/ A'^ / # DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. BY FRANCES ELLIOT, AUTHOR OF “ PICTURES OF OLD ROME.” COPYRIGHT EDITION. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LEIPZIG BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 1872. The Right of Translation is reserved. “Mrs. Elliot knows Italy and the Italians as few English- women know or have known them. Her book is written as few women could write it.” From The Times. TO MY HUSBAND, THE DEAN OF BRISTOL, ®I)is §aoh. IS INSCRIBED BY THE IDLE WOMAN/ Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2017 with funding from Getty Research Institute https://archive.org/details/diaryofidlewomanOOelli_0 AVANT-PROPOS. When I call these volumes “ The Diary of an Idle Woman f I do so because I went to Italy with a pe7'fedly disengaged mind , with no special objects of inquiry , no definite call or profession , no pre- conceived theories . I was idle in that I went where fancy or accident led rne; otherwise I hope my readers will not consider me “an idle woman! It may be well to mention that some of these chapters (now almost entirely re-written) have ap- peared from time to time in some of the leading periodicals . PREFACE. The wiiter avails herself of the occasion given her by a new edition of the Idle Woman in Italy, to reply to some criticisms on her work. Some critics who did her the favour to review her book, expressed strong opinions on her sup- posed inaccuracy, in having stated that at the gladiatorial games in the circus, the raising of the thumb was the signal of life. Now this is in fact a vexed question, discussed in many learned tomes, and never yet finally settled. The writer having re-examined the classic authorities, considered, and does still consider, her statement to be correct. Those curious in the matter can consult Juvenal and Pliny, and also can enjoy the benefit of the whole discussion by examining the Treatise on Chironomania, by Gilbert Austen. It is a significant fact, and confirmatory of the author’s view, that the tradition, handed down IO PREFACE. direct from the Romans, in their gladiatorial games in Spain still existing in the bull-fights (the modern substitute for the exhibitions of the cir- cus), makes the thumb turned up the signal of life to the bull; the thumb turned down , death. CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. CHAPTER I. — II. — III. — IV. — V. — VI. — VII. — VIII. — IX. A Mediaeval City — The Sienese— The Piazza— The Palio From Siena to Or vie to— Cathedral— Chiusi — Etruscan Tombs The Journey— Monte Oliveto— Razzi The Old Cardinals Retreat .... Start from Siena; Monte Varchi; Mr. B.— Brigands ; Arezzo -Cortona ; Lake of Thra- symene; Perugia Perugia — Churches — Tomb — Santa Maria degli Angeli — St. Francis — Assisi— Foligno The Forum by Day — The Coliseum — Golden House of Nero and the Games of the Am- phitheatre The Forum and the Capitol by Night — “In Memoriam” — Villa Borghese — Making a Saint— Museum— San Paolo Fuori le Mura The Portrait of the Cenci— The Ruins of the Palace of the Caesars, and Sermon at the Coliseum— Rospigliosi Palace— Churches of the Trastevere and Corsini Palace— Solemn Benediction at San Gregorio— Colonna Pa- Page i3 29 43 53 7i 101 126 162 Page 12 CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. lace , Gardens , and Ruins — The Conserva- tories Rooms at the Capitol — Church of Ara Cceli — Villa Lodovisi CHAPTER X. Audience of the Pope— Villa Doria Pamfili . — XI. Italian Interiors— Churches : San Lorenzo in Damaso ; San Marco— Baths of Caracalla — The Opera — XII. The Cupola of St. Peter’s and Sistine Chapel— The Museum at the Lateran — San Pietro in Vincolo and the “ Moses ” • — XIII. Baths of Titus at the Coliseum , at San Mar- tino di Monti , and at the Sette Sale — Car- dinal Antonelli — XIV. A Roman Jumble, or Sketch of a Day . 186 225 236 255 273 290 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. CHAPTER I. A Mediaeval City — The Sienese —The Piazza — The Palio. I am at Siena, on my way to Rome, enjoying those idle days when one learns so much. I arrived by the railway from Florence, which, as if ashamed, folds itself up in a deep valley, and is almost invisible. How it ever got to Siena at all I hardly know. It is the one single mark the present century has been permitted to make there, and that only by way of visiting-card, well out- side the gates — otherwise we are entirely in the middle ages; our last news, what dress Bianca Capelio wore at the Florence ball, how insolent she was, and how angry the Grand Duchess Johanna looked; or the probable marriage of Marie de Medici with Henri Quatre, if the Pope will allow the divorce from Queen Margot. In- deed, it seems but a few years ago since Charles V, 14 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. presented a fine portrait of himself by Holbein, as a legacy to the Sienese citizens. Caesar Borgia, too, in his slashed velvet suit and fine Mechlin ruffles, how he swaggered about the Piazza, and in and out of the Palazzo Pubblico, ogling every pretty woman he saw — only he saw but few; for the Sienese all shut themselves up while he stayed, being alarmed by the fate of poor Ginevra, who was assassinated because she would not give up her lover, Ettore Fieramosca, to please him. Low enough now he lies, as well as his shameless old father — both gone to give account to the Archangel Gabriel of the poisons they concocted and the Romans they killed! There stands the stout old city which I know so well, unchanged since I first beheld it more years ago than I choose to own — unchanged since the days of the Triumvirate — crowning a pre- cipitous hill, or rather, many hills; the grand old walls, baked golden yellow by the suns of many centuries, running obstinately up hill and down dale, broken here and there by a cypress wood, or a huge church jutting out on a high promon- tory, or a castle with quaint towers, mullions, buttresses, and battlements along the sky-line. Always in the middle ages, we ignore the ex- istence of gunpowder as a gross affront to our DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 5 understandings, and deem these walls impreg- nable. Darkening the walls at intervals by deep shadows, rise lofty machicolated gates flanked by turrets, giant Cerberuses keeping watch, hostile and grim outwardly, but lit up within by richest frescoes of virgins and saints and angels, so that all who leave the city can see them hovering aloft, and say their passing Ave y and return thanks for having been preserved from