace of Europe.”[11]

The English minister needed but to have appealed to the events
which had transpired during his stay in Rome to give weight to his
assertions. The Austrian troops had scarcely been withdrawn when
the Romagne began to demand the unreserved accomplishment of the
promised reforms. Meetings were held in their principal towns, the
representatives of the Five Powers were memorialized, and deputations
sent to the Pope. But in vain. After a few months of growing irritation
and suspicion, the tri-coloured flag was raised in several towns of the
four Legations and the Marches. Upon this, the pontifical troops, who
had been collecting in the vicinity for some time previous, attacked
Forli and Cesena, while Austria a second time poured an army across the
Po for the reduction of the country.

Ancona soon afterwards (February, 1832) received a French garrison.
Jealous of the position assumed by Austria in Italy, this measure was
resolved upon by France to counterbalance that ascendancy. This joint
military occupation of the two nations lasted until the end of 1838.
The tears shed by the Anconitans on the departure of the French were
significant of their forebodings for the future. Evil indeed must be
the condition of a people who prefer foreign occupation to their own
sovereign's rule.

The period that followed, until the death of Gregory XVI., was, indeed,
dark. The clergy, ignorant, grasping, and corrupt, monopolized almost
every channel to emolument or advancement. Ministers, judges, heads of
colleges, directors of hospitals, governors of towns—all were prelates;
a few, indeed, had not received the tonsure, and were free to marry,
on giving up their appointments; but the cases in which the advantages
accruing from celibacy and the clerical habit were renounced, are of
rare occurrence.[12] The introduction of railways, evening schools for
the working-classes, and scientific congresses, were all systematically
opposed. Ruinous loans were contracted, and unjust monopolies conceded,
to defray the expenses of the Swiss mercenaries, and the army of
spies and police agents necessary to keep the population in check.
Notwithstanding these precautions, and the utter hopelessness of
any effort so long as Austria was on the frontier, ready to pour in
her troops when needed, conspiracies were frequently breaking out,
which gave a colour to the increasing blind, fanatical severity of
the Government, only bent on retaining its grasp for the moment,
without a thought on the heritage of hatred and ruin stored up for
its successors. In 1843, partial insurrectionary movements in the
Romagne were punished as in the days of Cardinal Rivarola. Military
commissions were instituted, and in Bologna seven _popolani_, leaders
of the populace, who for the first time were found joined with the
more intellectual classes in opposition to the Government, were
executed, and many more imprisoned. The chief conspirators having
escaped, vengeance was thus wreaked on their subordinates. At Ravenna,
the five chiefs of the movement, amongst whom was Farini, since so
celebrated, also succeeded in eluding arrest; but the commission was
relentless in its inquisition after those on whom a shadow of suspicion
could be fastened. The most barbarous measures were pursued to extort
confession; solitary confinement, intimidation, false intelligence,
even to the terror of impending death. Thirty-six condemnations to the
galleys crowned this investigation. Again in 1845, at Rimini, fresh
disturbances broke out, of which the aim was no republican Utopia, but
simply to demand moderate reforms. The noble manifesto addressed by the
insurgents to the peoples of Europe, seconded by a vigorous exposition
of their wrongs from the pen of Massimo d'Azeglio, struck powerfully,
it is said, upon Cardinal Mastai, shortly afterwards named Pope. But
the advisers of Gregory XVI. dealt with this movement as with those
that had preceded it. Arrests were made all over the country, and gloom
and apprehension filled every heart.

The highways swarmed with robbers and murderers, while the prisons
were tenanted by honest men, arrested as political delinquents, often
ignorant of the offences laid to their charge, and detained for years
without a trial. Commerce languished; bribery and fraud were rife
in every department. Religion had never been in such low estimation,
yet conformity to its most solemn practices was enforced under severe
penalties. Language fails me to describe the misery, the idleness,
the decay, which were the characteristics, at that time, both of the
Romagne and the Marche; and which, unhappily, continue to be applicable
to the latter.

This picture will, I know, be considered exaggerated by those who have
not inhabited these provinces. The appearance of Rome may be cited in
contradiction to my statements. But Rome cannot be taken as a criterion
of the Roman States. It is a cosmopolite city, resorted to by strangers
from all parts of the world, animated and enriched by their presence.
Take away the artists' studios, the shops of the dealers in mosaic and
cameos, statuettes and sarcophagi,—and those who purchase them,—and
grass would be growing in the streets of Rome, as it did six months ago
in the half-depopulated cities of the Legations.

  The Cavaliere Baratelli of Ferrara, who was assassinated in
  1847, acquired an unenviable notoriety amongst his countrymen as
  the head of the _Società Ferdinandea_, a secret society in the
  Roman States, of which the scope was to promote the ascendancy of
  Austria and the spread of its principles. The Marquis Gualterio
  thus sketches his biography:—“Baratelli was a man on whom the
  Imperial Government could securely count. His parents, belonging
  to Migliarino, in the province of Ferrara, lived upon alms; and in
  his childhood he shared their misery, going to beg his daily food
  from families whom he afterwards brought to ruin. In one of these
  houses an interest was excited in behalf of the little mendicant,
  which led to his removal to Ferrara, where he was educated.
  In the political turmoil of 1796, he made himself remarkable
  for his ultra-revolutionary opinions, and was named one of the
  Commissioners of the Cisalpine Republic. He was one of a committee
  charged with levying a tax _on the opinion of the aristocrats_;
  and through bribes or intimidation laid the foundation of a large
  fortune. His private life was most scandalous; he tricked a woman
  of some wealth, whom he had seduced from her husband's protection,
  into making over to him the whole of her property, and then left
  her to die in utter destitution. For this transaction no lodge of
  Freemasons would receive him as a member, neither could he obtain
  employment under the 'Regno d'Italia.' In 1815 he entered into
  the service of Austria as a spy, and was commissary of police,
  under General Nugent, at Parma, where, amongst other misdeeds, the
  robbery of several valuable works from the public and a conventual
  library was universally laid to his charge. In 1821 he accompanied
  the Austrians to Naples with the same appointment, which he
  exercised with the most flagrant defiance of justice; liberating
  those prisoners who bid sufficiently high to satisfy his rapacity,
  and cruelly oppressing such as could not, or would not, purchase
  their enlargement. Under these circumstances 25,000 dollars were
  very soon remitted to Ferrara. The Neapolitan Government, having
  dishonest officials enough amongst its own subjects, complained of
  his practices, and demanded his removal; but this Austria would
  not permit, without the promise of an indemnity for Baratelli
  of 20,000 ducats. Not satisfied with this provision, his patrons
  insisted on the Pope's nominating him Administrator of Comacchio,
  with a salary of a hundred dollars a month; a perfect sinecure,
  inasmuch as he simply drew his pay, and never went to Comacchio.
  In 1831 he again filled an important situation as Papal Commissary
  at Bologna; but here his exclusive devotion to the Imperial
  Government, in his capacity of chief of the _Ferdinandea_, which
  aimed at no less than the gradual preparation of the Pontifical
  States for absorption into the Austrian empire, roused the
  suspicions of the authorities at Rome, and he was desired to quit
  the country. But the protection of Austria enabled him to evade
  this order. The Papal Government was constrained to present him
  with 20,000 dollars, as an acknowledgment of his services; and his
  exile never existed but in name. He announced that he chose Modena
  for his residence, but never quitted Ferrara, where he remained,
  under the safe-guard of the Austrian garrison, to serve the police
  of the Vienna Cabinet.”

  Continuing its favours beyond the grave, the character of
  Baratelli was painted in flattering colours by the Imperial
  Government to Lord Ponsonby, who describes him as follows:—

  _Extract from a despatch from Lord Ponsonby to Lord Palmerston._

                                          VIENNA, 28th June, 1847.

  “Baratelli was a landed proprietor in easy circumstances in the
  Legation of Ferrara; and during the period of the conquests of the
  French in Italy, their great adversary.

  “When in 1813 Austria declared war against Napoleon, the Austrian
  armies advanced rapidly beyond the Alps, and Baratelli formed
  friendly relations with General Count Nugent.

  “Baratelli always remained faithful to his principles of public
  order. In the revolutionary movements in the States of the Church,
  he always took the side of constituted authority, and was in
  consequence even persecuted by the Carbonaro party.

  “Baron Baratelli was in communication with the Austrian
  authorities, &c.”

  See “Rivolgimenti Italiani,” by the Marquis Gualterio, vol. I.,
  chap. x. Also “Gli Interventi dell' Austria nello Stato Romano,”
  by the same author.




CHAPTER XXIX.

   Accession of Pius IX.—The amnesty—His unbounded popularity—His
     reforms and concessions—Disasters entailed by the French
     Revolution—The encyclical of the 29th April—Revulsion
     of feeling—The Mazzinians gain ground—Austrian
     intrigues—Assassination of Count Rossi—The Pope's flight to
     Gaeta—Efforts of the Constitutionalists to bring about an
     accommodation—The republic is proclaimed in Rome—Excesses
     in Ancona and Senigallia—Moderation of the Bolognese—Their
     courageous resistance to General Wimpffen—Siege of
     Ancona—Extreme severities of the victors.


The amnesty to all political offenders with which, in July, 1846, Pius
IX. inaugurated his reign, spread joy and gratitude throughout the
pontifical dominions. Thousands of families received back their loved
ones from exile or captivity, and the country awoke from the lethargy
of despair. This act of grace, it was argued, would be followed by acts
of justice;—nor did the Pope's career for nearly two years belie this
conclusion. He collected around him the most enlightened men, lay as
well as ecclesiastic, of the country, and in spite of the ill-humour of
Austria, who did not scruple to express her disapproval of the course
on which he had entered, proceeded steadily with his ameliorations.

Men spoke little in those times but of what the Pope was doing, or
purposed to do. Unlike his predecessor, who shrunk from any discussion
on public affairs, Pius invited all who had any grievances to report,
or plans of improvement to propose, to come freely to his presence.
He removed the most irksome restraints from the Jewish population;
lent a favourable ear to projects of railroads and other scientific
and industrial enterprises, as well as to the diffusion of instruction
among the lower classes; and permitted the establishment at Rome of a
political journal, the first known in Italy. The provincial councils,
ineffectually recommended in the Memorandum of 1831, were organized;
and the Supreme _Consulta_ selected from their members was convoked.
Finally, on the 8th of March, 1848, constrained by the example of the
other Italian sovereigns, who themselves had yielded to the impetus of
the French revolution of February, he granted a Constitution.

The proclamation of the Republic at Paris was a dire misfortune for the
Italians. It precipitated events for which they were not yet prepared,
and exposed a people still giddy with their sudden emancipation from
a system of degrading oppression and restraint, to the contagion of
the most levelling and socialistic doctrines. Their recently acquired
privileges of discussion and inquiry were grossly abused, and many and
grievous errors committed, which they themselves are now the first to
acknowledge. But it is only fair to remember that the Pope took the
first step in sundering the bonds which had hitherto bound the people
of Italy so ardently to him. The famous encyclical of the 29th April,
in which he publicly disavowed the Italian war of liberation against
Austria, then waging on the plains of Lombardy,—notwithstanding that,
only one month before, he had given unequivocal proofs of his sympathy
for the national cause, and had blessed the volunteers on their
departure from Rome,—for ever destroyed his prestige in Italy. Most
disastrous in its immediate consequences to the success of the Italian
arms, the results to the papacy, though more remote, were still more
irremediable.

The revulsion of feeling all over the Peninsula was terrible; but
nowhere more bitter or hostile than in the States of the Church, where
this declaration was received as a formal retractation of the liberal
policy which had won Pius his popularity.

The war he now branded as UNJUST AND HURTFUL, had been preached in
his own dominions, with his full knowledge and consent, as a new
crusade; his condemnation of it stamped him as Austria's vassal. The
acts and deeds which had been a steady protest against the principles
and the supremacy of the Cabinet of Vienna were at once and for ever
annulled. His conscience had taken alarm: he remembered that above his
obligations as an Italian king were those of Universal Bishop, and the
conflicting principles of the temporal and spiritual attributes of the
Papacy were brought into open antagonism.

From the encyclical may be dated the beginning of the end. The
warnings, the threatenings, so long bravely resisted, all appeared
suddenly to take effect. As if aroused to the conviction that the
innovations he had sanctioned clashed with the independence of the
Church, his mind now bent itself solely to repair the evil into which
he had been led by the sympathies and weakness of the man usurping
the higher duties of the priest. The Constitution especially clashed
with the hierarchical polity; and hence the summer of 1848 was passed
in unseemly contentions between the Pope and his lay-ministers,
zealous on their side to maintain inviolate the power and attributes
of the Chambers. These dissensions were no secret in the country,
and unhappily opened a door to Mazzini, the chief of the republican
party in Italy, and his adherents, who previously, in the enthusiastic
confidence inspired by Pius IX., had found no hearing. Side by side
with these revolutionists were agents of the Austrian police, and the
reactionary party, seeking, under the disguise of the most fanatical
democracy, to urge the population into excesses which should speedily
justify an Austrian intervention. “We can all remember,” writes
Massimo d'Azeglio to the inhabitants of the Legations, cautioning them
against being this time the dupes of similar intrigues, “we can all
remember, in 1848-9, certain journalists and street orators, who were
only too successful in dragging the most ignorant and inflammable of
the population into extravagant lengths; and whom afterwards, on the
return of the Austrian army, we saw impudently walking about arm-in-arm
with the officers, and sneering in the face of those they had led into
error.”[13]

Still the catastrophe would not have been so immediate, but for the
total defeat of the Sardinian army in Lombardy, in the month of August.
The misfortunes of Charles Albert extended their influence to the
furthest parts of the Peninsula. The Constitutionalists lost heart; the
Republicans grew more overbearing. In the Roman States the dagger of an
assassin took the life of the only man who yet stood between the Pope
and the Revolution.

The prime minister, Count Rossi, was murdered in open daylight as he
was entering the Capitol, where the parliament held its sittings. The
upper and middle classes were paralyzed by this calamity; and the Roman
populace, headed by a handful of furious demagogues, were suffered
to assail the Pope in his own palace, and forced him to sanction the
nomination of a democratic ministry.

What followed is well known. Indignant at this coercion, Pius fled from
his capital, but unhappily, instead of accepting either of the asylums
offered by France and Spain, he was induced to claim the protection
of the King of Naples, which was tantamount to throwing himself into
the hands of Austria. From the moment he became the guest of the
unrelenting Ferdinand, his policy bore the impress of the influences
surrounding him.

Great as had been the errors and ingratitude of the Romans, they did
not abandon themselves to anarchy and licence. Count Terenzio Mamiani,
recognised as the leader of the Constitutionalists, and all the local
authorities, were strenuous in their efforts to avert the crisis which
was equally desired by the two extreme parties. The Sardinian cabinet
also laboured to save the constitution, and bring back the Pope to
Rome, without having recourse to foreign Powers. It was not till the
8th of February, 1849, nearly three months after his departure, that
the Republic was proclaimed—not till after the Pontiff had rejected
every overture for an accommodation.

The scenes of bloodshed and excess ascribed to Rome at this time are
almost entirely without foundation. Seven priests fell victims to
popular fury on the discovery of some reactionary plot of which, they
were the promoters; but beyond this crime, there is nothing to lay to
the charge of a population to whom murder is more familiar than to any
other in Christendom. On the contrary, fewer _vendette_, assassinations
from personal motives, and fewer robberies, took place that winter in
the Eternal City than in previous years.

But this moderation was not followed in Ancona, which has acquired
a fatal notoriety from the atrocities perpetrated by its “Infernal
Association” in the name of liberty and the people. In a previous
chapter, I have related the fear and prostration occasioned by this
secret tribunal. The gross culpability of Mazzini, when Chief Triumvir
at Rome, in not immediately commanding the arrest of the assassins,—the
inexplicable supineness of Mattioli, the governor or _Preside_—have
left an indelible stain on the short-lived republic. The pusillanimity
of the Anconitans in submitting to this reign of terror has also not
contributed to raise them in the estimation of Europe. It was too
evident they had degenerated since the days of Barbarossa.

The only other city in which these crimes were at all emulated was
Senigallia, the birthplace of the Pope, about twenty miles distant
from Ancona. Several members of the Mastai family were threatened,
and had to escape for their lives; and in a population of eleven or
twelve thousand, upwards of twenty persons, marked out for vengeance,
were either killed or wounded by the self-styled patriots. _Amongst
the assassins, both here and in Ancona, were men zealous as Sanfedisti
under Gregory._ A band of the vilest rabble were about to commence
similar proceedings at Imola, a town between Bologna and Ravenna, when
they were summarily dealt with by Count Laderchi, the Preside. He did
at once what Mattioli only did after months; or rather what it required
a Commissioner from Rome to compel him to do at all. He collected the
national guard by night, surrounded the haunts of the assassins, and
arrested every one on whom a suspicion rested.

Bologna throughout these agitated times held a firm yet temperate
attitude. The long continuance of their free institutions—for their
distinct autonomy was respected till the end of the eighteenth
century—had given this people a resoluteness of purpose, and
intellectual development, not shared by their brethren in the more
southern provinces, whom they had long ago nick-named the “Somari of
the Marche.”[14] The city, which contained 75,000 inhabitants, ranked
next in importance to Rome, and had long been celebrated for its
university, the fame of which in the Middle Ages attracted students
from all parts of Europe;[15] and its schools of painting and music.
But since the Restoration it had participated in the general decline.
Political restrictions and religious bigotry scared away the votaries
of science and art.

In August, 1848, before any disturbances had taken place in Rome,
an unjustifiable attempt of the Austrian general, Welden, to
possess himself of Bologna, was repulsed with great bravery by the
inhabitants, and the invading force compelled to recross the Po.
This outrage on the rights of nations having been protested against
by the Pope's ministers, Austria was obliged to wait for her revenge
until officially summoned to invade the Legations. The long-desired
moment, brought about by the madness of the Republicans, the weakness
of the Constitutionalists, and the far-spreading intrigues of the
Austro-Jesuits, came at last. In the spring of 1849, the Pontiff
formally invoked the armed intervention of the Catholic Powers. France
undertook to reinstate him in Rome; Austria was to deal with Romagna
and the Marche.

Even the most sanguine might now be permitted to despair. Charles
Albert, the champion of Italy, who had ventured upon a second appeal
to arms, had just sustained a second overthrow. The bloody field of
Novara seemed destined to be the grave of national liberty. General
Wimpffen, at the head of 15,000 men, in all the flush and exultation
of victory, advanced against Bologna. The town had no fortifications,
and the inhabitants were without leaders, regular troops, or artillery.
Nevertheless, they refused to open their gates to the Austrians, and
resisted gallantly for ten days. No further opposition was encountered
by the enemy till they reached Ancona.

Here a few undisciplined troops and volunteers had been got together,
and the citadel put into a posture of defence. A short time before
this, the assassins had all been placed in confinement; and the
inhabitants, relieved from the palsying terror with which they had
been oppressed, gave many redeeming proofs of courage and endurance
during the four weeks of the siege. Unwilling to restore only a heap
of ruins to the Pope, the Austrians were sparing of their fire, and
contented themselves with harassing the citadel, while their ships of
war intercepted all supplies or reinforcements from entering the port.
At intervals, however, they would try the effect of more vigorous
measures; and four or five bombardments of several hours, one of a
whole night's duration, put the constancy of the Anconitans to the
test. Numbers of houses were struck, much damage to property inflicted,
many lives lost, but none shrank from danger. Even ladies of the
nobility went forth amidst falling shot and shells to continue their
ministrations to the wounded in the hospitals.

The defence of Ancona was rather a protest of the citizens against
the forcible restoration of the Pontifical Government, than the
death-struggle of the republic. Gambeccari, the commander of the
garrison, and the Preside, Mattioli, passed their time in a bomb-proof
vault of the Civic Palace, playing cards, satisfied with the knowledge
that when the town thought fit to capitulate, an English man-of-war was
waiting in the roads to carry them in safety to Corfu.[16]

The reconquered provinces were brought to a heavy reckoning. I have
already quoted some instances of the severity with which martial
law was enforced in Ancona. In Bologna, the executions for trifling
infractions of this Draconian code amounted to fifteen. The retention
of a rusty fowling-piece, a broken bayonet, or even the simple
possession of a few ounces of powder and shot, was there punished
with death. As in Ancona, so also in the Romagne, the disarmament
was so rigidly enforced, that landed proprietors were not allowed to
retain the fire-arms necessary for the defence of their country-houses
against brigands. The arms thus sequestrated in the Marche were laid
up in the fortress of Ancona, with a promise of restitution. But
some years afterwards the greater part were broken up and sold as old
iron; the Austrian officers, meantime, having made use of the best in
their shooting excursions. The communes were saddled with the large
expenses always incidental upon a military occupation like the present;
in addition to which they were required to provide new barracks,
riding-schools, and similar establishments for their unwelcome guests
at Bologna, and to defray the cost of additional fortifications at
Ancona.

These restraints and grievances, as well as the domineering insolence
of the Austrian authorities, were looked upon by the Papal Court as a
part only of the chastisement of its rebellious children. The remainder
it took upon itself to inflict.




CHAPTER XXX.

   Rome subjugated by the French—Leniency of General
     Oudinot—Rigour of the Pope's Commissioners—Investigation
     into the opinions of Government _employés_—Disfavour of the
     Constitutionalists—The Pope's edict and second amnesty—He
     returns to his capital, April, 1850—Bitter disappointment
     of the Romans—Count Cavour's appeal to the Congress of
     Paris on their behalf—The Papal progress in 1857—Public
     feeling at the opening of 1859—Excitement in the Pontifical
     States at the outbreak of the war—The Austrians evacuate
     Bologna—Establishment of a Provisional Government—The
     revolt spreads through the Legations—Ancona loses the
     favourable moment—Declares itself too late—Approach of the
     Swiss troops from Perugia and Pesaro—Capitulates to General
     Allegrini—Arbitrary proceedings of General Kalbermatten—The
     _Gonfaloniere_—His mendacious addresses to the Pope—Misery of
     Ancona—Contrast presented by the Legations—Conclusion.


Contemporarily with the re-establishment of the pontifical authority by
the Austrians in the Legations and Marche, the French, under General
Oudinot, fulfilled their part of the compact, and brought the Eternal
City into subjection. They were not prepared for the obstinate and
spirited resistance they encountered. False reports of the anarchy
prevailing in Rome had led Oudinot to anticipate that he would be
hailed by the vast majority of the inhabitants as their deliverer from
the licence of a demagogical faction; and no disappointment was ever
more galling than that of the victor when he found himself regarded
with aversion as the instrument of replacing a detested yoke upon an
indignant population. It is but his due to state that he descended
to no reprisals for the undisguised ill-will and contempt[17] with
which he was received. Although the hostility of the Romans left him
no alternative but to impose martial law, the greatest forbearance was
shown in enforcing it; while all who had cause to dread the return of
the Papal functionaries were at full liberty to depart.

It was not until a commission, composed of three cardinals, arrived
from Gaeta with full powers to assume the government, that the reaction
may be said to have commenced. Whoever had not shown himself a partisan
of absolute government was at once treated as an enemy. To their utter
astonishment the Constitutionalists were classed in the same category
as the democrats, and soon had cause to deplore not having followed the
example of all the persons connected with the short-lived Republic, who
had timely quitted the country. A censorship or council was instituted
_to investigate the opinions_ of government officials of every class;
but as every appointment made subsequently to the Pope's flight was
cancelled as a preliminary, this inquiry limited itself to such persons
as were in office before the commencement of disturbances. The result
of this inquisitorial scrutiny was the loss of their situations to
seven hundred _moderati_, and the sudden beggary of an almost equal
number of families. As if this measure had not sufficiently eliminated
the dangerous liberal element, persons who had been absent from public
view ever since the death of Gregory XVI. were now invited forth from
their hiding-places or from prison. Spies and perjurers in old times,
they returned with alacrity to their former calling; confiscation,
imprisonment, exile, the galleys, fell to the lot of those who had
crossed their path. The universities were closed; the most stringent
laws enacted on the Press; the Holy Office reinstated in full vigour.

The Constitution was withdrawn. Pius IX. was the first amongst the
princes of Europe to set the example of revoking the franchises with
so much solemnity accorded. Not that the statute was ever publicly
annulled: it was through his famous _motu proprio_ of the 12th
September, 1849, which laid down a totally opposite system as the basis
of his resumption of the government, that the Romans understood its
doom was sealed. The institutions he now promised were to be such “_as
should bring no danger to our liberty, which we are obliged to maintain
intact before the universal world_.” In those words lies the clue to
the Papal policy.

An amnesty was appended to this decree, but as it excluded from its
provisions whoever had taken any share in public affairs since the
assassination of Count Rossi, numbers of the most temperate politicians
in the State, who had given their support to Mamiani during his efforts
at an accommodation with the Pope, fared no better than the Mazzinians
who had set all constituted authority at defiance. All were equally
proscribed. The Romans, jesting, as is their wont, whether in pleasure
or in bitterness, compared it to a register of condemnation rather than
an instrument of pardon.

In April, 1850, Pius re-entered his dominions. The Romans had looked
anxiously for this, and trusting in the benevolence of his character,
imagined that he would at least put a stop to the cruelty and injustice
exercised in his name. But the Pope who came back from Gaeta had
nothing of the Pio Nono of four years back. As if in expiation of his
previous errors, and to screen the Church from being again jeopardized
by his weakness, he withdrew all attention from secular affairs, and
henceforth lived only for the glory of religion. So little did he
inform himself of the state of the country, that the few who could
obtain his ear unobserved, declare that they found him perfectly
ignorant of passing occurrences. Nothing was suffered to reach him save
through the medium of his detested minister, Cardinal Antonelli,—his
subjects' murmurings and prayers had no other expositor; while the
same channel conveyed to them nought save harshness, intolerance, and
vindictiveness, as tokens of their sovereign's existence.

When the Romans once thoroughly realized this change, with the
extinction of their hopes departed every vestige of affection. Never
was there a prince who fell from such a height of love, reverence, and
admiration, to be regarded with such utter indifference.

In 1856, the evils which affected the Roman States were brought before
Europe by Count Cavour, the Sardinian plenipotentiary at the Congress
of Paris. He sketched their history since the restoration in 1815,
and demonstrated the pressure Austria had always exercised upon the
Papal Government, to whom a loophole was thus given for throwing on
its powerful ally the odium of its past and actual _régime_. As the
first condition of the reforms the Pope should be invited to adopt, he
insisted on the withdrawal of the two foreign armies in occupation of
the country.

It being well understood that France only continued to garrison Rome
as a check upon Austria, it was without any fear of opposition from the
former that the Italian statesman dwelt on the crying necessity of this
measure, and appealed to the deplorable situation of the Legations and
Marche, where a state of siege and martial law had been subsisting for
seven years, to evidence whether the system now in force was salutary
in its results; while he wound up his representations by urging the
constant danger which threatened the tranquillity of neighbouring
States by the existence of such a focus of intrigue and discontent.

This movement on the part of the Sardinian Government was loudly
protested against by the clerical party as pandering to the
revolutionists; but it saved Italy from becoming once more the prey
of socialists and red republicans. Convinced that their cause was in
able hands, the people were induced to wait patiently a little longer,
to desist from the plottings and insurrections which had only been
fruitful in bloodshed and desolation, and give their infatuated rulers
another and final chance of averting the day of reckoning which was
rapidly approaching.

Even then, at the eleventh hour, a little judgment, a little
generosity, might have propped the tottering edifice. In 1857, the
announcement that the Pope was about to undertake a journey through
his dominions awoke a hope of brighter days. The state of siege
and martial law in Bologna and Ancona were removed; the beggars who
peopled all the towns through which he passed were locked up; a good
many buildings were whitewashed; and the municipal bodies (government
nominees) presented congratulatory addresses. Other addresses, too,
were prepared, couched in less flowery language, signed by many of the
provincial nobility and landowners, in which an earnest appeal was made
to their sovereign's justice and humanity. But these were not permitted
to reach his hands. Cold and languid was the pontifical progress. Pius
visited shrines and churches, but he unbarred no prisons, and left no
thankful hearts behind him.

The memorable words of Victor Emmanuel on opening the Chambers at Turin
in January, 1859,—“We are not insensible to the cry of anguish which
reaches us from every part of Italy,”—were not spoken too soon. Without
a public assurance of sympathy and protection to those suffering
populations who, for three years, under increasing grievances, had
waited for the result of Sardinia's interposition in their behalf, they
could not any longer have been restrained from the wildest excesses of
vengeance and despair. Without the firm trust in the _Ré galantuomo_
generated by his faithful observance of the Constitution in Piedmont,
under difficulties of no ordinary kind, Mazzini would never have lost
his influence in the Peninsula.

In the Roman States, where republicanism had been as it were enthroned,
this altered tone of public feeling was the more remarkable. The
priests who rail at the constitutional king as the instigator of the
revolution in the Legations, should rather thank the magic influence of
his name, and the exhortations of the noble and enlightened men he has
rallied around him, for restraining the fiery and vindictive Romagnuoli
from abusing their hour of triumph. Not a _Codino_ in the country
but anticipated, whenever the Austrian troops should be withdrawn, a
repetition of the horrors of the first French revolution.

As the excitement which pervaded all North Italy last winter extended
itself to the Papal States, the Austrians redoubled in vigilance
and severity. While the French general in command at Rome winked at
the enthusiasm of the inhabitants, and offered no opposition to the
departure of the volunteers who flocked to Victor Emmanuel's standard,
the Pope's allies on the other side of the Apennines strengthened their
garrisons, re-established martial law, intercepted the volunteers as
they stole towards the frontiers, and threw up fresh fortifications
round the citadel at Ancona.

The Government, dependent for its very existence upon two Powers on
the verge of open collision, was torn by anxiety. Its leanings were
unequivocally Austrian; but these, to a certain extent, fear of the
French compelled it to dissemble. When the war at length broke out
at the end of April, and the invasion of Piedmont by the Austrians
was responded to by the landing of a French army at Genoa to support
Victor Emmanuel, the fever of expectation in both parties, liberal and
absolutist, in the pontifical dominions, reached a maddening pitch.

The suspense was not of long duration. The battle of Magenta brought
things to a crisis. On the 8th of June, Bologna first learned the
rumours of the victory. The ferment was indescribable, and the people,
intoxicated with joy, were with difficulty restrained from rising on
the Austrians. Written handbills were actively circulated, admonishing
them to prudence: “Be ready, but calm and disciplined,” was the burthen
of these injunctions. Two days of torturing suspense followed; an
embargo had been laid on all newspapers or bulletins from the seat of
war, and the military and pontifical authorities spread a contradiction
of the previous intelligence.

But the truth could not for ever be concealed, and when Gyulai's defeat
was confirmed, the excitement rose almost beyond the control of the
self-constituted chiefs of the national party,—men conspicuous in
Bologna for intellect, birth, and local influence,—to whose sagacity,
firmness, and moderation at that momentous period their countrymen
owe an incalculable debt of gratitude. In spite of their endeavours
to avoid any grounds of provocation, however, a conflict between
the populace and military seemed imminent, when General Habermann
telegraphed to head-quarters for instructions, and was ordered to
evacuate the city.

In the dead of the night the dislodgment was effected; nor was it
until the last Austrian soldier had defiled through the gates, that
the restraint so wisely imposed permitted any public display of
exultation. In a moment, the houses were all illuminated, and the
people poured into the streets, scarce venturing to credit their
wondrous deliverance. The Marquis Pepoli, Count Malvezzi, Count
Tanari, Professor Montanari, and other influential Bolognese, meantime
proceeded to the palace of the Cardinal Legate, and requested an
audience. After a long conference, Cardinal Milesi was convinced of the
unanimity of the aims of the liberal party, bent on placing themselves
under the protection of Piedmont, and of the hopelessness of opposing
them; accordingly, the papal arms were lowered from the gateway of
the Palazzo Governativo, amid the frantic joy of a large concourse of
by-standers, and at an early hour in the morning he took his departure
from Bologna.

A provisional Government was now formed, until an answer could be
received from Victor Emmanuel, to whom the dictatorship of the province
was offered, pending the duration of the war. Besides the Marquis
Pepoli, and others whom I have already named, Prince Hercolani, Prince
Rinaldo Simonetti, and Count Cæsare Albicini, of the first nobility
of the country, took part in the administration: a fact of itself
sufficient to confute the absurd statements put forward in England at
pro-papal meetings, of the movement in the Legations being confined to
a few adventurers and Piedmontese agents.

Wisely eschewing all subordinate questions, as well as the discussion
of eventualities, the Bolognese devoted themselves to the organization
of a sufficient force to defend their frontiers, and with the financial
provisions indispensable to this end. Every day brought encouraging
intelligence. As the Austrians retreated from the Legations, the cities
they left in their rear raised the Sardinian flag, and sent in their
adherence to the central Government at Bologna. Up to La Cattolica, a
village a few miles to the south of Rimini and the classic Rubicon, the
insurrection received no check; but Pesaro, a town on the sea-coast
of some importance, about forty miles from Ancona, was unable to
declare itself. It was the head-quarters of some Swiss regiments, under
General Kalbermatten, who were soon to do the Pope good service in the
reduction of the Marche.

Ancona had its revolution of a few days, for which it is still doing
penance in sackcloth and ashes. On the 12th of June, the Austrians
abandoned the town, but the citadel was almost immediately occupied
by some Papal troops, despatched from Macerata. A few hours only
elapsed between the departure of the former and the arrival of their
substitutes; but it was the Anconitans' want of energy in turning that
interval to account which decided the fate of the Marche. They lacked
the master-minds who directed the _pronunciamento_ at Bologna, and
who alone could have grasped the requirements of the situation. The
oversight of not declaring themselves at once, and seizing upon the
citadel, with the vast military stores left there by the Austrians,
and its almost impregnable positions, was irreparable. Before finally
committing themselves, they waited for tidings from Romagna, and lost
the decisive moment.

It was not till two or three days after General Allegrini had
occupied the fortress, that Ancona proclaimed the dictatorship of the
King of Sardinia, and appointed a Junta, in which the nobility and
middle classes were severally represented by Count Cresci, a wealthy
landowner; Dr Benedetto Monti, an eminent physician; Signor Mariano
Ploner, a merchant; and Signor Feoli, a lawyer: all men of mature
age and unquestioned honour. Upon this the delegate retired from
his post, and without a shot being fired, all emblems of the Pope's
authority were effaced or removed. Allegrini's conduct in offering
no interference during these proceedings, while a few shells from
the heights in his possession would have made fearful havoc among the
insurgents, subsequently earned him a court-martial, and the loss of
his command. Meantime, two soldiers of a different stamp were ordered
to deal with the rebellious city. The inhabitants had scarcely learned
the fall of Perugia,[18] with all its horrible accompaniments, when
they were terrified by the announcement that Colonel Schmidt, with the
Swiss troops engaged in the assault, was advancing by forced marches
upon them from one quarter, while General Kalbermatten was approaching
from another.