falling headlong down those steep and dreadful sdruccioli (slides), which descend from the main streets into the bowels of the city with a precipitousness perfectly astounding to the constructive sense. You may enter Siena if you please by the Camollia Gate, where quite the other day the sons of Remus came riding up in an easy way from Rome, on finding that their uncle Romulus, though ostensibly remarkably civil, was planning for them an immediate descent into the Tartarean fields to join their father. The very conversation which roused the suspi- cions of these ingenuous youths is related in an old chronicle, together with all other particulars of their arrival at Siena; also telling how this same gate came to be called Camollia from their tutor Camillus, and how they lived and died here, 1 6 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. setting up the wolf of the Capitol as their badge at the corners of the street, as may be seen still to this day. Once past the gates, be the time day or night, hottest midday or wildest tramontana wind, the lofty cavernous streets engulf you. Every second building is a grim Gothic palace, with great shelving roof, solid rustic basement, much rich tracing and delicate handling about the arched windows and cornices, and wearing withal a certain noli me tangere look that even now keeps the citizen in his place, and teaches him how God, at the beginning, created noble and vile, and divided the ark accordingly. Nearly all the historic families of Rome, in- cluding the fugitive sons of Remus, trace the family cradle to Siena; and as each great family is “blessed” as the word is, by one or more popes, who enriched his kindred from the pennies of St. Peter, we have here splendid palaces of the Borghese, Chigi, Farnese, Orsini, and Piccolomini. The churches, with the cathedral (that noble ex- travagance in marble) at the head of the list, would fill a volume; not forgetting the great foun- tains sung by Dante, and the pictures representing the most mystic of the mediaeval schools. But DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I 7 enough: we will descend into the Piazza, the throbbing heart of the living city. Here we are in the midst of the republic of the middle ages. “Here,” says Dante, “is the great field where men live gloriously free, Siena’s Square,” scorning alike Guelph or Ghibelline, Pope or Kaiser; indignantly rejecting the Countess Matilda, her money and her troops; brutal to the Emperor Charles IV., who, coming here as the protector or tyrant of the Medici type, was torn by the outraged citizens bodily out of his palace, dragged into this square, placed in the centre, and (every aperture, door, and street being carefully blockaded by troops) left there alone until hunger and cold brought down his imperial stomach, and he was fain to run from group to group entreating to be let out — entreating, how- ever, in vain, until he promised to leave the city. Sure never was anointed emperor so treated! Neither did the Sienese long suffer the Span- iards under Charles V. Things were made so un- comfortable to this emperor that he could not stay. Against Caesar Borgia, too, they set up their backs. But times changed at last, when that traitor Pan- dolfo Petruccio, born of their own blood, sternly bridled them and broke their spirit, so that when the Marquis Marignano came with his great army, An Idle Woman in Italy. /. 2 I 8 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. sent by the Medici Grand Dukes, they were beaten and forced to bend their necks to the Florentine yoke. This Piazza, shaped like a bow one thousand feet round, is a perfect picture of a republican forum, where forty thousand men can stand at ease, and every man be seen and heard. On the short side of the bow is the public palace, an architectural episode of the thirteenth century, once red, now mellowed to a tawny grey, with stone cornice, quaint turrets, and fantastic gar- goyles; while in the midst rises that lovely tower ( della Mangio), tall and taper, crowned with a circlet of whitest stone. In and out, flocks of grey pigeons circle round and round, finding a home in those rich carvings, or beneath the old clock that looks out like an eye in the centre. Round the Piazza stretches a fringe of feudal palaces; while overhead, above the roofs, rise the cathedral dome and graceful campanile in stripes of black and white marble, those stripes being the arms of the city along with the wolf and cubs. In these days now passing, the Piazza has assumed the appearance of a Roman circus, and is lined with raised benches up to the first floors of the palaces, save on one side where the ground descends and mattresses cover the walls. It is the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I 9 race of the Palio — games held annually, and identified from the earliest times with Siena. During the Spanish rule they saw fit to alter the old fashion of the chariot-race, and inaugurated bull-fights; then the bull-fights lapsed into buffalo- fights, and finally settled down to what we are now about to see — horse-races. The city, from the earliest days, has been divided into contrade , or parishes. Each contrada has its special church, generally of great antiquity, and each contrada is named after some animal or natural object, these names being symbolical of certain trades or customs. There is the wolf, giraffe, owl, snail, tower, wave, goose, tortoise — in all seventeen. Each has its colours, heralds, pages, music, flags, all the mediaeval paraphernalia of republican sub- division. Moreover, each of these contrade is capable of committing forgery, murder, parricide, or any other atrocity, for the honour of its name and members. The close streets are really dangerous to traverse at this time. Each party pulls out its dagger, drinks, swaggers, swears, and fights on its own ground, and is ready to murder any one of an opposite faction with all the ferocity of belli- gerent states. To be the citizens of a common 2 20 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. city is nothing unless you belong to the same con - trada. French and English in the good old days were not more savagely opposed. Perhaps no city in Europe has preserved so unchanged these mediaeval feuds and customs. An offence was lately given by “the Wave” to “the Tower.” The Tower swore to have their blood, and a band of giovanotti came up out of a dark sdrucciolo (slide) descending from the Palazzo Pubblico, in order to hang about in ambush at the mouth of another dark and