Without arms, without leaders, resistance was clearly impossible; it
was, therefore, decided to surrender to Allegrini, who assured them of
better terms than Kalbermatten would be likely to concede, and connived
at the evasion of thirty of the most compromised among the citizens,
who escaped by sea before the entrance of the Swiss.

Dissatisfied with Allegrini's leniency, Kalbermatten had no scruple
in setting aside the capitulation. He immediately imposed a fine of a
hundred thousand dollars upon the town, enacted a number of stringent
and inquisitorial regulations, enforced under heavy penalties,[19] and
secured himself a zealous coadjutor in public affairs by conferring the
office of _gonfaloniere_, or chief civil magistrate, on the Marquis
D * * *, the man of all others most hateful and loathsome to the
population. It is no exaggeration to say of this nobleman, that he
has one of the most infamous reputations in a country, and amongst a
party, where every species of vice is very efficiently represented. He
was even too notorious to be made use of by the Government of Gregory
XVI., notwithstanding his devotion to the Holy See, his very high rank,
and considerable wealth. It remained for a Kalbermatten—like himself,
too, in bad odour in the previous reign—to pass the last indignity
upon the Anconitans, by placing him at their head. His very first
measure after entering into office was a characteristic one. He sent a
deputation from the municipality of Ancona, to impress on Pius IX. that
recent events were the work of an evil-minded minority, and assuring
him of the Anconitans' unbounded loyalty and contentment. The _Roman
Gazette_, of course, hastened to proclaim this fact, but omitted some
elucidations which rendered the announcement even more mendacious than
the general run of its intelligence.

At that moment no municipal body existed in Ancona. The nobles and
citizens who composed it had either fled the country or were in
concealment, or declared themselves to be ill, or flatly refused to
retain office under their new _gonfaloniere_. The deputation, lyingly
reported to the world as embodying the sentiments of the town-council
and civil authorities of this miserable city, was composed of two of
the Pope's cousins, and an underling of the Neapolitan consulate.

General Kalbermatten, however, determined that the Marchese should
not, on another occasion, be forced thus to extemporize a following.
He imposed a fine of five dollars a day upon the sick or refractory
members of the Municipio, which at last told so heavily upon their
resources, that such as could not escape[20] into the free atmosphere
of Romagna—professional men and merchants, whose families and
avocations chained them to the spot—were compelled to give in. But in a
few months the corporation was again fatally at issue with its chief.

His first essay at addresses had apparently been so gratifying, that in
December the zealous _gonfaloniere_ sent up a second to Rome, couched
as before in the name of the whole Municipio, to be laid before the
then expected Congress, protesting against any changes in the actual
political _régime_ under which they had the happiness of living. Deep
and irrepressible was the indignation of the Anconitans on discovering
what he had had the audacity to affirm, for not one—no, not one—of the
_Anziani_ was cognizant of the proceeding; and with a spirit which can
only be appreciated by those who understand their critical position,
they simultaneously threw up office.

Since then I know not what expedient has been adopted to bring these
contumacious subjects to obedience, for private letters from that
centre of desolation are more eloquent in their silence than their
details. This much I know positively, that none of the accounts
which from time to time find their way into the “Times” or “Daily
News” of the actual condition of Ancona, of the continual landing
of Austrian recruits for the Papal army, of the stagnation of trade,
and the despairing, sullen attitude of the population—are in anywise
exaggerated.

It is sad to turn from the scene of so many pleasant associations,
leaving it so wretched in the present, in such utter uncertainty for
the future; but my limits are well nigh attained, and I should only
be going over a thrice-told tale if I enumerated all the grievances
which it shares in common with the other provinces still under Papal
rule. These are forcibly condensed in the address lately presented to
the Emperor of the French by the refugees from Ancona, Perugia, and,
in fine, every other part of the Roman States not yet emancipated from
the priestly yoke.—“A destructive blast has swept over the country. No
responsibility in those who govern, no publicity in the administration,
no safeguard before the tribunals, canon law above the civil code—these
are the inevitable consequences of a Government at the head of
which stands a prince, who, bound by religious ties, and declaring
himself infallible, is free from all control. All modification of
an essentially corrupt system would be fruitless. Principles may
be corrected, persons may be changed, but the intrinsic nature of a
thing admits neither of correction nor change. The clerical system is
incompatible with the customs and civilization of the present day; to
endeavour to mend it would be to galvanize a dead corpse.”

The Romagne stands out in bright relief against this gloomy background.
A fierce ordeal had to be encountered when, close upon the rapture
with which the population received Massimo d'Azeglio as Commissioner
Extraordinary from Victor Emmanuel, came the unlooked for, palsying
announcement of the Convention of Villafranca. But right nobly did
they surmount the dangers that menaced them on every side. Though the
soldier-statesman, the Bayard of politicians, whose writings, whose
eloquence, whose example had so potently contributed to purify and
exalt the national character, was compelled to withdraw from the post
so recently assumed, they loved and trusted him and his royal master
too implicitly to be false to his exhortations.

Hence it was that, abandoned to themselves at a conjuncture the most
critical and perplexing, the Romagnuoli, so long noted for their
turbulence and lawlessness, seemed suddenly to have acquired a ripeness
of judgment and power of self-control worthy of a long apprenticeship
to freedom. By the middle of July a body of 12,000 men were already
equipped and on their way to La Cattolica, to ward off any attack of
the pontifical troops; and before the end of August the elections had
taken place for the National Assembly. The four Legations, containing
about a million of inhabitants, returned one hundred and twenty-six
deputies, the leading men in the country, whether in respect of rank,
learning, or public estimation.

The assembly met in Bologna for a twofold purpose; first, to pass in
solemn review the conduct of the late Government, and set forth the
reasons for which the people cast off its authority; next, to vote
the annexation to the constitutional monarchy of Sardinia. These acts
accomplished, it separated, patiently waiting until the sanction of
Europe should permit Victor Emmanuel to ratify their choice.

Meanwhile, though the suspense is long, and the tension of public
feeling extreme, the calmness and confidence of the population have
never wavered. There has been no retaliation for the excesses of
Perugia, no reckoning sought for the fearful arrears of oppression
which the publication of the late Government's state-papers have
brought to light.

The highways were never so safe before; travellers now pass through the
whole of Romagna without a shadow of apprehension.

Whatever be the fate in store for these provinces, no impartial mind
can deny them, in common with the three other States of Central Italy,
where an analogous line of conduct has been held, a just title to the
respect and admiration of posterity.




CHAPTER XXXI.

   The English Community of Nice—A Pleasant Meeting—The Corniche
     Road—The Smallest Sovereignty in the World—An Oppressive
     Right of the Prince—Rumoured Negotiation—Rencontre with
     Pilgrims—An Old Genoese Villa—A Piedmontese Dinner—The
     Culture of Lemon Trees—Piedmontese Newspapers—The
     Towers of the Peasantry—Cultivation of the Olive and the
     Fig-tree—Popular Mode of Fishing.


Not very long ago I was at Nice—beautiful Nice, with its wondrous
skies and sapphire-like sea; its olive woods, and palms, and aloes;
its mountains, luxurious valleys, and rich pasture-lands; and yet I
was not content. When from the scenery around I turned to examine Nice
itself—when, after paying a due tribute of admiration to the country
thus lavishly endowed, I sought to learn something of its inhabitants,
their customs, their social life, my dissatisfaction commenced. There
seemed no individuality in this town; no leading features among its
population. I found no interior to peep into, no traits of national
character to record.

Nice takes its tone from the English and French, Bavarians and
Russians, who make it their winter residence; the English influence,
however, being predominant, as is evidenced by the number of British
comforts and indispensabilities our country-people have introduced;
English bathing-machines on the sunny beach; English goods and
warehouses at every turning; chemists' shops, complete in all their
time-honoured insignia; stay-makers to royal English duchesses; English
groceries, hosiery, baby-linen; all are here to be found, besides
English clubs, English doctors, English agency-offices—in fact, every
imaginable device wherewith John Bull delights to surround himself when
abroad.

Now all this may be very delightful, but it is certainly not
instructive; and to those who think some improvement may be gleaned
from foreign travel beyond seeing all the sights and taking all the
drives set down in _Murray's Handbook_, it is particularly annoying
to find themselves in a society where the prejudice and party-spirit,
gossip and twaddle, into which a number of idle people must inevitably
fall, are actively at work; within whose circles a native is rarely
seen, and where a total indifference as to the history or condition of
the country where they are sojourning is displayed. I was beginning to
fret under this exclusiveness, and was endeavouring to resign myself to
the conviction that my visit to Nice would be barren of reminiscence,
when my good genius came to my aid, and one day, on the Promenade
des Anglais, brought me face to face with the Comtesse de Laval, a
Piedmontese widow lady I had known two or three years previously in
Tuscany. She had lately come with her brother, a veteran general, who
had lost an arm in the campaigns of '48-49 against the Austrians, to
reside on some property they had purchased in the neighbourhood. It was
a most charming rencontre for me; and they really seemed so cordial,
that, making all requisite allowances for Italian exaggeration, I
could not but believe the pleasure was mutual. The comtesse's first
inquiry was if I were a _fiancée_, for in this respect all Italians are
alike—Piedmontese or Neapolitans, from the north or from the south,
they equally consider matrimony the sole object of a woman's life.
Disappointed at my reply, she glanced nervously round to see whether
I was unattended; but the sight of a servant reassured her, while I
vainly attempted to demonstrate that my advancing years would speedily
render any escort superfluous.

With a fixed determination to defer to the vassalage under which she
considered I ought to be restricted, she begged me to take her to
call upon the friends with whom I was staying, in order to proffer a
request that I might be permitted to accompany her for a few days to
her brother's villa at Latte, some thirty miles' distance from Nice—her
own house in the vicinity being under repair. We were all amused at the
stately old lady's punctilio; but the kind invitation, it is needless
to say, was willingly accepted, and an early day appointed to set out.

Everybody has heard of the Corniche Road—the Riviera di Ponente; that
is, the Shore of the West—which connects Nice with Genoa, and that
portion of it leading to Latte is perhaps the most beautiful of the
whole. October had already commenced, but no trace of autumn had as yet
stolen over the landscape, no chillness in the balmy air reminded one
of the lateness of the season. Our way at first wound along a gradual
ascent, bordered with olives, cherubias, cypresses, orange-trees, and
the maritime pine, and commanding the most extensive inland prospect,
where mountains upon mountains displayed exquisite varieties of
colouring and form; whence a sudden turn of the road brought us to
heights overhanging the Mediterranean, with its endless succession of
headlands and bays, towns nestling beneath the shelter of a protecting
rock, or cresting some rugged eminence; while the blue waters stretched
forth in their calm majesty, scarcely a ripple on their glass-like
surface, scarcely a murmur as they wafted their wreaths of spray
towards that highly-favoured shore.

Soon after passing Turbia—a village constructed of Roman ruins—the
road began to descend, always overhanging the sea; and then, far, far
beneath us, accessible only by a very circuitous route, we saw Monaco,
the capital of the smallest sovereignty in the world, with its towers
and fortifications rising along a rugged promontory, which flung its
arms protectingly around the tiny city, and formed a bay, so graceful
in its curve, in the outline of the hills which rose above it, that
the scene looked like a gem worthy of Italy's diadem of beauty. From
this I was directed to turn my gaze in the direction of Roccabruna,
another town in this same Liliputian principality, situated upon the
shelving side of a mountain, so exceedingly precipitous, that the
marvel is how it ever could have been built, or men found agile enough
to climb there; the popular legend being, that, some hundred years ago,
the whole slid some distance down the face of the rock to its present
locality, without destroying its castle or other structures.

Florestan, Prince of Monaco, and Duke of Valentinois, spends in Paris
the revenues he obtains from his subjects by exactions which have
rendered him deservedly unpopular. One oppressive right he possesses,
is that of compelling all the population to grind their corn at his
mills, and to buy their bread at his bakers'; the result of which is,
that the 5000 or 6000 subjects of the principality eat the worst bread
in Italy. So the general said; and as he was of an agricultural turn,
and had gone through the metaphorical act of beating his sword into a
ploughshare, he was a great authority on such matters.

There has since been a rumour going the round of many of the
newspapers, that the noble Florestan was treating with the Government
of the United States for the sale of his territories—a negotiation that
would, no doubt, be equally gratifying to the pride and suitable to
the interests of our transatlantic kinsmen, but one which the European
Powers would probably never permit to be carried into effect. Piedmont
would greatly desire to become the purchaser; and situated as is the
principality—lying like a wedge in her beautiful line of coast, which
commences at Nice and terminates at Spezzia—such a transfer seems most
natural; but the Prince of Monaco has a grudge against the Sardinian
Government, and is obstinately opposed to treating with it on the
subject.

Through avenues of rhododendrons and oleanders, through woods where the
rich green of the fig, bending beneath its luscious fruit, contrasted
with the dusky foliage of the olive, we next came upon Mentone, of late
years much resorted to by English as a sheltered and beautiful winter
residence. If the contemplated transfer of Nice to France is carried
out, the pass of the Turbia will form the boundary; and Mentone, as the
Italian rival of Nice, is expected to rise into great importance.

Soon after leaving this town we again dismounted, to have a better
view of a rocky defile which seems to have riven the mountains
asunder; and while sitting on the low parapet of the bridge thrown
over the chasm, we were attracted by two figures advancing slowly in
the direction whence we had come, in the costume of pilgrims, real
_bonâ fide_ pilgrims. Their appearance at once reminded me of those
descriptions with which many of Sir Walter Scott's opening chapters
abound. The elder of the two was a man of middle age, with handsome
regular features, somewhat of a Moorish cast, to which his coal-black
hair and bronzed complexion imparted an additional resemblance. His
companion, whom we at once concluded to be his son, was a boy of eleven
or twelve, with that golden hair so often observable in children in the
south, which darkens rapidly as they grow up; a gentle suffering face,
and an air of weariness in his gait, that, with the adjuncts of his
picturesque attire, rendered him a very interesting little palmer. Both
were dressed alike: in loose cloaks or robes of dark-green serge, with
large oil-skin capes, thickly overlaid with scallop-shells, the largest
between the shoulders, and smaller ones placed around, and in the
front two crosses coarsely embroidered. A low-crowned, broad-brimmed
hat—a long wooden staff, surmounted by a cross—a string of beads at the
girdle—and a crucifix hanging from the neck, completed this equipment,
which had neither wallet nor bag, nor any sort of receptacle for
carrying food or raiment.

As they passed us, we perceived how coarse and travel-worn their
apparel was, and how the little boy lagged behind, requiring often
an encouraging word from the elder pilgrim to urge him on; and being
curious to learn somewhat respecting them, as an introductory speech,
the general called out to inquire if they had come from a great
distance, and whither they were bound. The man replied in broken
Italian, they came from Murcia, in Spain, and that their destination
was Rome; then, with an inclination of the head, was proceeding, when
their interrogator approached the little boy, and dropped a few coins
into his hand. The child looked up at his companion inquiringly, and
receiving a gesture of acquiescence, accepted the money with downcast
eyes, and kissed it, but without proffering a syllable. The father then
took off his hat, and crossing himself, remained for a few seconds in
the attitude of prayer, his lips moving silently, the boy sedulously
following his example. When their orisons were concluded, the child
drew from his bosom a small brass medal, with an image of the Madonna,
which he presented to the general, always keeping the same silence,
which augured ill for the gratification of our curiosity. However,
as they stood still for a few minutes, looking over the precipice, I
mustered up courage to be spokeswoman; and in the few words of Spanish
I could put together, inquired if the little boy was not very much
fatigued with his long travel.

“Sometimes,” was the reply; “although I purposely make very short days'
journeys. We have already been four months on the way, and we have
still one hundred and fifty leagues to traverse before reaching Rome.”

“Always on foot?”

“Si, señora.”

“It is part of your vow?”

“Si, señora.”

“And that little boy is your son?”

“My only one.”

“You have undertaken this pilgrimage from a religious motive?”

“Pardon me, señora, but there are subjects which can only be divulged
between our conscience and our God.”

We had now arrived at the domain, and found a peasant in waiting, with
a mule to receive the packages, which the servants handed down from the
carriage.

“Ah, here you are! and here is Maddalena, too!” said the kind master
in the Nizzardo patois, as a comely young woman, wearing a round
straw hat, trimmed with black velvet, shaped like the mandarin hats on
tea-chests, and large gold ear-rings, came forward with a smiling face
to welcome us.

“Ah well, eh?—the children, and the dog, and the cows, and the
chickens. Ah, _briccona_, I see you!” poking at a little roll-about
girl, who had hidden herself in her mother's skirts, and now peered at
us out of her almond-shaped eyes—the eyes of Provence, soft and long.
“Now, mademoiselle,” turning to me, and addressing me in French, which
was the language of the family among themselves, although, whenever he
and his sister engaged in any animated discussion, they went off to
Piedmontese—a hopeless compound of gutturals and abbreviations to my
untutored ears—“now, mademoiselle, let me do the honours of a ruined
villa without a road;” and he led the way, for about a quarter of a
mile, through vineyards and olives, and orchards laden with fruit, till
we came to a lane, and a large old-fashioned gateway, originally very
much ornamented with trophies and armorial-bearings. A large watch-dog
now bounded forward, and greeted his master by putting his paws on his
shoulders, and brushing his nose against the general's grey moustaches;
after which salutations, passing under a long trellis-walk of roses and
vines, the latter trained along tall white columns, after the fashion
of the old Genoese villas, we came upon a lawn studded with palms and
oleanders, and bordered with thick groves of lemon-trees, in the centre
of which stood a beautiful palace, such as I had little expected to
see in this secluded spot. A magnificent outer staircase, springing in
double flights from the portico, and converging in a broad platform,
conducted into a vestibule with glass doors, from whence opened a
spacious sala, or sitting-room. At the further end of this were two
long windows, with closed Persian blinds, which the general threw open
on my approach, and then I found myself upon a balcony overhanging
the sea—so close, so very close beneath us, that I could have flung a
pebble into it from where we stood. Both he and the comtesse enjoyed my
surprise at the sudden transition, from the wooded scenery in the front
of the palazzo, to the wide range of sea-view thus suddenly presented
to me. The house, in fact, was built upon the shore of a beautiful
little bay, shut in on one side by a promontory covered with feathered
pines, and on the other by a ridge of rocks, which darted forward as if
to complete its crescent-like shape, and form a safe harbour for the
fishing-barks which now lay idly on the beach: beyond them appeared
three successive headlands, each with its little town rising from the
bosom of the waters—the whole so calm, so sunny, so brilliant, with its
background of perfumed groves, and palms, and flowers, that it realized
every anticipation, and concentrated in a glance all the varied
attractions of the Riviera.

I was not allowed a long time to gaze uninterrupted, for the general
reminded his sister that the dinner-hour had nearly arrived,
and suggested we had better take off our bonnets. Any regular
dinner-toilet, it may here be remarked, is very unusual amongst
Italians when in the country, even in much more modern establishments
than the one I am describing. The short sleeves and low dresses in
which English ladies are wont to appear in every-day routine, would be
considered by them the extreme of folly and bad taste. As the comtesse
conducted me to my room—one of six large bed-chambers opening from
the sala—in her gentle yet stately manner she renewed her apologies
for receiving me with so little ceremony, repeating her declaration
that we were literally _à la campagne_, in a dilapidated palace that
her brother had purchased through a whim, because it had belonged to
a decayed family in whom he felt an interest. There was no necessity
for these excuses, however; and I was enabled to judge from what the
Piedmontese called a rustic way of living, how much more luxury and
expenditure were prevalent in Northern Italy than in those southern
parts of the peninsula in which my former experiences had lain.

The dinner, to which we were speedily summoned, was served in a
large room on the ground-floor, corresponding in size with the sala
up-stairs, the doors at the end, which were thrown open, disclosing an
enchanting view of the sea and the skiffs gliding along its sparkling
waters. Here we found the general in conversation with a middle-aged,
intelligent-looking man, whom he introduced as Signor Bonaventura
Ricci, his friend and factotum, a resident of Ventimiglia, the adjacent
town; and then, without further delay, we sat down to table, the
comtesse alone making the sign of the cross, which is equivalent to
saying grace with us. The dinner was a specimen of simple Italian
fare, and as such I shall record it for the benefit of the curious
in these matters: it commenced with a tureen full of _tagliarini_; a
paste composed of flour and eggs, rolled out exceedingly thin, and
cut into shreds—on the lightness and evenness of which the talent
of the cook is displayed—boiled in broth, and seasoned with Parmesan
cheese. Slices of Bologna sausage, and fresh green figs, for which,
the general exultingly informed me, the neighbourhood of Ventimiglia
was justly celebrated, were next handed round; and then appeared the
_lesso_, a large piece of boiled beef, from which the broth had been
made, with the accompaniment of tomato sauce. After this there came
a large dish of fried fish, and the _arrosto_—roast veal, or roast
chickens, or something of the kind—which, with a _dolce_, or sweet,
completed the repast. Several sorts of wine, the produce of the last
year's vintage, were produced by Signor Bonaventura, who had the keys
of the cellar in his keeping, and their different merits were eagerly
pointed out. Notwithstanding their interest in the subject, however,
neither he nor the general seemed to think of drinking a few glasses
by way of test, but contented themselves with merely tasting the wine
pure, and then mixing it with water. The dessert consisted of oranges,
peaches, grapes, figs, and a melon, all gathered that morning in
the garden; which, considering how far the autumn was advanced, was
wonderful even for Italy, and bore witness that the exceeding mildness
of the temperature—whence, it is said, the name of Lacte or Latte is
derived—has not been exaggerated.

After dinner we walked in the grounds, it being too late for a longer
excursion; and the general and Signor Bonaventura, whose surname
was certainly a superfluity, since nobody ever addressed him by it,
explained to me sundry matters connected with the culture of the
lemon-trees, which constituted the principal revenue of the estate.
It is certainly a graceful harvest, gathered every two months all
the year round; the 500 trees in the garden having yielded upwards of
100,000 lemons in less than ten months, and 20,000 or 30,000 more being
looked for before Christmas. These are sold at from 40 to 50 francs
per 1000—a franc is equal to 10_d._—to traders, who either send them
in cargoes to England and the United States, or else retail them at
large profits to fruit-dealers for home consumption. The lemon-tree
requires great care, and is manured every three years with woollen
rags—a process likewise applied in many parts of the Riviera to the
olives, which certainly attain to a size and thickness of foliage
not seen elsewhere. They showed me some lemon-trees which were being
prepared for the reception of the rags. A circular trench, about a foot
deep and two feet wide, is dug round the trunk, and in this the rags,
mostly procured in bales from Naples, are laid; a curious assemblage
of shreds of cloth gaiters, sleeves of jackets, bits of blankets,
horse-rugs, and so forth—the whole conveying an uncomfortable idea of
a lazzarone's cast-off clothes. A quantity not exceeding twenty pounds
English weight is allotted to each tree, and then the earth, which had
been displaced for their reception, is thrown over them, and they are
left to ferment and gradually decompose. Some agriculturists throw a
layer of common manure over the rags before covering them with earth,
but Signor Bonaventura said many experienced persons contended it was
unnecessary. Great precaution is requisite to prevent any blight from
settling on the leaves, and in our walk, black specks were discovered
on the glossy foliage, which it was agreed should be summarily dealt
with; accordingly, next morning, four or five peasant-girls were hard
at work, mounted on ladders, carefully wiping each leaf, and removing
the specks, which, if allowed to spread, would have endangered the life
of the tree.

When it grew dusk, we went up-stairs to the sala, and looked over the
letters and newspapers brought in from the Ventimiglia post-office.
Politics are now in Piedmont an engrossing theme, domestic as well
as foreign being freely discussed; and no restrictions on the press
existing since the Constitution of 1848, newspapers of every shade of
opinion are in circulation. The peculiar views of each member of the
family found a response in the journals they habitually perused. The
comtesse used to groan over the _Armonia_, the only periodical she ever
looked at—the organ of the ultra-retrograde party, which invariably
represented the country as on the eve of an atheistical and socialistic
revolution, the fruits of the innovations on the ancient order of
things; the only glimmering of light amid the foreboding darkness being
the rapid return of heretical England to the bosom of the church—such
events as the abjuration of the Archbishop of Canterbury and a hundred
bishops being confidently announced one week, and the approaching
conversion of the whole royal family the next. All this was balm to
the good old lady's heart, and I often detected her gazing on me with a
beaming look, as if praying I might follow this good example, although
she abstained from any direct allusion to the subject. The general,
who sided with the ministry, pinned his faith on the _Piedmontese
Gazette_ and the _Parlamento_, though his old exclusive feelings
could not always be laid aside, and he sometimes grumbled at all the
privileges of caste being done away; declaring there was no longer
any advantage in being born noble, since he might find the son of his
doctor or lawyer sitting by his side on the benches of the Chamber of
Deputies, or wearing the uniform of the Guards, unattainable formerly
to a bourgeois. As for Signor Bonaventura, he confided to me that,
notwithstanding he should always uphold a constitutional monarchy, he
thought there was no treason in looking at all sides of the question,
so that he occasionally glanced at the _Italia e Popolo_—the organ
of Mazzini, a perfect firebrand of republicanism and discontent; but
“Zitto, zitto,” he added, laying his finger on his lips, “_they_ would
faint”—pointing to the comtesse and his patron—“at the mere notion of
such a thing.”

At nine we were summoned to supper; after which we sat for some time
on the beach, enjoying the beauty of the moonlight and the softness of
the air, though, as far as the majority of the party were concerned,
it was, more properly speaking, the physical comfort, the sensation
of repose, which caused their satisfaction; for, as respects the
enthusiasm which almost every English person feels, or at any rate
expresses, beneath the influence of beautiful scenery, Italians,
generally considered, are provokingly deficient.

The next morning we had visitors. Signor Bonaventura's two daughters,
damsels of eighteen, or thereabouts, came by appointment to spend
the day, and arrived soon after the breakfast of _café au lait_ and
chocolate had been served; this, with dinner at two, and supper in
the evening, is the old-fashioned Piedmontese and Nizzardo system of
refection. The sisters were fair specimens of Italian girls of the
_mezzo cetto_, convent-educated, with ideas that never ranged beyond
an excursion to Nice, or reading more extensive than the Missal or
the Almanac. Immeasurably beneath country-bred English girls of a
corresponding class in all intellectual points, they were undeniably
superior in ease of manner, and the good taste and simplicity of their
dress. As they stood upon the beach, watching the general bathing his
large dog, looking so fresh and girl-like in their pretty, well-fitting
light-blue muslins and large round hats, they made me wish my young
countrywomen would take a lesson in harmony and gracefulness of costume
from continental maidens. They evidently looked upon the comtesse
with profound awe, and upon me with great curiosity, as some rare
animal escaped from a menagerie. It being impossible to carry on any
conversation with them beyond monosyllables, I proposed we should walk
out; and, accordingly, we passed most of the day, both before and after
dinner, in exploring the neighbourhood, to their infinite delight,
as I discovered that they rarely left the house except on Sundays;
Italians of that class considering daily exercise for their womankind
a superfluity, tending to form idle habits. Signor Bonaventura
accompanied us, and towards me was very affable and communicative,
although with regard to his daughters he evidently entertained very
Oriental notions of their mental inferiority, and treated them as if
they were incapable of receiving information, or as if it was not worth
while to impart it to them.

In the course of our rambles, I was struck with the singular appearance
of some of the dwellings of the peasantry near the shore—high narrow
towers, only accessible by a steep flight of steps, detached from the
main building, with which they were connected by a wooden bridge.
He told me these were vestiges of the times when the coasts of the
Mediterranean were so often ravaged by the Algerine corsairs, that no
hamlet was safe from their dreaded inroads. To secure the inhabitants
as far as possible, these towers were constructed, to which, on the
first alarm, they might fly for refuge, and raising the drawbridge, be
at least secure from being carried off into slavery, though forced to
be passive witnesses of the seizure of their cattle and the pillaging
of their stores. In case of an attack, they defended themselves by
hurling stones through spaces in the battlements upon their assailants,
a few of a more modern description having loopholes in the walls for
musketry. Happily, in these more peaceful days, the peasants have
almost forgotten for what such fortresses were originally intended,
and, fixing their habitations in what have survived the inroads of
time, can look down complacently upon their olives and fig-trees,
without trembling at every sail that rises upon the clear horizon.

As we passed through woods of olives, Signor Bonaventura descanted
_con amore_ upon their value and utility; and classing them above
my favourite lemon-trees, which can be cultivated only in sheltered
situations, assured me that they were the great staple of the Riviera,
although a good crop is only realized every second year—the produce of
the intervening one being very inconsiderable. In the good years, the
yield of each tree is estimated, according to its size, at from five
to eleven francs clear profit. The trees are carefully numbered on
each estate, and from 1000 to 1200 constitute a very fair _proprietà_.
When the olives turn black and begin to fall, sheets are laid beneath
the branches, which are gently shaken to detach the fruit; whatever is
thus obtained, is carefully spread on the floor of some rooms set apart
for the purpose, and day by day, as the remaining olives successively
ripen, they are shaken down and added to the store, until sufficient
is collected to be sent to the mill, where it is pressed, and the oil
flows out clear and sparkling. After this first process of pressing the
fruit, there is a second one of crushing or grinding it, by which oil
of an inferior quality, requiring some time to settle, is obtained;
lastly, water is poured on the mass of stones and pulp, and the oil
that rises to the surface is carefully skimmed, being the perquisite
of the proprietor of the mill, who receives no other remuneration for
his share in the transaction. The produce of the fig-trees is another,
though less lucrative, source of revenue; great quantities are dried in
the sun, and afterwards sold, not only for the supply of the country
itself, but for the French market, where the figs of Ventimiglia,
Signor Bonaventura declared, were as much prized as those of Smyrna.
He showed me large supplies in course of preparation, laid on long
frameworks of reed lightly interwoven, which as soon as the sun rose
were carried out, and remained all day exposed on the low parapet which
divided the _jardin potager_ from the beach. No guard was ever kept
over them, and no fear seemed to be entertained of their being stolen.
Indeed, the honesty of the peasantry and fishermen is marvellous, for
in this same kitchen-garden—a strip of sandy soil stolen from the
sea-shore—green peas, tomatos, cucumbers, melons, and a variety of
vegetables, were grown in profusion; and nevertheless, unprotected as
it was, being without the precincts of the iron gate at the back of the
house, which was closed for form's sake every night, nothing was ever
missed—not a single fruit or vegetable misappropriated.

Our walk after dinner was so prolonged, that darkness overtook us on
our way back, as we were scrambling through the dry bed of a torrent;
but the kind comtesse had foreseen this, and a peasant, despatched
by her to meet us, soon made his appearance with a blazing branch of
pine-wood, which diffused a grateful fragrance. Some remarks on the
picturesque appearance of this torch, and the properties of the pine,
led to my hearing about the popular mode of fishing, _alla fucina_,
which I was promised I should see the first cloudy night, moonlight
being a bar to this pastime—a promise, by the by, that still remains
to be fulfilled, thanks to the unbroken serenity of the weather during
my stay at Latte. However, they showed me the implements, which are
simple enough. Projecting from the stern of the boat, and elevated
above the heads of those engaged in the sport, is the _fucina_, an
iron grating, piled with flaming pine-fagots, which cast a brilliant
light upon the waters, illuminating their recesses with extraordinary
clearness. The boat glides into all the little bays and rocky inlets,
and the fish, scared, yet attracted, by the unwonted glare, are seen
shooting rapidly along in all directions; while the fishermen, each
provided with an instrument somewhat resembling a harpoon, with a staff
twelve or fourteen feet long, spear them with great dexterity as they
dart through the illuminated space. Fish of considerable size are thus
taken frequently, and the enthusiasm attendant on the enterprise being
extreme, a stormy night and a tempestuous sea prove only additional
inducements to the adventurous fishermen.




CHAPTER XXXII.

   Excursion to Ventimiglia—The Duomo—Visit to a convent—La
     Madre Teresa—Convent life—A local archæologist—Cities of the
     coast—The presents of a savant—End of a pleasant visit.


The next day an excursion to Ventimiglia, about two miles distant,
was proposed; and after some demur from the comtesse, who did not feel
equal to the fatigue, and yet hesitated at confiding me to the joint
care of the general, Signor Bonaventura, and one of his daughters,
whom we were to pick up at her own residence, every difficulty was
adjusted, and we departed, the whole establishment being as much
excited as if we were going on a journey. They had left their own
horses at Nice, but a carriage, the handsomest Signor Bonaventura could
procure in Ventimiglia, was in waiting at the road, so exquisitely
antique, rickety, and inaccessible, that in itself it was a refreshing
departure from the routine of everyday life. Our drive along the coast
was as beautiful as any part of the road previously traversed, and soon
brought us to the town, built on the side of a hill sloping towards the
sea—a wonderful little place to be so near a modern resort like Nice,
and yet retaining so much originality. Whether owing to the splendour
of our equipage, or the charm of our personal appearance, it becomes
me not to determine, but it is undeniable that as our steeds shambled
up the steep narrow street every window was garnished with curious
faces; and as we passed the apothecary's, where the priests and doctors
gossiped, and the caffè, where the gentry lounged and smoked, hats were
doffed on all sides, and a gratifying effect was evidently created.
The general, excessively delighted, twirled his grey moustache, and
affably returned the greeting; then, Signor Bonaventura's daughter
having joined us, marshalling the party with military precision, he
took upon himself the office of cicerone, and led the way to the Duomo,
a very ancient structure, built on the site of a temple of Juno. On
the piazza before it, until very recently, stood some oak-trees of
great antiquity, which popular tradition had pronounced to form part of
the wood sacred to the goddess. The ruthless canons of the cathedral,
a few years ago, caused the old church to be thoroughly cleaned,
and actually had the whole exterior painted over, although it was
of stone, of the earliest period of ecclesiastical architecture. In
the inside is preserved a marble slab, the sole relic of the ancient
temple, containing a dedicatory inscription to the ox-eyed goddess,
whereon antiquaries have puzzled and disputed to an edifying extent.
A few faded pictures and tawdry ornaments were the only attempts at
embellishment; and even these seemed at a very low ebb, for there was a
printed notice near one of the confessionals, asking for contributions
towards the purchase of a new image of the Madonna—a box, with a slit
in the cover being placed beneath it, to receive any offerings for
that purpose. Next we went to a convent belonging to the Canonichesse
Lateranensi—a visit to which had been the desire of my heart ever
since my arrival at Latte, to the amusement of the whole family, who
could not understand why such an every-day sight, as this and similar
establishments appear to them, should interest me so much. The convent
was a large, irregularly-built pile, until the end of the seventeenth
century the palace of the Counts of Ventimiglia, who here for a long
period maintained a struggling feudal supremacy, waging wars with
the neighbouring petty States, or else making common cause with them
in resisting the suzerainship of the House of Savoy; which, in the
gradual annexation of the territories constituting the present kingdom
of Sardinia, had separately to contend with numberless principalities,
marquisates, and republics, each jealous of its own independence, and
regardless of the claims of the common weal.