filthy alley; ready, should a “Wave” surge up on the common shore of the Piazza, to strike it down then and there. Poor Count Tolomei, the sindaco (mayor), a courtly noble, gentle to a fault, presents at these seasons the appearance of an ill-used man, who has neither slept nor eaten from excess of care. He shrugs his shoulders and casts up his eyes in pantomimic horror of the life he leads by reason of the murderous scum, who are so vicious that no police or military cares to follow them into their holes and dens, where they would rather prefer, on the whole, to cut a man’s throat. Each contrada runs a horse at the Palio, ridden by a fantino wearing the colours of the parish; and this horse and this fantino are the incarna- tion of the honour and glory, evil and good pas- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 1 sions, of its contrada. The enthusiasm is frantic, and the betting desperate. This is Wednesday, the 16th August, and we are glad it is come, for there have been rehearsals for four days, twice every day, and the din has been deafening. According to custom, flags have been tossed each day as high as the upper win- dows, in a kind of quaint dance or triumph, very gracefully executed by the pages of the contrade . Then, too, are drums beaten and trumpets sounded within each palace cor tile, to remind the noble marquis or my lord count — each of whom is “protector” of some contrade — that the Palio is at hand, and to intimate that a little ready cash will be joyfully received for the purchase of a swift and likely horse (an intimation the noble in question is very careful to comply with, if he de- sires to live peaceably at Siena). We are awakened to-day by the great bell of the Mangia tower and a complication of military music, approaching as nearly as possible to the confusion of Babel. Later come huge bouquets, borne by four pages in full mediaeval costume of rich satin, wearing plumed hats, and accompanied by drums. These bouquets are sent as acknow- ledgments to those nobles who have contributed to the Palio. The more popular the man, the 22 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. larger and choicer the bouquet, which is always accepted with much ceremony. At six o’clock, when the broiling August sun had somewhat worn itself out, a large company assembled on the great stone balcony of the Chigi Palace, every window on the immense fajade being decorated with magnificent red and yellow damask. All round the Piazza these gay trap- pings marked the lines of the windows, where in each feudal palace stood the living representatives of many historic names. An enormous crowd, some thirty thousand in number, gradually fills the Piazza, chattering, quarrelling, laughing, screaming. Every seat in the raised amphitheatre is soon taken; and the palace walls are lined as it were with humanity half-way up. Opposite, there are the noble youths of the Siena College — the Italian Oxford — in full even- ing dress; and the seminciristes (baby- priests), in blue and red sottane. In the centre of the Piazza there is a perfect field of Leghorn hats as big as carriage- wheels, and crops of common fans; for fans are carried by every single female down to mites of two years old, who successfully perform all accepted gyrations, and create a flutter as of ebbing waters. Bands of music break in from DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 $ time to time with soul-stirring tunes, such as ‘‘Garibaldi's Hymn" and “Out of Italy the Stranger." The rumbling of the drums in the different contrade sounds in the alleys and side streets, calling together the riders and the pro- cession. The gendarmes are mounted on fat old horses, which, being greatly tormented by the flies, kick and plunge viciously, and send their hoofs into the very faces of the staring populace. Gently and very slowly, with that courtesy natural to Tuscans, these gendarmes “clear the course;" the people gathering, like a flock of sheep, thicker and thicker into the centre. “Clear the course!" — do you understand this, gentle reader? Do you understand that the stones of the Piazza, the granite lastri , are “the course ?” Oh, ye grassy slopes of Ascot and of Derby, green with short clovery turf, cool fragrant carpets embroidered with the early daisy and fragrant violet, and many a gay buttercup and flaunting dandelion, figure to yourselves, in your luxuriant spring mantle, the hard smooth stones of this iron pavement! Why, look! there are two corners at the bend of the bow with lamp-posts, sharp as any dagger in the lowest contrada. There is another beyond just where they are to start, under the Delci Palace; past this, a slippery level; then another 24 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. corner, and a rapid descent. Sure, never was such a murderous course! Sure none but me- diaeval blockheads, going on the father- to-son principle, would risk their necks on such a suicidal venture — to say nothing of the poor little horses, dragged from the oozy soil of the forest- covered Maremma to break their slight legs on such a carrousel! Great excitement! The gendarmes, whose courtesy has been abused by some ill-educated roughs, sternly insist, with steadily-serried advance of six deep, on clearing the fatal course. Sienese notables at the club, rank and fashion in the palace balconies, are putting up opera-glasses and lorgnettes, and condescending to be amused. The little priests and the noble undergraduates, quite forgetting themselves, are evidently reprimanded sharply. Bells ring incessantly — the great Mangia bell, the audibly beating heart of the city, in long single strokes. The thirty thousand people be- come impatient; and the hoary palace and the big clock, its nether eye well turned on, keep ward over all. A cannon sounds, and from the Via Casato slowly emerges the procession — the first act in this new-old racing-card. The “Wave” contrada comes first — four flag-bearers and four pages in middle-age costume, red and white, the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 5 flag-bearers performing as they advance the gioco (game) of the flags; quaint and graceful move- ments, such as you may see figured in Monstrelet; the fantino, or jockey, on an unsaddled horse; the racer, on which he is to ride by-and-by fol- lowing, led by a page; in all ten different at- tendants for each contrada . The fantino always wears a striped surcoat, of the two colours of his contrada , with its symbolic image embroidered on his back in gold. Last of all comes the