Up a broken open staircase to a portico in front of the convent
church—where two or three slipshod women were seated _al fresco_,
plaiting each other's hair, or engaged in that animating chase an
old Florentine painter has facetiously designated “the Murder of the
Innocents”—we passed to a side-door, at which an old woman presented
herself, and inquired what we wanted. This individual officiated as
portress to the nuns, went to market, executed their commissions, and
brought them all the Ventimiglia news. In her appearance there was
nothing poetical or impressive; she had not even two great rusty keys
at her girdle, but was attired in a print gown, somewhat the worse
for wear, with an obvious deficiency of neatness in the tiring of her
silvery tresses, and of freshness in her _chaussure_.

The general gave his name and title, and asked for La Madre Teresa,
although, as he owned to me, he had but a dim recollection of her
face, all minor associations being lost in the halo cast around a
certain beautiful abbess, now no more, a distant connection of his
family, whom, many years before, when staying with some relations at
Ventimiglia, he had often conversed with at the grating. With great
respect we were now ushered into a sort of gallery, lighted by windows,
around which the dust and cobwebs of many months had been suffered to
gather unmolested. Opposite to these were two large apertures in the
wall, defended by a double grating of thick iron bars, just wide enough
to admit of passing a hand between their interstices, but placed at
such a distance from each other, that the hand thus advanced could only
reach far enough to grasp a hand similarly extended from the opposite
side; so that even to press a kiss upon some fair nun's taper fingers
was out of the question—a contingency, no doubt, had in view in the
placing of the grating.

The general said facetiously, that in his visits to the abbess he had
adopted the English fashion, and used to shake her heartily by the
hand; “and it must be confessed, poor soul,” he added with a sigh, “she
did press mine cordially in return.”

And now a rustling of robes was heard, as a door, invisible from where
we stood, opened, and La Madre Teresa came forward, having evidently
made some slight changes in her toilet, and not a little fluttered
by this unexpected summons. She was a small, spare woman, with that
waxen complexion which a sedentary, unvarying routine of existence
generally produces, peering, light-grey eyes, sharp features, but a
kindly expression about the mouth and chin. As she stood behind the
grating, courtesying first to one and then to the other, she would have
made a very picturesque study in her white woollen robes and black
mantle, the light from the window in the corridor falling upon her
figure, and detaching it from the gloomy background. Still, the effect
was nothing—the general found an opportunity of whispering—nothing to
be compared to that produced by his lamented abbess, who used to come
sweeping in with the dignity of a queen, every fold and plait of her
drapery exquisitely adjusted. But to return to La Madre Teresa. After
a few complimentary phrases, she inquired to what she might attribute
the honour of this visit, of which the real motive was simply the
gratification of my prying curiosity: the ostensible one, I grieve
to acknowledge, was of an ignoble nature, although, when communicated
by Signor Bonaventura, previously instructed in his part, it did not
appear as such to strike the old nun. It regarded the purchase of
cakes! With as much good grace as he could assume while talking to
a nun—for Signor Bonaventura was of the new school, and violently,
intolerantly opposed to all monastic institutions, notwithstanding
which, to please his wife, and for the sake of peace, his own daughters
had been brought up in a convent—he began to relate “how an English
lady of distinction,” pointing to me—La Madre courtesied more deeply
than before—“having heard in her own country of the famous cakes
made by the nuns of Ventimiglia, was now come in person to test their
excellence. Did the sisterhood chance to have any upon sale?”

The old lady was evidently pleased; and begging to be excused for an
instant, retired to give her directions to the slatternly out-door
attendant apparently; for when the conference broke up, we found
her in waiting with some neatly-papered packets of these celebrated
comestibles—which, by the by, were really excellent, masterly compounds
of almonds, olive-oil, and honey. Returning herself speedily to
the grating, she engaged in an animated conversation in the Genoese
dialect, which, or something very nearly approaching to it, is spoken
at Ventimiglia—the general being evidently her favourite, and the
one to whom most of her remarks were addressed. Her local memory was
wonderful: she spoke about people he had utterly lost sight of; knew
all their histories for thirty years past; their children's ages,
marriages, and so forth; combined with a minuteness of detail that
nothing but the prolonged concentration of her faculties within a most
circumscribed sphere could have enabled her to attain.

“Does Vou Scia”—a corruption of the French _Votre seigneurie_—“Does
Vou Scia remember the Conte L——, who lived in the street just opposite
the barber's and had an only daughter, whom he married to the son of
the Marchese of A——, who went away with the French to fight, and died
of cold in England when the great Napoleon burnt that town?—Ah, dear,
I forget the name—stop—yes, yes, it was London. Well, as I was saying,
his daughter, grand-daughter to the conte, was placed with us for her
education, and then married at sixteen, the day after she left these
walls: the spouse was rather _gobbo_—that is, humpbacked—and fifty
years old, but very rich; so it was a good match. Vou Scia has surely
not forgotten her: you were a young man then.”

“Oh, I recollect perfectly, perfectly,” groaned the general.

“Well, she was not happy—as indeed who is in marriage?—and her youngest
daughter being externally like her father in person, the Madonna gave
her grace to see the vanity of the world; so that nearly a year ago
her solemn admission amongst us took place. In another month or so
she will take the final vows. Oh, it is a peaceful, blessed life to
those who are called to enter it! Does Vou Scia imagine that the wicked
Government intends shortly to suppress all the religious communities?”

“The question they always ask,” observed Signor Bonaventura in an
under-tone.

“Ah! we must hope,” said the general, gravely. “It would be terrible,
you have been here so many years.”

“Thirty-seven completed on the Festival of the Assumption.”

“Impossible! You must have entered a mere child.”

“I took the veil at sixteen,” said the Madre Teresa, with a simpering
smile, which demonstrated that she, too, was not invulnerable on all
women's weak point.

“How strange,” I said, “to think that since then you have never stirred
beyond these walls!”

“Never, signora. But we have a large vineyard and orchard from which
there is a fine view of the sea and the high-road, and we can see the
diligence passing at some distance. It is the finest situation in all
Ventimiglia,” she added proudly.

“You do not even go out to attend the sick?”

“No, signora; that is not one of the duties of our order: we are
cloistered _religiose_. We pray and meditate, embroider and make the
confectionery you have heard so much praised—I fear beyond our poor
deserts.”

“Do you take pupils?”

“In former years, signora, before these unfortunate changes, this
decline of religion in the State, we had many _educande_; at this
moment we have but one young lady under our care.” And then, with great
volubility, she went on lamenting the degeneracy of the present day,
and telling us how changed times were since her youth, when every cell
in the convent had its occupant. “We were upwards of seventy then,” she
said with a suppressed sigh, “now we only number eighteen.”

“Out of which I have heard that several are infirm and bedridden,”
remarked Signor Bonaventura, with an affected air of commiseration.

It made one shudder to think how ghostly the long corridors and
fifty-two empty chambers must look, and how dreary in their hearts
the poor nuns must feel, dwindling away, till four or five withered,
shadowy forms would soon be all that remained to talk over the glories
of the days gone by.

The poor nun seemed quite sorry when we broke up the conference, and
gazed at us wistfully through the bars, taking in all the peculiarities
of our appearance for the benefit of the whole sisterhood, when
repeating the details of what would constitute a memorable incident
in her life. After quitting the _parlatojo_, we went into the convent
chapel, rather a pretty structure, with some indifferent paintings, and
a good deal of gilding. Over the altar there was a latticed gallery,
in which the nuns could assist unseen at the celebration of mass, and
another behind the organ, for those who formed the choir. Though the
sun was shining so brightly outside, an unaccountable chillness and
gloom pervaded the building, which Signor Bonaventura contended was
like a living tomb, fit to be the receptacle of decrepit nuns. At this
remark his daughter, who stood in great awe of her father, and had
not opened her lips the whole time, ventured a word in defence of the
convent in which she had been educated; but being told that women knew
nothing of such matters, relapsed into the silent study of my bonnet
and mantle, wherein she had hitherto been happily engrossed. As for the
general, he took Signor Bonaventura's pleasantries in such good part,
that it was well the comtesse was not present; what with these, and
the allusions to the abbess, the poor lady would have been grievously
discomposed.

From this we went clambering up narrow streets of steps to the church
of San Michele, whilom a temple of Castor and Pollux, afterwards a
convent of Benedictines, full of Roman antiquities, with a very old
crypt, a number of inscriptions, and a variety of other memorabilia
which I was surveying in helpless ignorance, when the general, who had
sent Signor Bonaventura away on some mysterious mission, darted forward
joyfully at seeing him appear with a young man, whom it turned out he
had been despatched to summon.

“Here he is—here he is,” he exclaimed; “our archæologist, our poet, our
historian!” and then, with a malicious twinkle in his eye, presented
him to _questa Signora Inglese molto dotta_—this learned English lady,
who was making researches on the classical remains of Ventimiglia, and
wished for authentic information concerning them.

The general then seated himself near a confessional, and indulged in
a little well-earned repose, while the youth, who was not more than
nineteen or twenty, attired in a suit of chessboard-like checks,
plunged at once into the duties that had been assigned him. He was a
little nervous at first, but had none of the distressing bashfulness
which would have overpowered an English lad, a complete bookworm
and wholly unused to society; in fact, it is rare to see an Italian
thoroughly awkward, or thoroughly timid. Their naked loquacity always
stands them in good stead. In this instance, moreover, a certain amount
of modest assurance was not wanting. With surprising fluency the young
savant favoured us with a dissertation on the temple, the church, the
crypt, Roman mile-stones, Etruscan vases, and mediæval architecture.
The effect was remarkable; no orator could have desired a greater
testimony in his favour. The lean sacristan, with the keys of the crypt
in his hand, stood transfixed with admiration; Signor Bonaventura tried
to look very wise; the general, awaking from his nap, made no effort
at comprehending the discourse, but kept nodding his approbation; and
the eight-and-twenty children, who had accompanied us into the church,
ceased begging for centimes, and maintained a respectful silence. As
for me, in whose honour this antiquarian lore was displayed, I felt
incompetent to proffer more than a yes or no, hazarded at intervals,
trembling lest some inappropriate rejoinder should discover my
lamentable deficiency, and mortify the poor student, who was evidently
so happy in holding forth to one he considered a kindred spirit, that
it would have been a pity to dispel the harmless delusion. When at last
we got out of the church, he grew more intelligible to my capacity;
and leaving the past to itself, bethought himself of the attractions
of the present, and conducted us to a bastion, just outside one of
the gates of the city, which, small as it now is, with not more than
3000 inhabitants, was really of importance in the time of the Romans,
or a still earlier period; from this grassy eminence, he said, one
of the loveliest views in the whole Riviera was to be seen; and that
he had Ugo Foscolo's authority for the assertion. And, in truth, he
was not far wrong. Looking inland, there was a fertile plain, rich
in the golden fruits and mellow tints of autumn, through which the
river Roja ran its sparkling course, the mountains from whence it took
its rise closing gradually on all sides, till a vast amphitheatre of
hills formed the majestic background, towering in grandeur, piled one
above another, the peaks of the last alpine range capped with snow,
and suffused with a rosy light from the reflection of the setting sun.
Then, turning to the sea, reposing in the gorgeous beauty of that hour,
the close of a cloudless day, we saw the glittering towers and steeples
of the cities of the coast—Bordighera, called the Jericho of Italy,
from the palm-trees with which its environs are thickly studded; a few
miles further on, the venerable walls of San Remo; more distant still,
Porto Maurizio; and others, and others yet, each nestling against
the guardian promontory which stretched forth for its shelter and
protection—each mirrored in the fairy bay, which seemed exclusively its
own.

Our young friend was much pleasanter here than in the crypt. He
repeated Ugo Foscolo's description with an enthusiasm which made one
regret that the talents and love of study he undoubtedly possessed
should have taken so useless a direction. His case is an illustration
of that of many an Italian man of genius, who has lost himself amid
ruins, and given to crumbling remains the time and energies which might
have benefited his country and mankind.

On escorting us to the carriage, he presented me with an Inquiry into
the Dedicatory Inscription to Juno, and an Essay on the Antiquities of
Ventimiglia, his first literary productions; and, finally, composed an
ode full of classic, mythologic, and historical allusions in honour of
the daughter of Albion, whose studies he fancied were of so edifying a
description. It was enclosed the next day in a letter to the general,
with a request that he would lay it at the feet of the illustrious
stranger. The whole family were charmed; the general scanned the
lines critically, and said: “The boy should go to Turin, and get
on;” the comtesse copied them out; Signor Bonaventura was pleased
that Ventimiglia was not without its representative in Parnassus;
while I—delighted to find that at thirty miles from Nice, where I had
despaired of seeing anything but English shops and English travellers,
three days should have been so fertile in Italian scenes and Italian
manners—looked upon this last incident as quite the crowning stroke of
my pleasant visit to Latte.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

   A glance at Turin in 1858—The progress of Sardinia—Exhibition
     of national industry—Productions of Piedmont—Appearance of
     the Piedmontese—Railway enterprise—Progress in machinery.


Artistically considered, Turin is the least interesting of all the
Italian capitals. It boasts of no Roman antiquities, of but few
mediæval monuments, and its museums and picture galleries, however
creditable to the liberality of the sovereigns by whom they were
founded or enlarged, can bear no comparison with the Vatican or the
Uffizj. Though its position is singularly grand, with the Alps for a
background, and the Po, the father of Italian rivers, circling round
its base,—an absence of variety in the landscape, of the picturesque in
the population and accessories, in whatever regards costume, colouring,
and form, serves to complete its dissimilarity to Italy in all that has
hitherto constituted Italy's sources of attraction.

But for those who love to mark a nation's struggles, progress, and
development, this city has interest of another kind; and its contrast
of life and energy with the decay so long familiar to me during my
residence in the Papal States never struck me more forcibly than
last summer, when, with a view to your edification and entertainment,
reader, and to gather fresh impressions and revive former ones, the
_Signorine forestiere_—a staid Signora now—paid a visit to Turin. Its
outward characteristics are soon delineated. Broad, level, well-paved
streets, intersecting each other at right angles, terminating towards
the north and west by a noble panorama of the snow-capped Alps, on the
east by the verdant Collina, a range of undulating hills studded with
country seats, while southwards stretch the fertile plains of Piedmont;
large, regularly-built squares, handsome, thriving shops; private
carriages, omnibuses, and citadines dashing about in every direction;
soldiers, gay and debonair; and a busy, plain, but honest-looking
population.

According to the last census of 1858, Turin contains one hundred
and eighty thousand inhabitants; an increase of forty thousand since
1848. This one fact serves to give some idea of the country's rapid
development under a liberal Government. The same policy which has
attracted refugees from all parts of Italy to swell the population
of the State, has wrought a corresponding expansion in its material
and intellectual resources. It is scarcely possible to overrate all
that Sardinia has gained in the last ten years. An Englishman, unless
thoroughly acquainted with the condition of the rest of the Peninsula,
cannot appreciate the extent of these improvements. Measuring
everything by the gauge of home perfection, he remarks that there is
still much left to do;—while the Lombard, or Modenese, or any other
subject of the various Italian States, compares all he sees with what
he has left perhaps only a few miles behind him, and is filled with
rapture and astonishment.

Another class of my countrymen, looking on Italy as the special
province of the antiquarian and the tourist, think these changes
are dearly purchased. Piedmont, they declare, thanks to her boasted
reforms, is fast losing all that rendered her worth seeing! Under the
united influences of the constitution, railroads, and a free press,
this consummation may not in truth be very distant. The country has
undeniably degenerated from the characteristics formerly possessed
in common with her Italian sisters. Politics, judicial reforms, vast
public works, schemes more gigantic still of national emancipation,
now hold, in the thoughts and conversation of the majority of the
Piedmontese, the place which elsewhere in the Peninsula is assigned to
the _début_ of a promising singer, or the apotheosis of a new saint.
In lieu of grass-grown streets and decaying palaces, new quarters
are springing up in every town; and the busy hammer of the workman
is almost too ready to efface the inroads of time, to modernize and
repair, to snatch from the treasures of the past whatever may be
pressed into the service of the eager present. Those wonderful studies
of mendicity, infantile beauty and dirt, and barefooted friars, so dear
to the artist's eye,—hitherto considered as inseparable from Italy as
the blue sky or the cicada's summer chirp,—in the Sardinian States are
fast disappearing also. The beggars are placed in asylums, the children
are sent to school, and the friars are being suppressed.

And all this is the work of ten years! It is not necessary to be
old to remember when, in political and religious intolerance, and in
opposition to any of the novelties of the age, the Sardinian Government
ranked amongst the most despotic and conservative of Europe.

Hence it is that the events which led to these changes, the men by whom
they have been worked out, and the struggles of opposing parties, are
so bound up with Piedmontese life that any attempt at describing it
involves frequent reference to these topics. Like Molière's Monsieur
Jourdain, “_Qui faisait de la prose sans le savoir_,” people in this
country, without being exactly conscious of it, are living in history,
and living very fast too. Blame me not therefore, if, carried away by
the influences surrounding me, I should occasionally _write_ it!