carrocciolo, embodying the visible republic, that formerly accompanied the troops to battle, and which, if taken or damaged, caused a terrible reproach and shame, such as the death of a great sovereign would now occasion. It is to our cynical eyes but a lumbering old cart, square and awkward, on which are grouped the flags of all the contrade in a fraternal union that never exists elsewhere. Military bands and soldiers follow, exciting the populace to madness, who frantically clap their hands. All these dramatis persona , including the carrocciolo, group themselves on an estrade in front of the public palace, and dispose themselves leisurely for enjoyment. If darkness can be felt, surely silence may, and we all felt the pause when every man and every woman drew their breath. Again the can- 26 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. non thunders, and gaily trotting out from under the dark palace gateway, fifteen little horses with fifteen party-coloured riders appear, and place themselves before a rope stretched across the course — a very necessary precaution, I assure you, for last year the horses pressed against and broke the cord with their chests (and a strong cord too), and floored five men and three horses dead in a heap on the stones. Now they are marshalled at the rope by a middle-aged gentleman in full evening dress — a queer contrast to the mediaeval jockeys. He shows extraordinary courage in placing the horses and dragooning the riders. He gives the signal like children — uno, due , /rIARY of an IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. temple dedicated to Juno Moneta was afterwards built on the foundations of the house of Manlius, where the archives of the city and the public treasury were preserved. And what was this mighty city that I sought to disinter from the darkness of the past, and to rebuild, standing alone in the Forum under the moon’s pale light? Within its precincts the dark ilex and cypress branches waved over altars, grot- toes, and tombs, in thirty-two sacred groves. Fourteen aqueducts once linked Rome with the Alban and Sabine Hills, drawing large rivers and softly-gushing mountain-springs to feed its foun- tains, palaces, and circuses. From the golden milestone in the Forum distances were measured, and roads extended over the whole of the then known world — the Appian, the regina viaruvi , passing through Naples to Brindisi, the Flaminian, the Aurelian, the Latin, ^Emilian, and Salarian Ways. Along those endless high roads, in sump- tuous palaces, under countless porticoes, in tem- ples and forums (of which Rome reckoned four- teen, each of surpassing magnificence), circuses, and baths, all monuments of the luxury, the power, and the civilisation of the mistress of the world, five millions of inhabitants circulated. Fifty-six public baths of unrivalled size and splendour DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I 75 served as a promenade and recreation to this luxurious people. Two immense amphitheatres and two circuses, each accommodating nearly one hundred thousand spectators, amused their idle hours. Five vast lakes for naval combats, thirty- six marble arches of triumph, nineteen public libraries, forty-eight obelisks, and a universe of marble, bronze, and stone statues, peopled the city with an elegant and refined splendour. Where now the desolate Campagna clasps the fallen city with a zone of sylvan beauty, buildings, streets, markets, temples, gardens, the environ- ments of an immense city, once appeared. The fatal beauty of this district tells a tale of former splendour, even after centuries of ruin. Rome once extended to Otricoli (a day’s journey distant), to Ostia (where the sea bore merchandise and riches to its shores), to Tivoli, and to Albano. Then came a cincture of enchanting villas, wealthy farms, and rich vineyards belonging to emperors and nobles, nestling in soft valleys, clothing the distant mountains with incredible fertility, and adorning even the remotest rural districts with monuments of rich and varied architecture. * *■ #■ * * I have been much struck to-day with the pen- 176 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. sive solitary beauty of the Villa Borghese, em- bosomed in its dark ilex woods, with a spreading pine here and there cutting the landscape, and giving a peculiar and classical character to the scene. The fountains breaking the long vistas through the woods have a charming effect, and are the only artificial feature in an essentially natural whole. Such views, too, towards Albano and Frascati, deepening with rich purple light, are never to be forgotten. The villa itself is a somewhat mean building for such extensive grounds, but rich in treasures of sculpture. I was delighted with the Apollo and Daphne of Bernini, one of the most lovely statues I ever beheld. The transformation of Daphne is given with marvellous truth. She is already enclosed within the trunk, which seems to be mounting, as it were, momentarily to her breast. Her hair has already thickened into leaves; the fingers are sprouting with wonderful truth; and her toes have turned earthwards in tiny, delicate, rooty fibres and strings. There is, too, a certain air of desperate satisfaction in her countenance as she feels her escape from Apollo insured; and yet she is, as it were, still flying on the wings of the wind, though only half animate. Apollo is by no means, to be compared with the nymph. There are many iy8 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. Extending from the Chapel of the Sacrament, towards the altar was a double file of soldiers, mixed with the grotesque Swiss guard stationed at intervals. It was an odd thing to see the military introduced fully armed in the very house of God, and argued a strange state of government, under which the Pope could not visit St. Peters in safety without their protection: but so goes the world at Rome. After a due proportion of wait- ing, Pius IX. appeared, surrounded by his ton- sured court, slowly advancing through the lines of military, who, presenting arms and falling on their knees, woke the deep echoes of the great building. I stood close to the temporary altar of crim- son velvet and gold where the Pope performed his devotions, and saw him admirably. He is a fat, benevolent, soft-looking man; his expression decidedly prepossessing, but at the same time essentially priestly. His hair is quite white, and he altogether looks older than I had expected. He was dressed principally in white, with a slight mixture of red. A