The great object of public attention at the time of my visit was
the decennial exhibition of National Industry, comprehending every
branch of native produce or manufacture, held in the palace of the
Valentino, on the outskirts of the city. As a sumptuous relic of the
seventeenth century, when the Duchess Regent Christina, daughter of
Henri Quatre, had introduced into Piedmont a taste for the French
style of architecture and magnificence in decoration, the Valentino for
itself alone is well worth an inspection; and a stranger could not have
seen it to greater advantage than in the blaze, glory, and animation
of those summer days. Approached by a wide avenue of noble trees, its
peaked roofs stood out in glittering clearness against the deep blue
sky, and the unwonted stir around and within its precincts, recalled
the descriptions of the revelries in which the regent was wont to seek
solace from the toils of state or the loneliness of widowhood.

Under the colonnades that form a semi-circle on either side of the
piazza in front of the palace, in shady walks laid out with the
dignified precision of the Louvre, in long ranges of apartments on the
ground floor, and in the grand suite of state-rooms upon the first,
were arranged the varied specimens of industry, perseverance, and
improvement furnished by the different provinces of the Sub-Alpine
kingdom; Savoy, Piedmont, Genoa, Nice, and the island of Sardinia.

Agricultural and farming implements of all kinds, ploughs,
wine-presses, butter-churns, honey, wax, beehives, and cheeses of every
description, from the twin-brother of the piquant Parmesan to the rich
Gorgonzola or the mottled Mont Cenis. Wheat, Indian corn, beans, rice,
barley, beet-roots for the production of sugar, hops, wines, beer,
_liqueurs_, sausages, hams. The fine _paste_ in which Genoa especially
excels; maccaroni, vermicelli, rings, stars, balls; every imaginable
variety of shape, some white, some saffron-coloured. Chocolate,
dried and preserved fruits, others crystallized in sugar; bonbons and
confectionery, which rival any that Paris can produce. Steam-engines,
models of shipping, hydraulic and sewing machines, iron stoves,
balconies, winding staircases, beds, surgical instruments, clocks,
watches, plate, jewelry, gold and silver filigree, and coral variously
wrought; church ornaments, crucifixes, chalices, candelabras; cannons,
mortars, fire-arms; lead and silver from the mountains of Savoy, rich
samples of copper ore from Aosta and Pignerol, and iron from the island
of Sardinia, disclosing a source of wealth long dormant in the country,
but now rendered available through the activity of the Government in
resuming the working of mines almost wholly abandoned, and directing
the exploration of new ones, coupled with the generosity of King
Victor Emmanuel in throwing open to national enterprise what had
hitherto been a crown monopoly. Numerous chemical products, composition
candles, soap, starch, colours, and varnishes. Glass and earthenware.
Silk in every stage, from the cocoon to the flowered damask of Turin,
the gauze of Chambéry, or the three-piled velvet of Genoa. Woollen
stuffs, broad-cloth, carpets, and cotton fabrics, in the manufacture
of all which, through the removal of the duties on the raw material, a
wonderful advance is of late discernible. Paper, hemp and cordage, flax
and linen, saddlery, valises, travelling bags; carriages and harness;
wigs, gloves, hair-brushes, paint-brushes, &c. Ready-made clothing;
magnificent church vestments, worked in gold and silver or coloured
silks; embroidery and lace from Genoa; artificial flowers. And lastly,
all those articles of luxury in which Piedmont used to be almost wholly
dependent upon France: ornamental furniture, worked up to the highest
finish, inlaid, carved, or gilded; mirrors and musical instruments.

With an evident eye to harmony in arrangement, the nature of the
articles displayed was adapted to the rooms in which they were placed,
so that the state apartments were the recipients of all the costliest
specimens, and from their loftiness, gilded and painted ceilings, and
richly-sculptured doorways, gave additional effect to the glittering
objects crowded within them. It was long since the halls of the
Valentino had worn so gay an aspect, or been trodden by so many feet.
In every quarter you encountered a pleased, quiet throng, chiefly
of the middle and lower classes, for the whole thing was rather too
utilitarian to be quite to the taste of the high world of Turin, which
gave one ample facilities for the study of national physiognomy.

The women of Piedmont are not in general well-favoured; they are
undersized and angular in figure, with a weather-beaten complexion,
and flat noses. This struck me doubly, coming from Genoa, where female
grace and attractiveness are proverbial; the transparent white veil
or _pezzotto_ worn by the Genoese is here also poorly replaced by
caps tawdrily trimmed with coloured ribbons or artificial flowers. A
good many peasants were amongst the crowd, but except the women of the
environs of Vercelli, who had a curious headgear of silver pins, the
rest wore straw hats, not white, large, and flowing like the Tuscans,
but dark in hue and heavy in texture, tied under the chin with some
ill-assorted ribbon. It was easy to see you were in a country which had
never produced any great painters.

To the men nature has been more bountiful. Though fine features are,
comparatively speaking, rare, tall, well-set figures, a frank and manly
bearing, might be encountered at every turning. A Piedmontese can
be told at once by his open, brave, but not over-intellectual face,
in which you look in vain for the chiselled contour, the thoughtful
brow, and quick, restless eyes of central and southern Italy. It was
interesting at the Valentino to compare the different Italian races,
for every country in the Peninsula was there represented. The political
freedom enjoyed in Piedmont, the exceeding liberality shown towards
those who have sought in it a refuge from the persecution of their
own Governments, have made it the resort of scores of thousands, many
of whom are now naturalized as Sardinian subjects. Romans, Lombards,
Neapolitans, Sicilians, have here all found a home; and in their
affection towards the land of their adoption seem completely to have
laid aside those miserable international jealousies which have hitherto
been the bane of Italy. The evidences of the country's prosperity
arrayed before them, appeared as much a subject of congratulation to
the _emigrati_ as to the natives, all former rivalries being merged
into the dominant feeling of satisfaction that, in Sardinia at least, a
centre of Italian civilization had been preserved.

Regarded as the fruits of ten years' enlightened and fostering
administration, this exhibition was well entitled to be classed as
a national success. It is to Count Cavour, the celebrated statesman
at the head of the cabinet of Turin, that this development is owing;
ever since his entrance into the ministry, in the autumn of 1850, he
has laboured indefatigably in promoting every department of industry,
commerce, and public works. Not many months before he came into power,
only seventeen _kilomètres_[21] of railway were open to public traffic
in the Sardinian States. At the end of 1858, one thousand _kilomètres_
were completed, besides other lines in progress, the chief of which,
that destined to connect Savoy with Piedmont by piercing through Mont
Cenis, will be a wonder of the world. To appreciate the activity of
the Government, no less than the public spirit of the population in
submitting to the heavy taxation these works entailed, it must be
borne in mind that they have been carried out by a State with only five
millions of inhabitants, already burthened with the expenses of the two
disastrous campaigns against the Austrians in 1848-49, and the part it
had been called upon to take in the Crimean war in 1855. The progress
of the Piedmontese in machinery has kept pace with the spread of their
railroads. Formerly entirely dependent upon England for steam-engines,
the lines which intersect the country are now traversed by locomotives
of native construction.

In all these pursuits, Count Cavour has met with little support from
the aristocracy, which has not yet reconciled itself to the change
from an absolute monarchy, under which it monopolized every channel to
power and distinction, to a representative form of government, where
absence of title is no barrier to advancement. Except where fighting is
concerned, the Piedmontese noble systematically opposes whatever Cavour
proposes, and thinks it due to his caste to throw as many impediments
in the way of reform as he can devise. The innovations of the day are
mourned over by fully three-fourths of the old families of Turin, as if
the precursors of the downfall of order and religion; the subjects upon
which the country at large feels most enthusiasm, being precisely those
regarded by these ultra-conservatives with the greatest indifference or
aversion.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

   Turin in 1858—Partisans of the old régime—The native
     Protestants—The conservative party—Their hostility
     to Cavour—Clerical intolerance—The fashionable
     promenade—Turinese characteristics—The Piedmontese dialect—A
     marriage in high life.


The lover of strong contrasts would have enjoyed the transition from
a morning spent at the Valentino to an evening at the Palazzo ——, the
circles of which include the most determined _codini_ in the kingdom.
The palace itself would have been counted handsome even in a city more
rich in handsome palaces, and all the accessories were in keeping;
no slovenliness, no undemolished cobwebs, no traditional crevices. In
all this its owners were unconsciously doing homage to the spirit of
the age. A wide, well-kept marble staircase, spacious vestibule and
ante-rooms, servants in liveries on which time had laid no hallowing
touch, and a suite of drawing-rooms, sparingly lighted on account of
the intense heat, but profusely furnished with all the modern variety
of couches, _causeuses_, arm-chairs, rocking-chairs and divans,
looking-glasses, nick-nacks, cushions, flowers, everything you could
wish for, except books; of these I could not discover a trace.

In the last saloon were the guests, not formally invited, but the usual
frequenters of the marquise's weekly reunions; a dozen or so of ladies,
dressed in the height of Parisian fashion, either talking French
or Piedmontese (the old _régime_ set their faces perversely against
Italian, which the Government desires should be generally in use), and
calling each other incessantly by their titles, and a score of men,
all seemingly octogenarians. High in name and station, this assemblage
comprised the most conspicuous partisans of the old system, and by
their ceremoniousness of manner, their profound courtesies and bows,
carried me back, notwithstanding the vast difference in the material
accompaniments of the scene, to the antiquated _conversazioni_ of the
patricians of Ancona, in which I had yawned away so many hours.

The very way in which they greeted a bishop in violet stockings was
significant. Such reverence belongs not to the present order of things.
In point of animation, however, if my reminiscences did not deceive
me, I should give the palm to the _coteries_ of central Italy. The talk
flowed more genially, barren of subjects as they were, than among these
Turinese, with whom peevish regrets for the past, bitter allusions to
the present, and Cassandra-like forebodings, furnished the staple of
conversation.

Seated on the outskirts of a dreary semi-circle of _élégantes_,
some fragments of the discourse of a group surrounding the bishop
occasionally reached my ears. It related to the opening of the Italian
Waldensian or _Valdese_ church in Genoa, the erection of which they
evidently considered an act of sacrilege in the Government to have
permitted. Of the four native Protestant churches built within the
last six years in the Sardinian States (the others are at Turin,
Nice, and Pignerol), this has been the most fiercely opposed by the
clerical party. I had a specimen of the bitterness of their feelings
in the stories which were mingled with their invectives. It was
inexpressibly diverting to one who knew the straitened circumstances
of the _Valdese_ pastors, and the difficulties they had encountered
in raising subscriptions for the building of this church, to hear of
the immense bribes they employed to gain converts to their communion.
Three, four, nay five thousand francs was no uncommon largesse to a
hopeful catechumen![22] The circulation of Bibles was next lamented as
a national calamity; the burden of the whole being that, through the
impiety and atheistical toleration of Cavour, the most sacred interests
of religion were in jeopardy.

It was the same amongst the women. After they had discussed their
children's health and perfections, for the Piedmontese fine lady is
a tender, anxious mother; the tittle-tattle of which Turin, like all
small capitals, has a superabundant share; and the court news from
Vienna and Naples, as if, in the degeneracy of their own monarchy, the
houses of Hapsburg and Bourbon were alone worthy of their attention,—no
subject could be started which failed to bring in the President of
the Council as a mark for their abuse. At one moment denounced as
a socialist, the next as a renegade; whatever went amiss, according
to _codino_ ideas, was laid upon him. You heard the name of Count de
Cavour as often quoted in reference to his capacity for evil, as that
of the Marquis of Carabas, in “Puss in Boots,” cited by the feline
phenomenon as the holder of each fair domain on which the king's eyes
rested.

Availing myself of my privilege as a stranger, I sat more as a
looker-on than a participator in the scene, and tormented my next
neighbour, an acquaintance of some years' standing, with inquiries
as to the different notabilities who were present. The good comtesse,
knowing my inquisitive tendencies of old, though not indeed the fatal
propensity of transferring my experiences into print, was obligingly
communicative; her information being, of course, tinged with the sombre
hue peculiar to her school of politics.

“That fine white head belongs to the Marquis Brignole. He is the last
representative of one of the oldest families in Genoa, and for many
years was ambassador from our court—ah, we had a court then!—to that of
France; but when the constitution was established in 1848, he resigned
his post. He was then named one of the senate by the king, but his
principles did not suffer him to take the oath to a form of government
he disapproved. In 1855, however, when that terrible Cavour brought in
his bill for the suppression of all religious orders,—”

“_Except_ those devoted to preaching, education, and the care of the
sick,” I observed, parenthetically.

“Ah! bah! that was but an insignificant exception. Where was I? Well,
in such an emergency the marquis surmounted his scruples, took his seat
in the upper chamber, and voted against the ministry. If his resistance
was unavailing, at least he had the satisfaction of raising a noble
protest in the church's behalf.”

“And that other old man, with the quick keen eye, who is sitting on the
bishop's right?”

“That is the pillar of our cause, Count Solaro della Margherita. You
have surely heard of him?”

Assuredly I had. Who that lives in Piedmont, or has read anything
of Italian contemporary history, is not familiar with his name? For
many years the absolute minister of Charles Albert, and now head of
the extreme right, as it is termed, in the chamber of deputies, that
small, very small section of the national representatives, which only
avails itself of the privilege of sitting in parliament to endeavour to
overthrow the liberties secured to the kingdom by the charter of 1848.
Forty or fifty years hence the memoirs of this statesman will reveal
some curious secrets. Throughout Italy he is, whether justly or not I
do not pretend to say, accused of having thwarted the late King Charles
Albert in every liberal design; and, strong in the support of Austria
and the Jesuits, to have retarded by some years the reforms which that
monarch had long been desirous of introducing.

“The young abbé, comtesse, who has just come in, so studied in his
dress, his hair so glossy, surely he must be Don Margotti?”

“Quite right. You doubtless know all about him? Our literary champion.
Yonder is his patron, the Marquis Birago.”

Both were well known to me by reputation. The young priest is editor
of the “Armonia,” the chief organ of the clericals,—for by this as well
as the terms _codini_, obscurantists, absolutists, and retrogrades, is
that party equally designated,—and author of a book against England,
which made a great deal of noise in Piedmont last winter. Its title was
“Roma e Londra;” its purport being to demonstrate that, materially,
intellectually, as well as spiritually, the Papal States were far in
advance of Great Britain. The Marquis Birago, celebrated in his young
days as a diplomatist and gay man of the world, has devoted his latter
years to combating the spread of reform. The nominal director of the
“Armonia,” he has given up the ground-floor of his palace at Turin to
its printing-press and offices, and out of his own income makes up the
yearly deficit in its finances; the very fact of there being a deficit
at all arguing ill for the state of the public mind, not in Piedmont
merely, but in the rest of the peninsula, where, of all the Sardinian
newspapers, the “Armonia,” and one or two others of the same family,
alone enjoy free circulation.

Besides all these claims to consideration, peculiar interest just then
attached itself to the marquis and his protégé. Returned as deputies at
the beginning of the winter, their elections had recently been declared
invalid on the ground of religious intimidation exercised upon the
voters by the parish priest; and the result of a new canvass proving
unfavourable, nothing remained for them but to assume the palm of
political martyrdom.

“Talk of liberty, comtesse!” cried a very infirm old general, whom
I remembered having heard of as one of the incapables in the first
campaign of Lombardy, as, quite excited from a conversation with the
victims, he broke the formal circle, and drew a chair in front of her:
“talk of liberty, why, M. de Cavour in this late affair has shown
himself a perfect despot—a despot without reason or conscience! Who
are to advise the common people to use their rights, since they are
forsooth to have them, except their natural counsellors, their priests
and spiritual directors?”

Not caring to argue whether the means employed on the occasion
referred to, such as refusal of the absolution and the sacraments,
did not exceed the limits usually supposed to constitute advice, I
asked whether M. de Cavour had, on his sole authority, instituted this
inquiry.

“Oh, of course there was the farce of a commission appointed by the
chamber, or rather by that majority which is his tool, a majority of
_lawyers_!—that despicable class which of late years has invaded every
department of the State, and by their plausibility and intrigues are
bidding fair to sweep away all that our forefathers held honourable
or sacred. And then, as if lawyers of our own were not curse enough,
we have shoals of them among the political refugees, admitted to the
parliament, yes, even to the ministry!”

“Ah, true,” sighed the comtesse, “we are in a sad position; still we
must not lose hope. Whenever I am unusually depressed I go and see the
Duchess de ——; she is one in a thousand for constancy and courage. Do
you remember, general, her spirited conduct eight years ago, at the
time the Government had confined Monseigneur Franzoni, the archbishop,
in the citadel?”

For the information of those who may have forgotten an occurrence which
at the moment attracted all Europe's attention, it is necessary briefly
to mention that the archbishop's offence consisted in peremptorily
refusing the last consolations of religion to the Cavaliere di
Santa Rosa on his death-bed, unless he solemnly retracted the share
he had borne, as one of the ministry, in the promulgation of some
ecclesiastical reforms. Not choosing to do violence to his conscience,
the dying man, though devoutly attached to the observances of his
church, expired, amidst the tears of his wife and friends, without
receiving the viaticum or extreme unction. It was as a satisfaction to
the popular indignation at this act of clerical intolerance, as well
as to vindicate the authority of the Government, that the archbishop,
after undergoing a few weeks' imprisonment, was banished from the
country.

“What particular instance of the duchesse's spirit do you allude to,
comtesse?” asked the general. “I was in Savoy at the time, and only
heard the barren facts of the outrage committed on the venerable
prelate.”