priest, or page, held up his rather short petticoat behind and displayed his legs, which looked absurd. The cardinals and monsignori in red, and the canonici in puiple, also repeated their orisons. I thought them a DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I 79 singularly vulgar-looking set. After his Holiness had said his prayer, he rose and proceeded to the altar behind the central baldacchino . The apsis or choir had been elaborately decorated, and presented a gorgeous coup d’oeil. Hundreds of splendid glass candelabra were suspended from the top to the bottom of the walls; drapery covered all the intermediate space; while at cer- tain distances large pictures represented the not- able actions of the hero of the day. In the centre of the choir, immediately over St. Peter’s chair, in a gigantic gold frame, was displayed his portrait, illuminated from behind. I have seen the . Scala at Milan, and many other gorgeous opera- houses, but I never beheld one to compare with this, which resembled nothing else, however — the choir being the stage, and the Pope and cardinals the actors, with ourselves, the mighty mass of spectators, the audience. As a spectacle, it was beyond words splendid. Millions of candles light up the space now dimmed by the falling day. After the Pope has proclaimed from the altar the name, style, and title of the new beaiificato , which was duly re- corded on parchment borne by his attendants, he slowly withdrew, casting blessings around as he passed along, which were received, I thought, 12 l8o DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. with tolerable indifference. A small book was thrust into my hand, purporting to be a life of the new saint, a curiosity of superstition, contain- ing accounts of his supposed miracles, which I took the liberty not in the least to believe. I then went to look at the statue of St. Peter (alias Jupiter), and scarcely recognised my worthy friend in his holiday garb: he was arrayed in robes of crimson cloth of gold, draped regally about his sable person. The tiara, with its triple crown sparkling with jewels, adorned his head, and a ring of enormous size appeared on his finger. Whether in this guise the image looked most hideous or ludicrous it would be hard to say, but a more grossly grotesque object I never beheld. If it is not image-worship for the people to kneel down and kiss his toe, and pray before him, I know not what is. It was a grievous, shameful sight, that grim idol, decked out like a frightful black doll, to be kissed and adored! The view from the Capitol gives one in five minutes a clear idea of ancient Rome. As a view it is varied and beautiful, more picturesque than any other in the city. The seven hills, to com- mon, ignorant souls like myself, are all myths; for hills there are none, except the Quirinal, Coelian, and Pincian, with the little mound on which the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. l8l Capitol stands. But how many things one sees in Rome that are respectable only for their names ! The Tarpeian Rock, for instance, is a very dis- appointing place, a mere garden on a shelf of hillside, from which one looks down into a mean little court surrounded by poor houses. I don’t see why this spot is particularly to be fixed on more than any other portion of the rock on which the Capitol stands: the people of the garden of course are positive on the subject, as it brings the quattrini . Then the clamorous little beggars, and the steps down into the Piazza on the Capitol — how steep, dirty, and disagreeable! All the world knows the thing in the Museum is the Dying Gladiator — a most wonderful statue indeed; the very life seems ebbing out of the marble — actually dying, and grieving over ap- proaching death. It has more expression than the Apollo, that being a spiritualised statue of a god — this a mortal man, full of the passions and sufferings of humanity. A bust of Julian the Apostate struck me vastly, as bearing just the restless, cunning, unsympathetic countenance I should have fancied; yet with this cunning and restlessness is blended a strange look of dignity, for he, too, was a nephew of the great Flavian. There also is a horrid statue of the Infant Her- 1 82 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. cules, a swollen, puffy abortion, like an Indian Idol — in green bronze too! An old beggar came limping in, although the custode would fain have excluded him; also a Roman contadina, who frankly confessed, “Ma guar do e guar do, ma poi non vedo nienteP She and her companion soon settled down in deep contemplation of a much mutilated bronze horse, excavated from some part of the city near where they lived, which pleased them far more than all the rest. They hung about the custode like bees around honey, and he made himself great in their ignorance. There are some charming pictures on the op- posite side of the building. Guercino’s “ Sibylla Persica” is here; also a splendid picture by him — the “Glorification of Santa Petronella,” warm, rich, and Venetian. Some wonderful works of Garofalo’s, too, an artist one can only know at Ferrara and Rome, who unites the grander colour- ing of the Venetian to the conception and draw- ing of the Tuscan school. The more I see of his works, the more I admire them. The Paul Veroneses are fine also, and placed so that they can be seen, which is an advantage wanting in some of his best works at Venice, where, from the bad light in the churches, they are nearly invisible. 184 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. and a priest under a dirty umbrella, going to ad- minister extreme unction to a dying person. Down dropped all the people on their knees. Among the crowd were some gentlemen, who took especial care to cleanse their nether gar- ments afterwards with handkerchiefs. A long, flat drive brought us to the church, which outside makes no particular show, standing as it does so badly; but, on entering, what words can describe my astonishment at its stupendous size and splendour? The marble columns of the nave, placed like those in Santa Maria Maggiore in the true basilica style, are surpassing in beauty, size, and proportion, melting into the distance most harmoniously. Over the apsis and tribune are superb mosaics, fresh and gorgeous, and ex- ceeding in beauty even those of San Marco at Venice. The light, too, here falls on them so well. I say nothing of the marble, the Egyptian alabaster, and the malachite all round. One gets used to these material displays of magnificence. Under the