“Her husband was then in the cabinet, and of course implicated in this
offence; but to show that she at least had no participation in it,
she ordered out the old family coach with four horses, her footmen
in their state liveries, and drove to the citadel, taking the most
frequented streets on her way, to offer her sympathy and condolence to
monseigneur. There she is, madame, nearly opposite to us.”

I had scarcely taken a survey of this modern Griselda,[23] when a stir
was perceptible, a title was announced, and everybody rose. The owner
of a name which will be written in history as having held a post in
the reign of Victor Emmanuel's predecessor, similar to that occupied
in France by a Belle Gabrielle, or a La Vallière, entered the saloon; a
tall and commanding figure, with more than the remains of great beauty
in her face. Until she took a seat, none resumed theirs.

Queenlike she sat, and with queenlike affability greeted those who
advanced to speak to her, or addressed those on either hand, and talked
about charitable societies of which she was the patroness with the
bishop, and the last political intelligence with the ex-ambassador;
complimented the lady of the house on the beauty of her children, and
congratulated the comtesse on an approaching marriage in her family,
graciously announcing her intention to call and see the bride's
_corbeille_.

It was not the fact of her being there which surprised me, but the
deference, the obsequiousness shown towards her. Truly, as a specimen
of the moral code of the strictest circles, the most severely religious
of the high society of Turin, it was sufficiently diverting. But no one
present had a glimmering of this inconsistency.

“Believe me,” said the comtesse, as we parted soon after, having made
an appointment for the morrow to introduce me to her niece, the bride
elect, “believe me, Madame de —— is full of rare qualities. You could
not wish for a better friend or adviser. Her own daughter is one of
the three model wives of Turin, and reflects the highest credit on
her training, which was simple, nay almost austere; at the same time
nothing could surpass her maternal tenderness. I remember a sacrifice
she made upon herself for three years, in hopes of obtaining the
blessing of a grandchild. Passionately fond of ices, she resolutely
abstained from tasting a single one till her prayers were heard!”

The next morning the comtesse and I devoted some time to the mysteries
of shopping before proceeding to her sister's, whose daughter's wedding
presents were to be displayed to us. The arcades or _portici_ which
line the Strada di Po, and the Piazza di Castello, a really magnificent
square, are the resort of all the fashionable idlers of both sexes
in Turin, and, lined on one side by handsome shops, open on the other
to the light and air, sheltered alike from rain and sun, really form
a very attractive promenade. As the belles flit from _magasin_ to
_magasin_, undulating in a maze of crinoline and flounces, they have
the satisfaction of knowing that they are passed in review by the
loungers at the _cafés_, as numerous under the arcades as in every
other part of the town; the most redoubted of these tribunals of
criticism and gossip being the Café Fiorio, frequented by the cream of
the aristocracy. Even the comtesse, who, though not old, was singularly
void of pretension, and quiet in her deportment, thought it necessary
to evince some timidity at encountering this ordeal.

“When I am alone, madame, I always make a great _détour_ to avoid
passing before Fiorio's. It is astonishing what remarks are made by
those _messieurs_, and what stories they contrive to get hold of. When
there is nothing else to be said, they pull one's toilette to pieces,
and are merciless if everything is not perfectly fresh and in good
taste. I assure you the expense of dress now amongst us is positively
frightful; and those, like me, who have not a large income, are almost
compelled to renounce going much into society, unless indeed they do
as some I could point out to you,—run up bills for twenty or thirty
thousand francs, which their husbands will eventually be compelled to
pay, at great sacrifice and inconvenience probably; for we have not
fortunes in Piedmont like your English nobility.”

“It is a pity that men by their fastidiousness contribute to this
extravagance.”

“Undoubtedly it is, but there is no reasoning on the subject. A
mad desire for spending seems to pervade all ranks. Even in the
_bourgeoisie_ a taste for luxury and elegance has of late exhibited
itself which is appalling. The wives of shopkeepers who, ten or fifteen
years ago, would have esteemed themselves happy with a simple cotton
print, a freshly-ironed cap, and a black silk apron, for their Sunday
costume, now sweep along the Rue du Po in brocades of the value of
three or four hundred francs, and with feathers in their bonnets!”

“Still, comtesse, as the example comes from above, it is not surprising
it should find imitators.”

“Ah, _chère_, that is just one of the ideas of the day! For my part,
I cannot understand why difference of rank should not be marked as
it used to be by regulations as to dress. We should see some curious
transformations then!”

By this time we had left the dreaded Fiorio's some way behind, and
coming upon another _café_ of less dazzling celebrity, the open doors
and windows of which gave pleasant glimpses of spacious saloons with
gilded ceilings and mirrors, crimson velvet sofas, and a profusion of
little circular marble tables, the comtesse proposed that we should
enter and refresh ourselves with an ice, Turin etiquette not imposing
the necessity of male escort on such occasions.

Though the Anglo-Piedmontese Gallenga, rendered fastidious by a quarter
of a century's sojourn in England, complains, in his recent work on
his native country, of the tawdriness and dirt of the Turin _cafés_,
they were so superior, in my humble scale of comparison, to those of
the other parts of Italy where I had resided, that I found them most
welcome and inviting. There was a luxurious sense of repose in looking
forth upon the fierce sunshine on the Piazza di Castello through
the softened twilight in which we sat, discussing, for the moderate
consideration of twenty centimes each, two pyramidical masses of _crême
à la vanille_, while plants and flowers in the window-sills, without
impeding the view of the busy life without, screened those within
from the gaze of the passers-by. In such an atmosphere the _dolce far
niente_ would have seemed likely to predominate, but I noticed in the
people as they came and went, in the earnestness with which they read
the newspapers, the quick, short sentences in which they commented
to each other on their contents, even while sipping the mixture of
coffee and chocolate which is the favourite beverage of the Turinese,
a certain air of decision and promptitude not elsewhere to be found
in Italy. Men of every grade were amongst them, from those pointed
out to me by the comtesse in a whisper as senators and deputies, to
some whose dress would have required no sumptuary laws to define their
position. I also observed that Italian was almost universally spoken,
the Piedmontese _patois_ comparatively rarely, French not at all.
This was an indication of the _café's_ politics. By the persevering
use or rejection of the Italian language, political sentiments in
this country can be pretty well ascertained. The ministry, bent on
its general adoption, have caused it to be substituted in the infant
schools for the native dialect, of all the dialects of the peninsula
the most guttural and the most mutilated, an innovation the wisdom
of which it requires thorough stiff-necked _codino_-ism not to
recognise. Instead of learning to read, as was formerly the case, in
a tongue only partially understood, for no books are, or used to be,
printed in Piedmontese, children are familiarized with Italian as the
preliminary step. In every department over which its influence extends
the Government shows the same desire; the circulation of newspapers,
the presence of the _emigrati_, and the discussions in the chambers
powerfully assisting its endeavours, which have only failed with the
aristocracy. Hence Italian is much more spoken by the middle than the
higher classes in Turin.

But I have digressed, while, to finish my picture, it must be added
that there was less talking among the visitors at the _café_ than
would have been possible in central or southern Italy, and but little
lounging. Though a few appeared listless and unemployed, to the
majority time was evidently not a worthless commodity; even in the ten
minutes we passed there, some of the tables near us had more than once
changed occupants.

“_Allons donc_,” said the comtesse; “what shall we do now? Stay, there
is the jeweller's where I must execute a commission for my sister, and
then, if you please, we will pay her our visit.”

At the shop we encountered a lady with whom I had a slight
acquaintance; one of the _élégantes_ of Turin, of the same political
opinions, but of a more mundane turn of mind than my companion. She
was elaborately dressed in visiting costume, and coming towards us with
both hands extended, told the comtesse she was selecting a _souvenir_
for her niece. Not to embarrass her choice, after a few complimentary
phrases, we removed to some distance, the aunt not very graciously
commenting on the announcement.

“A _souvenir_ indeed! How I detest the indiscriminate fashion of giving
presents! It confounds friends of yesterday with one's closest and
dearest connections, and at last is regarded as an odious tax. Just
because Madame de —— was my sister's _compagne de loge_ last winter,
when they shared a box at the opera, she fancies this attention is
expected of her, or rather calculates it will give her _éclat_, when
all the gifts are shown, to be cited as one of the donors. Look at her
now, what open sleeves, and how short! All to display her arms, she is
so vain of them! You may be sure she has been exhibiting them before
Fiorio's. I shall hear from my brother, who is generally there. Do you
not think them too stout?”

The approach of their owner here cut short any more disparaging
observations, and the house to which we were bound being close at hand,
we all proceeded thither very lovingly together.

Just before we arrived I bethought myself that amidst all the rejoicing
over the approaching marriage, I had not heard a single word with
respect to the bridegroom's mental or personal attractions, and
guardedly ventured on some inquiries concerning him.

“He is a very fine young man,” said the comtesse, seemingly indifferent
to what might have been thought no inconsiderable adjunct to the
favourable features of this match; “just twenty-five. Thérèse is
nineteen.”

Upon hearing this I hazarded the supposition that, both being young and
good-looking, they were in all probability attached.

“He is certainly very much taken with Thérèse, and she, as far of
course as she can understand such feelings, is greatly pleased with
him. I hope it may turn out well,” added the good lady dubiously,
“but one always fears for these marriages of affection.” A sentiment
to which the Marquise de ——, the fair one of the arms, adjusting her
bracelets, uttered so fervent a response, that I at once concluded her
to be a victim to this novel kind of misfortune.

The subject of these forebodings was waiting with her mother to receive
us, all smiles and ecstasy, and without delay we were admitted to
gaze on the glories of the _trousseau_ and _corbeille_, before they
were exposed to the general run of visitors. The _trousseau_, it is
scarcely necessary to state, comprises the bride's outfit in wearing
apparel, carried now-a-days in Piedmont to the most lavish profusion,
twelve dozen of each description of underclothing not being considered
anything out of the common way: the _corbeille_ is a general term for
all the bridegroom's presents, formerly enclosed in a basket of elegant
workmanship and decoration. In these days of change, however, the
genuine _corbeille_ is replaced by an inlaid coffer, or any other sort
of expensive receptacle. An elaborately-ornamented work-table had in
this instance been chosen by the bridegroom to contain his offerings.

Mademoiselle Thérèse stands by, radiant with joy and pride, while
her mother turns the key; and there, amid satin and lace, repose two
Cashmere shawls. One from India; four thousand francs could scarcely
have procured it, the gay marquise hastily calculates. The other
French, but so beautiful a production that the most practised eye could
scarcely detect the difference. Ah, how lovely, how enchanting! But see
here, that _garniture_ of Brussels lace; flounces, the bridal veil,
trimming for berthe! What, a similar set in black Chantilly! Never,
never has she seen their equal. There are, besides, dozens and dozens
of gloves from Jouvin's, fans, and embroidered handkerchiefs, some with
the coronet of a marquise surmounting the name of Thérèse, each letter
a perfect study of delicate flowery needle-craft; others with her
family arms united with those of the bridegroom on the same escutcheon.
What precision in the work, what exquisite cambric! Who would not be
married to gain such treasures?

“And the diamonds?” Even the comtesse grows excited now, as the mamma
calmly touches a spring, and the casket flies open. It is the crowning
stroke; few brides in Turin can boast its equal. The diadem, the
sprays for the hair, the pendants, the necklace. Oh, how entrancingly
beautiful they are! The marquise devours them with greedy eyes; the
aunt, stifling a sigh at the thought that she has no daughter to marry,
mingled perhaps with a momentary pang at the contrast to her own modest
_corbeille_ fifteen years before, looks proud and gratified,—not the
less so because she has detected the emotion of the _compagne de loge_,
on whom, since the intimacy with her sister, she bestows her intense
aversion.

“But that is not all,” said the bride's mother, who, though older than
my comtesse, yet, as being handsomer and much richer, still kept her
place as a belle, “we have a few trifles here besides.” And a set of
pearls, a watch, rich chain, and all sorts of those ornamental trifles
called _breloques_, were successively exhibited.

“And all this from your _futur_?” Thérèse smilingly assents. “My
child, you are indeed happy!” and the marquise kisses her with warmth,
mentally weighing the chances of finding for her own daughter, when she
comes home from the convent where she is being educated, a match equal
in wealth or munificence.

“Then there are all the other pretty presents and _souvenirs_,” and
the mamma opens a cabinet of ivory and ebony, from the drawers of
which she produces an infinite variety of morocco cases, some round,
some long, some oval-shaped. Bracelets, ah, what bracelets! Enamelled,
gem-encrusted, plain, arabesqued, inland, circles of emeralds and
pearls, gold and coral, diamonds and rubies. Earrings too, and brooches
to correspond. Crosses and lockets: a perfect shopful of trinkets. It
is the realization of many a maiden's dream; surely of thine, Thérèse!

Every relation of the two families, almost every acquaintance, was here
represented; the ambition of not being outdone in generosity on these
occasions of almost public display, leading many of the donors, as the
comtesse had truly said, and as I found confirmed by general opinion,
to regard as a heavy tribute to custom that which should be the
spontaneous offering of friendship. But a truce to such reflections.
The marquise has produced her present, and a glittering bauble of some
three hundred francs' value is added to the young bride's collection.

Fortunate Thérèse! Her wedding dress is now brought forward. Being
summer time, white muslin has been selected as the most appropriate
material, but this is so richly embroidered as to render it most
costly. Her mother relates with complacency that the dressmaker has
just sent her word that so magnificent a _toilette de mariée_ has never
issued from her work-rooms. Thérèse drinks all this in with silent
rapture. What would it matter if she had to marry the Beast in the
fairy-tale, with the certainty he could never turn into the Prince to
boot, so long as all these joys are hers? Of her future husband, except
as the appendage to their possession, she clearly never thinks, never
has been taught to think. For the results of a marriage of affection
such as this, the comtesse need have no fears.




CHAPTER XXXV.

   The House of Savoy—Its warlike princes—The Green
     Count—Prostration of Piedmont—Persecution of the Vaudois—The
     Island of Sardinia—Genoa added to Piedmont—The constitution
     of 1848—War with Austria—Victor Emmanuel.


I shall not even take up one of the very few pages left at my disposal
by any descriptions of the royal palace, the armoury, the churches, the
houses of parliament, and the various other sights of Turin; neither
do I purpose indulging in any further feminine gossip respecting
its domestic manners. I will rather close these sketches of Italian
life and contemporary history with a brief account of the rise and
development of the Sardinian monarchy, which has proved the nucleus of
Italian independence.

The founder of the House of Savoy, the oldest reigning house in Europe,
was Beroldo, a powerful vassal of the King of Burgundy, who in the
year 1000 was invested with the fief of Maurienne, in Savoy, in the
possession of which he was succeeded by his eldest son, Umberto the
White-handed; so named, it is recorded, from the unspotted honour and
integrity of all his dealings.

It is good for a family, whether royal or otherwise, to have the
example of such an ancestor to emulate; and accordingly, we find
his successors, in an age when the code of Chivalry embodied all
the virtues deemed essential to the well-being of society, proving
themselves good knights and true, and spreading the fame of their
prowess far beyond the narrow limits of their territories. By his
marriage with Adelaide of Susa, a powerful and gifted princess,
who brought as her dowry a considerable portion of the most fertile
parts of Piedmont, the Count Oddone, fourth of his line, established
a footing on the Italian side of the Alps, which secured Turin,
Susa, Pignerol, and the valleys since so famous as the abode of
the Waldenses, together with the title of Marquis of Italy to his
descendants.

Among the most warlike of these princes, we find Amadeus III., who died
in the Second Crusade, and Amadeus V., celebrated as the deliverer of
Rhodes; while the names of two others are too singularly interwoven
with English history to pass unnoticed. Of these, the first was the
Comte Pierre, uncle by marriage to our Henry III., who frequently
visited England, was loaded with favours, and created Earl of Richmond
by that monarch;—the Palace of the Savoy being, moreover, expressly
built for his residence.

His son, Thomas I., enjoyed the same favour, which no doubt contributed
to increase the discontent expressed by the English at their king's
partiality for foreigners, and the expenses he incurred in entertaining
them. One of the flattering distinctions paid to the Count of Savoy
we should, however, in this age consider no wasteful superfluity—the
streets of London, we are expressly told, having been swept in honour
of his arrival. Both these princes possessed a great reputation for
sagacity and moderation, especially the Comte Pierre, who was chosen as
arbitrator in a quarrel between Henry and his prelates; and on another
occasion negotiated peace between France and England.

But the hero of the House of Savoy, on whose fame the chronicles of the
period love to dwell—whose daring and achievements, too, would require
the genius of a Scott to have depicted—is Amadeus VI., commonly known
as the Comte Vert, one of the most renowned princes of the fourteenth
century.

He first displayed his address in arms at a solemn tournament held at
Chambéry, the capital of Savoy, when he was but fourteen years of age,
and presented himself in the lists arrayed in green armour, surrounded
by esquires and pages similarly equipped. It was to commemorate
his success on this occasion, when he obtained the suffrages of the
assembled flower of European Chivalry, that Amadeus adopted green
as his especial colour, from which his surname of the Comte Vert was
derived.

The great event of this reign was the expedition in aid of John
Palæologus, Emperor of the East, who, being sorely pressed by Amurath
at the head of his fierce Ottomans, implored the assistance of
Christendom to prop his tottering throne. His kinsman, the Count of
Savoy, promptly responded to this appeal; and causing a large fleet of
galleys to be fitted out at Venice, repaired thither, across Italy,
with a large force of knights, men-at-arms, archers, and slingers. A
contemporary writer relates how, the day of departure having arrived,
“the noble count, followed by his princes and barons, walking two and
two, attired in surcoats of green velvet, richly embroidered, proceeded
to the place of embarkation. Bands of music, going before, filled the
air with harmony; while the people of Venice, thronging to behold this
goodly spectacle, broke forth into shouts of 'Savoia! Savoia!' amidst
which, and prolonged flourishes of trumpets, the Comte Vert put to sea,
1366 A.D.”

Gallipoli, a stronghold of the Turks, who thus closely menaced the
safety of the imperial capital, was the first object of attack; and
being carried by assault, the white cross of Savoy was displayed upon
its walls. From thence proceeding to Constantinople, the count learned
the disastrous intelligence that the emperor was a prisoner in the
hands of the Bulgarians. Determined to effect his deliverance, he at
once passed the Bosphorus, entered the Black Sea, and landed on the
shores of Bulgaria. Mesembria was taken by storm; and Varna, an opulent
and strongly fortified city, was obliged to capitulate. These rapid
victories compelled the enemy to sue for peace, of which the liberation
of the emperor was the first condition.

Returning in triumph to Constantinople with the monarch whom his
prowess had set free, Amadeus seems to have experienced the proverbial
thanklessness of the Palæologi; for, as the chronicler pithily remarks,
“it was reserved for Italy, by her magnificent reception of the Comte
Vert, to atone to him for the ingratitude of the Greeks.”

A still more remarkable evidence of the estimation in which Amadeus was
held, is given by the fact of his being elected, a few years later, to
decide on the conflicting claims of the rival republics of Genoa and
Venice, between whom many sovereign princes, even the supreme pontiff
himself, had ineffectually attempted to mediate. On an appointed day,
the envoys of the contending States appeared before the Count of Savoy
at Turin, and set forth their respective grievances, which he duly
weighed and pondered over; then himself drawing up solemn articles of
peace, they were sworn to and signed in his presence.

In the reign following that of the renowned Green Count, Nice, and a
portion of the western shores of the Mediterranean, became incorporated
with Piedmont and Savoy, by a nobler triumph than that of conquest,
having petitioned to be united to the dominions of the House of Savoy,
as a guarantee of just and paternal government.

The life of Amadeus VIII., who flourished contemporarily with our
Henry VI. and the disastrous Wars of the Roses, is another romance,
which in the days when that style of composition was popular, would
have furnished materials for half a dozen historical novels. After
considerably extending his possessions in Piedmont, he received from
the Emperor Sigismund of Germany—which country exercised a sort of
suzerainship over Italy, that, with the single exception of the kingdom
of Sardinia, Austria retained up till 1859—the title of Duke, in lieu
of Count of Savoy. Renowned for his wisdom, courage, and political
foresight, Amadeus, when still in the meridian of his glory, abdicated,
and with six of his former companions-in-arms and trusty counsellors,
retired to the hermitage of Ripaille, near the lake of Geneva. The
asceticism here practised does not appear to have been very severe,
since _faire Ripaille_ has passed into a proverb in Switzerland, to
indicate good cheer and easy living; but be this as it may, the duke
was some years afterwards summoned from his retirement, having been
elected pope under the title of Felix V.

For nearly a century following, the prosperity of the duchy was
overcast; feeble princes, alternating with feebler regencies and their
attendant evils, held the reins of government, and Piedmont became
the arena on which the French and Imperialists contended. The Dukes of
Savoy, alternately forced into alliance with Francis I. of France and
the Emperor Charles V., the position of their territories rendering it
impossible for them to preserve neutrality, lost equally from friend
and foe. Far from being able to follow up the cherished policy of their
family, and as the reward of their allegiance obtain “a few leaves of
that artichoke Lombardy,” to the possession of which they had ever
aspired, they saw themselves gradually stripped of their ancestral
dominions, till a single town in Piedmont was all that remained in
their hands.

The singular firmness and energy of character which distinguishes
these Highlanders of Italy, as they are termed, seems but to have
gained strength from these vicissitudes. In the reign of Duke Emmanuel
Philibert, “the Iron-headed,” we find the House of Savoy restored
to more than its pristine lustre, and reinstated in its former
possessions, with the single exception of Geneva, which in the general
turmoil had succeeded in establishing its independence. At a later
period this prince, to strengthen his position in Italy, exchanged
with Henri Quatre, Bourg en Bresse, Val Romey, and Bugey in Savoy,
against the Marquisate of Saluzzo, adjoining Pignerol, at the foot of
the Alps. This province had long been in possession of the French, and
its transfer to Piedmont, though purchased by a sacrifice as respected
extent of territory, was looked upon as a great step towards national
independence, and the adoption of a clearly-defined Italian policy.

An evil phase in the history of Piedmont is the persecution of the
Waldenses or Vaudois. Established in their sub-alpine valleys and
fastnesses from a very remote period, these sturdy champions of
primitive Christianity were a constant source of umbrage to the papal
see, who incited the princes of Savoy, as loyal servants of the Church,
to extirpate such foul heresy from their States. One of the most
terrible of the ruthless crusades to which they were subjected was that
in 1655, made familiar to most of us by Milton's noble hymn, “Avenge,
O Lord, thy slaughtered saints,” and Cromwell's energetic remonstrance
with the court of Turin in their behalf. It was not till the end of the
seventeenth century that the sword of persecution was finally sheathed,
although considerable restrictions still continued to be imposed upon
the Vaudois, who were, nevertheless, remarkable for their faithful
allegiance to their sovereign, and for their courage and hardihood
as soldiers. The constitution of 1848 finally secured them the right
to exercise their worship in any part of the Sardinian dominions;
and placed them on perfect equality with the Catholic population. A
Waldensian, Signor Malan, sits in the Chamber of Deputies.

Little anticipating the tolerance their successors would one day
exhibit, the heresy, no less than the independence of Geneva, was a
grievous thorn in the flesh to the Dukes of Savoy, who could not easily
forego their former right to its dominion; and in 1602, a formidable
expedition was secretly organized against it by Charles Emmanuel I.,
with the concurrence of the courts of Rome, Paris, and Madrid. Three
hundred volunteers from the main body of the army had actually, in the
dead of the night, succeeded in scaling the walls, when the premature
explosion of a petard, designed to force open the city-gates, gave
the alarm. The inhabitants, some hastily armed, others half-clad as
they sprang from their slumbers, rushed into the streets, and drove
back the invaders with great loss. Finding their retreat cut off by
the destruction of the ladders by which they had ascended, the few
survivors flung themselves from the ramparts into the ditch, and
carried the intelligence of their defeat to the Duke of Savoy, who
was advancing to reap the enjoyment of the triumph he already deemed
secure. The Escalade, as it is termed, is justly celebrated in the
annals of Geneva, which, six months after, concluded a treaty with
Savoy, on terms as flattering to herself as they were mortifying to the
duke, who said in his last illness “that those rebels of Geneva weighed
like lead upon his stomach.”

The opening of the eighteenth century again beheld Piedmont the
theatre of bloody wars, in consequence of the disputed succession
to the crown of Spain. The duke sided with the imperial party, which
England also supported, and saw his States overrun by the French, who
for some time held possession of Turin. The siege and recapture of
his capital—in which Victor Amadeus II. was aided by his cousin, the
celebrated Prince Eugene, Marlborough's colleague—was the turning point
in his fortunes. The latter part of his reign was marked with signal
prosperity. Invested with the title of King of Sardinia, the island of
that name having been transferred from the possession of Spain, and
bestowed on him as some compensation for his losses and sacrifices
in the war, he devoted himself to the embellishment of Turin, the
formation of a standing army, and the restoration of the finances of
the State, leaving behind him a reputation for indomitable energy and
perseverance, on which the historians of Piedmont dwell with pardonable
pride.

His successor steadily pursued his policy, and obtained some part of
the Milanese territory—a few more leaves of the artichoke, towards
which, like every enterprising prince of his line, his political views
were constantly directed.

The outbreak of the first French Revolution again threatened the
House of Savoy with destruction. Almost simultaneously, in 1792,
the territory of Nice, and the whole of Savoy, were invaded, and
occupied by the troops of the Directory; a few years later, Piedmont
was incorporated into the French dominions, and Sardinia was all that
remained to Charles Emmanuel IV., who, in 1796, succeeded to what he
bitterly designated as “a veritable crown of thorns.”

From this utter prostration, this dynasty, with that singular rebound
observable in its annals, was recalled in 1814 to its continental
possessions, with the addition of Genoa, who reluctantly saw herself
degraded from her independent position as a republic, to form part of a
kingdom which had long excited her jealousy and apprehension.

Between this period and 1848 the history of Piedmont offers little
of interest. The quiet development of its internal resources, the
accumulating wealth of its exchequer, the minute care bestowed on its
army, being less conspicuous to a general observer, than the severity
of its police, the rigour with which all political freedom of speech or
writing was proscribed, and the especial protection which the Jesuits
enjoyed. As before remarked, the Sardinian Government was looked
upon as one of the most despotic of Europe, and its king as the most
priest-ridden of princes.

Even the example of Pius IX. did not at first produce any perceptible
results; and for more than a year after the famous amnesty to the
Romans not a change in the existing system at Turin foreshadowed the
coming reforms.

The year 1848 is memorable for Piedmont. At its opening came the royal
gift, the long yearned-for Constitution, embodying alike the freedom
of the press, religious toleration, parliamentary institutions, a
political amnesty, the formation of the National Guard, and the removal
of numerous legal and administrative abuses.

Austria's suspicions were aroused, and she remonstrated. But in
vain. The time had come; the mask of years was thrown aside, and
Charles Albert stood forth the avowed champion of Italian unity and
independence. Three men to whom Italy is under lasting obligations,
Gioberti, Count Balbo, and the Marquis Massimo d'Azeglio, by their
writings had introduced an unwonted unity of action and moderation of
aims amongst their countrymen. They taught them to substitute for the
republican theories, which had been the bane of Italian patriots, those
aspirations for constitutional monarchy, and for deliverance from the
yoke of Austria, which in Charles Albert found their impersonation and
their instrument. Everywhere hailed with enthusiasm as the appointed
regenerator of Italy, the fulfilment of the destinies of his house now
seemed within his grasp; and the poetical veneration he had always
borne to the memory of his ancestor the Green Count, whose device,
“J'attends mon astre,” he had long before adopted, acquired greater
force and significance.

At the invitation of the insurgent Milanese, he threw down the gauntlet
against Austria, and with his two gallant sons, the Dukes of Savoy
and Genoa, marched at the head of his army into Lombardy. But he was
not suffered to reap where he had sown. To Charles Albert it was only
given to lay the foundation of the edifice his son is raising to such
loftiness. When, after two disastrous campaigns, and witnessing the
total overthrow of his forces on the bloody field of Novara in March,
1849, he died in self-imposed exile at Oporto, there was little in the
aspect of affairs in Piedmont to give grounds for sanguine previsions
for the future.

Dangers of no ordinary description hung over the kingdom he had
resigned; or, to speak more correctly, the institutions he had
inaugurated. The situation of the young king might well be termed
desperate. A victorious enemy on his borders, a shattered army, an
exhausted treasury, his clergy and nobility disaffected to the new
order of things; to crown all, absolutism triumphant all over Italy,
and the certainty that Austria was only watching for a pretext for a
fresh invasion. It needed but for him to have annulled his father's
concessions, to propitiate a large number of his subjects, disarm the
hostility of his powerful neighbour and her satellites, and possess
himself of those privileges of which his predecessor had stripped the
crown. It will be registered in the grateful hearts of millions yet
unborn, that Victor Emmanuel was proof alike to warnings, entreaties,
and blandishments. Through evil and good report, kinglike and manfully
did he uphold the constitution to which he had sworn, till he met his
reward in the wondrous confidence and enthusiasm of which he is now the
object.

It is not a sudden impulse, this love of the Italians for Victor
Emmanuel. On the contrary, when he mounted the throne, so great was
the universal hatred for kings, generated by the perfidy of their own
princes, that few reposed belief in his assurances. It was only when
he was seen firmly contending with Rome against her encroachments
and intolerance; throwing open his States to the political refugee
without regard to his opinions, equally sheltering constitutionalist or
republican; unflinching in maintaining the liberty of the press and the
dignity of the country, despite the menaces of Austria, and ever eager
in promoting national prosperity and enterprise; that the prejudice
against monarchy was overcome, and the Italians, from Venice to Etna,
bestowed upon him the surname of the “_Rè galantuomo_.”

To the influence of Azeglio and Cavour, one or other of whom has rarely
been absent from his councils since his accession, much is no doubt
due; but while fully acknowledging their obligations to the patriotism,
courage, and intrepidity of these ministers, as well as to the host
of eminent men they have gathered round them from all parts of the
peninsula, the Italians never forget to give the chief glory to Victor
Emmanuel. Without his stedfast adherence to the Constitution, as to
a trust bequeathed him by his father, Italy would not now be looking
forward to assuming her place among the nations.


THE END.




FOOTNOTES:


[1] The term Marches of Ancona (in Italian La Marca, or Le Marche) is
derived from _Marchesato_, or Marquisate.

[2] The estimate here given is at the rate of five dollars to the pound
sterling, but it varies according to the exchange, which is sometimes
4s. 2d. to the dollar.

[3] “Signorina” is not invariably used in Central and Southern Italy
in addressing a young lady, though she is always spoken of as such.
The Christian name, with the prefix of Signora, is often applied in
conversation.

[4] Rossi is an abbreviation of _Repubblicani rossi_—red republicans.

[5] Meaning literally a piece of antique furniture.

[6] The tone now assumed by the British Government relative to Italian
affairs,—I mean since the liberal ministry came into office in the
summer of 1859,—gives great delight to all who hold progressive
opinions, and has regained England's prestige in the Peninsula.

[7] As before remarked, the anger against the luke-warmness of England,
which was so general amongst Italian liberals, has given way since the
firm attitude she has assumed on the question of leaving them free
to choose their own form of government, unmolested by foreign armed
intervention.

[8] La Cattolica, the boundary between the Romagne and the province of
Pesaro, is a small village, about ten miles to the south of Rimini.

[9] See the State Papers and Documents in the Marquis Gualterio's
_Rivolgimenti Italiani_, to which work, as full of research and
reliable information, I can conscientiously refer the reader.

[10] Notification of Cardinal Bernetti, Secretary of State, April 2,
1831.

[11] Note to Count de St Aulaire, French Ambassador at Rome, Sept. 7,
1832.

[12] I can only remember one, that of Monsignor de Medici Spada, who
relinquished the purple stockings for the hand of a beautiful Pole; and
yet my acquaintance with Italian ecclesiastics is very extensive.

[13] Massimo d'Azeglio's letter of September, 1859.—What he says of the
Roman States was applicable to the whole of Italy. Proofs have been
discovered, in all the centres of agitation during the Revolution of
1848, of the presence of Austro-Jesuit emissaries, foremost in every
seditious movement. At Milan, a certain Urbino, one of Mazzini's most
violent partisans, was conspicuous as the leader of the rabble in
the disgraceful opposition to the annexation of Lombardy to Piedmont,
and in the hostile demonstrations against the king, which furnished
plausible arguments to those who inveighed against the fickleness and
disunion of the Italians. He is now known to have been all along a
paid Austrian spy. In Tuscany, about the same period, an individual of
infamous reputation, the author of a number of libels against Charles
Albert, was clearly convicted of exciting revolutionary tumults, and
thrown into prison. But the Austrian ambassador interfered promptly
on his behalf (a proceeding the more extraordinary as the man was a
Piedmontese subject), procured his liberation, sent him out of the
country, and discharged all his debts.—Gualterio, _Le Riforme_, Vol.
I., p. 553, with documents, &c.

[14] Asses of the Marches.

[15] In 1262, the number of students congregated in Bologna amounted to
10,000. It was the first medical school where dissection of the human
body was practised; and claims the discovery of Galvanism.

[16] So calmly did they anticipate this _dénouement_, that they
provided themselves with an appropriate token of gratitude to their
future deliverer. The ring with the inscription, “From the exiles of
Ancona,” which they presented to the excellent and gallant Captain
Nicholas Vansittart, of H.M.S. _Frolic_, on their taking leave of him
at Corfu, had been made beforehand by a jeweller in Ancona.

[17] The people nicknamed him _Cardinal_ Oudinot, a pleasantry which
stung him to the quick.

[18] 18th June. This city had also declared for the protectorate of
Victor Emmanuel, and a participation in the war of independence.

[19] The possession of revolutionary emblems, such as tri-coloured
cockades, scarfs, &c., was punishable, or rather _is_ punishable,
with from three to five years in the galleys. Private families were
enjoined, under a penalty of ten dollars _for the first offence_, to
report to the police the arrival of any guest from abroad (the nearest
town was comprised in this designation), with a statement of his
purpose in coming, his station in life, &c.

[20] I am acquainted with a large landed proprietor in the Marche,
who, debarred by peculiar circumstances from taking an open part in the
liberal movement, passed his time last summer in assisting the flight
of the Anconitan refugees. He told me the number who had been forced to
expatriate themselves was immense, and yet many are in prison.

[21] The _kilomètre_ is about two-thirds of an English mile.

[22] Apropos of this, I cannot help citing the witticism of a Genoese,
not a convert, more just than flattering to his townspeople. “I do not
believe these charges of bribery,” he said, “not from partiality to the
_Valdese_, but because, if they paid people for going to their church,
half Genoa would be with them.”

[23] An Englishwoman by birth.




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Transcriber's Notes

Original spelling and punctuation have been preserved as much as
possible. Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Englishwoman in Italy, by A. L. V. Gretton