altar has ever been the traditionary burial-place of St. Paul; but how his body can be here and at St. Peter’s , and his head at the Lateran, I leave for Catholics to determine. A miracle, I presume, will settle the question. This convent is so dreadfully exposed to the influences DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 83 The whole drive to San Paolo fuori le Mura is deeply interesting. After threading dozens of labyrinth-like streets, the road all at once emerges on the broad, majestic Tiber. (N. B. I am fresh from Florence and the Arno.) To the right stands the graceful little temple of Vesta, chased and refined in aspect, as her temple should be. Be- low is another ancient temple, that of Fortuna Virilis, which the guide-books extol, but which I could not help thinking heavy and clumsy. Then there is the Ponte Rotto, now a spruce iron bridge. Standing on this bridge, one sees to the right the island of the Tiber, with two ugly old Roman bridges, dear in the eyes of antiquarians, connecting it with the town on either side, which rises in domes and campaniles, and piles of quaint old buildings along the river-side. Beyond the temple of Vesta is the church of the Bocca della Verita, so called from an old masque of Pan with an open mouth, into which the fingers of any one suspected of falsehood were intro- duced, in the belief that the stone lips would close on them if the person lied. It was a temple dedicated to Ceres, and is now surmounted by a fine Gothic campanile in galleries. Behind, the scene is closed by a high hill backing all. A proces- sion issued out of the church, with lighted tapers, 184 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. and a priest under a dirty umbrella, going to ad- minister extreme unction to a dying person. Down dropped all the people on their knees. Among the crowd were some gentlemen, who took especial care to cleanse their nether gar- ments afterwards with handkerchiefs. A long, flat drive brought us to the church, which outside makes no particular show, standing as it does so badly; but, on entering, what words can describe my astonishment at its stupendous size and splendour? The marble columns of the nave, placed like those in Santa Maria Maggiore in the true basilica style, are surpassing in beauty, size, and proportion, melting into the distance most harmoniously. Over the apsis and tribune are superb mosaics, fresh and gorgeous, and ex- ceeding in beauty even those of San Marco at Venice. The light, too, here falls on them so well. I say nothing of the marble, the Egyptian alabaster, and the malachite all round. One gets used to these material displays of magnificence. Under the altar has ever been the traditionary burial-place of St. Paul; but how his body can be here and at St. Peter’s , and his head at the Lateran, I leave for Catholics to determine. A miracle, I presume, will settle the question. This convent is so dreadfully exposed to the influences * ' DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 85 of malaria that the monks can only reside here for six months in the year. They had just re- turned when I went there. As we returned to Rome we entered it by the fine old gate of San Paolo. There is a splendid old bit of wall too, with high ruined turrets, like an enchanter’s castle, — to what age belonging I have no idea. I never volunteer any description of the Roman walls, although, as antiquarians are so uncertain about them, I might as well venture my opinion. The Pyramid of Caius Cestius close by is as ugly as any other pyramid. 1 86 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. CHAPTER IX. The Portrait of the Cenci — The Ruins of the Palace of the Caesars, and Sermon at the Coliseum — Rospigliosi Palace — Churches of the Trastevere and Corsini Palace — Solemn Benediction at San Gre- gorio — Colonna Palace , Gardens , and Ruins — The Conservatorio Rooms at the Capitol— Church of Ara Cceli — Villa Lodovisi. Not one of the innumerable copies gives any idea of the pensive, supplicating look of the Barberini Cenci, that sweetest and prettiest of all Guido's heads. She looks into one's face with an expression full of plaintive anxiety, as if ex- cusing her dreadful crime, and imploring pity and love in a way that quite brings tears into one's eyes. The painting bears evidence of having been finished in haste, particularly the back- ground, which gives it an additional air of reality. A portrait, said to be of her mother-in-law, hangs beside her — a hard, brazen-faced Italian dame, redolent of intrigue. Then there is Raphael's “ Slave" close by; a charming picture, full of effect, but not of his usual effect — more like a Murillo or a Titian — the dress Eastern and pic- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 87 turesque. She is a fair beauty, while by her side hangs the naked portrait of his own Fornarina, with a bracelet bearing his name on her bare arm — a bold, staring thing, with vicious eyes look- ing out of their corners at one — as a painting, infinitely inferior to that divine portrait of her in the Tribune at Florence, where the same face and form are transformed into a Juno of majesty and beauty. All these treasures are in one small whitewashed room. Indeed, the whole “gallery” is contained in two rooms. In the second are pretty things of Albano’s, representing Diana, &c.; but I grow weary of his affectation. It is impossible to imagine such a confused mass of ruins as the so-called Palace of the Caesars on the Palatine Hill. I felt disgusted with myself for not being able to make anything out until I saw that Eustace says it is impossible. Great shape- less walls, ugly and unpicturesque, with deep sub- terranean supports, in the way to underground passages and chambers, are all one sees after mounting a number of steps to a platform laid out as a market-garden. The view is alone worth the trouble, with the Coliseum close in front, and the Baths of Caracalla on the Aventine Hill op- posite. Ruins in the midst of ruins, which, seen near, are but wretched skeletons, though impos- 1 88 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. in g at a certain distance. The way up to the Palace of the Caesars is through a narrow door in a row of stables. Madame Besan^on, the Florence milliner, was flaunting about the ruins with a party of young French grisettes. Next day, the 4th of December, was beauti- ful. I went down to the Forum, and, entering the large gate on the right-hand side, under the Palatine (on the opposite side by which I had mounted yesterday), ascended by a fine double flight of steps to a balustraded terrace on a level with the Palace of the Caesars; in fact, a portion of the same ruins. Ruins, ruins, nothing but ruins, of no shape or form, but absolutely frag- ments. Where stood the house of Tiberius (said to have been in this direction, but which he could have but little inhabited, never remaining long in Rome) is now a peaceful lettuce-garden, terminat- ing on the brow of the hill in a pretty thicket of ilex, waving in the breeze like a crown of clas- sical laurels. In the centre of the garden are the so-called Baths of Livia, a subterraneous apart- ment to which I descended by a flight of steps, which the guide lit with torches. There are two small lofty ante-rooms, and then the bath, a well- proportioned apartment of small dimensions, with slight remains of having been faced with marble DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 89 and ornamented with frescoes. The bath itself is only large enough for one person; the ceiling above is arched. No light, of course, comes from without, the whole being underground. I confess I felt the place stuffy and unpleasant, and was but little interested. I suppose I am wanting in archaeological proclivities, for these antiquities simply bore me; so much so, indeed, that I did not even care to inspect the excavations more recently made by the Emperor of the French. Afterwards I went to the Coliseum, it being Friday, to hear the usual sermon delivered there. In a rustic wooden pulpit, raised against the inner wall, stood a tonsured monk, dressed in brown, with a cord round his waist, who preached in Italian. Around him was grouped a numerous auditory. Beside the pulpit leant another monk, and below, several members of a confraternity , their faces completely covered, with only apertures for the eyes and mouth, dressed in light drab stuff. Up and down the central walk sauntered some English strangers. A group of Roman women, with their picturesque linen head-dresses and red petticoats, placed themselves in attitudes full of unaffected grace about the steps of the large crucifix in the centre. The preacher, in a fine sonorous voice, addressed himself directly to I9O DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN'IN ITALY. the audience, discoursed of heaven and hell, and reminded them every word and action was re- corded by the avenging angel, and that the Christ suspended by his side in the pulpit, on coming a second time, would judge, not pardon sinners. It was a scene for a painter. The sun shone brightly, and the blue sky peeped through the arches above. In this vast amphitheatre, which had once rung with cries of “The Christians to the beasts !” that same Christ whom they adored is now pro- claimed by the voice of a humble monk, while around lie the ruined temples of the gods with scarce one stone upon another! There was a great silence; no one spoke but in whispers, for every soul united in the universal, all-powerful feelings of the moment. Whatever might be the difference of creed, here was our common Lord, our common Saviour, our universal Judge! To-day (December 10th) I visited the Rospi- gliosi Palace, situated within a large cor tile on Monte Cavallo, planted with dwarf acacias. It is of immense size, more like a huge hospital than a private residence. The porter had great difficulty in preventing our paying a bond-fide visit to the princess in our earnestness to discover the carte LiVlViyjlVljVf'VJl MJl UJJ Ui> UM UM UM (Jjl Ou Ojl Um Cl DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. igi du pays; but at last we were set right, and, turn- ing to the left, ascended a flight of steps leading into a small but beautiful and highly- cultivated garden, full of orange trees and delicious roses, and great heaps of mignonette. In the central room of the Casino, at the extremity of the garden, is the celebrated “ Aurora,” of which no copy can possibly render with justice the original. But why paint those exquisite masterpieces on ceilings, where one breaks one’s neck looking up, and then never sees them properly after all? There is the same difficulty in the Sistine Chapel, where Michel Angelo’s wonderful frescoes are comparatively lost from the position. Really it is barbarous. But here, the loveliness of the Hours who can tell? — loveliness for every taste — features in every mould of beauty. Not less lovely is the back of one delicious head with exquisitely fair braided hair blown by the winds, which seems to flutter as though one heard the whistling breeze sweeping high up among the great mountain clouds. But really such an ugly he among such heaven- born she f s is too bad. I must unconditionally quarrel with Phoebus, who has a most inexpressive face, something like a shaved woman! which I account for by the fact that Guido, from a con- I92 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. stant habit of painting women, could not adapt his soft pencil to the manly conceptions of a Titian or a Vandyke. Moreover, the hair of the god of day is so light that it might pass for grey. But away with criticism; it is an immortal work, and Aurora really does look so flying on the ambient air, one fancies each moment she will glide away and disappear like the bright vision of a rainbow. Her face is of a bold, decided cast, wanting the delicate loveliness of the attendant Hours — her action grand and majestic as she cleaves the air in her course with all the bearing of a goddess. Her saffron robe, rounded by the breeze, harmonises grandly with the golden clouds behind her, as though she too were clothed with no meaner garment than the gorgeous vapour. Still, one regrets that her figure should be so pressed against the edge of the picture, thus curtailing the effect that would have been insured by a greater height of background. The principal figure is thus, on a first glance, but a secondary object, and it is only after some moments, when time allows one to concentrate in some degree the admiring confusion of a first view into a steady gaze, that one contemplates her with sufficient at- tention. The bold shading of the horses is masterly; they actually appear as if rising from DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 93 the ceiling, so admirably are the bright lights thrown in. The exquisite landscape under the clouds is not the least striking portion of the whole. There is a sea with white lateen sails dotted about here and there, bordered by mountains of the deepest Mediterranean blue. I could believe I was gazing on some lovely “bit” in the Corniche Road be- tween Nice and Genoa, much diminished by distance, the colouring and outline are so to the very life. To the left comes a charming little touch of landscape, with dark outlying trees, sug- gestive of the deep mysteries of some pine forest. It reminded me a little of that most wonderful of all landscapes forming the background of Raphael's “Vision of Ezekiel” at Florence, breath- ing the very essence of that motionless, silent re- pose spread over all nature at mid-day, when dreams and visions arise in these burning latitudes. The room was crowded with copyists — vain labour to endeavour to reproduce forms and shades struck off in the happiest furore of genius when engaged in a task peculiarly sympathetic! Guido himself could never have copied that fresco, of which every touch was an inspiration. There are some very interesting pictures in the adjoining rooms. In the left-hand room, some An Idle Woman in Italy . I. 13 194 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. fine heads by Rubens, who is always grand when he is not gross; and a curious portrait of Poussin, by himself, who, true even here to the deep green shades distinguishing his landscapes, has sacrificed his vanity in order to represent his face and person of the favourite tint, and appears, in consequence, a very livid, unearthly individual. Here, too, is Guido's famous “Andromeda,” which, I confess, disappointed me, simply because the copies ex- actly resemble it; indeed, they are, barring the originality, quite as good. Her attitude is affected, like the Andromeda of a ballet; the sea is a vast mass, “without form and void;” and the monster is not nearly horrible enough for the occasion. The only one of the dramatis persona I like is Perseus, who really is flying down from above in good earnest. The “Triumph of David,” by Domenichino, tells a sad tale of the decline of art, being quite of “the silver age,” as Gibson called it. I was vastly pleased with the “Death of Samson,” by Caracci, in the opposite room — a grand picture, though deficient in colouring. The long arcade of the portico losing its pillared distance in the background — the prostrate figures in front howling, open-mouthed, in agony — the statue of the pagan god still erect and untouched by the falling columns — Samson himself, with up- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 95 turned sightless eyes, sinking down overcome by his gigantic effort — beyond, and seen under the arches, the banquet where Delilah is seated, who raises her hands while the other Philistines rise in horror — brings the whole drama vividly before one. Indeed, the sensation is that of giddiness, for all about seems falling also along with that great portico. High up and ill seen is one of the loveliest of Albano’s pictures — “Diana and Endymion,” gazing at each other from opposite sides of a river; be- yond is a wood, an Italian wood, black and shady, while here and there, among the trees, bright silver lights appear like gleams of crystal. No earthly lights seem these, but rays from the goddess herself, playing around her ere she sinks to rest, and under her crescent symbol “sleeps with Endymion.” The Via Appia, or Street of Tombs, is one of the grandest sights in Rome — an appropriate and affecting approach to the gates of the fallen mistress of the world; like her, in absolute ruin, but majestic in decay. Much as I had read and seen of this approach, the solemn reality far exceeded my ex- pectations. Extending in a straight line from the tomb of Cecilia Metella, the long vista of ruins stretches for miles over the desolate Campagna; 196 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. stones, towers, monuments, shapeless masses, lie piled on each side, forming an avenue of ruin im- possible to conceive. Beneath is the original Roman pavement, and very bad and rough it is. Then there is such an enchanting view of Rome and its ancient walls, the aqueducts stretching across the plain for miles and miles beyond the Apennines, ending in Mount Soracte, shaded in every colour from purple to pale yellowish pink. In front lies Frascati, nestled in the folds of the mountains, and dotted with forests and villages; above is Albano; while around extends the long level line of the Campagna, that earthen Dead Sea — calm, immovable, interminable, and looking equally accursed. Yesterday I made a tour in the Trastevere, lying beyond St. Peter’s, under the Janiculum. It is not in the least like Rome, but has a peculiar, indescribable look of its own. The principal streets are long, broad, and straight, while some of the smaller and more distant quarters are dangerously solitary. High up to the right, on the top of a steep ascent, stands the church of San Onofrio, with its surrounding colonnade. There is a vene- rable yet romantic look about the place which is very pleasing, and the view of Rome from the terrace before the entrance is quite magnificent — DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 97 grander far than from the Capitol. I think imagina- tion run wild could scarcely conjure up a more varied and magnificent panorama. Beside the church is a solitary garden planted with solemn old pine trees, where it is said Tasso, after his escape from Ferrara, loved to roam. At present it is remarkable as the spot for viewing St. Peter’s, standing below in all its vast propor- tions. The church of San Onofrio is in itself small and insignificant, save for its antiquated air. In the tribune are some lovely frescoes by Peruzzi. Most particularly beautiful is one in the centre, representing the Virgin and our Saviour enthroned. They are surrounded by a circle of deep blue clouds; her robe is of the same tint, also the mantle around the Christ, relieved below by the delicate pink of his other drapery. This deep blue is full of character, mysterious and grand. Above are frescoes by Pinturicchio — angels dancing and playing on instruments — all of surpassing grace; while above, under the form of an old man with outstretched arms, appears “The Eternal.” Here, too, is a charming dewy Correggio, besides some other good frescoes. The tomb of Tasso is surmounted by a mean profile likeness in oils, set in a medallion — a miserable daub, which the friars themselves say is no likeness. This tomb is a 1 gS DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY* disgrace to Rome. In death as in life, Tasso seems fated to neglect and contumely, and whilst Ariosto and Dante boast the proudest monuments, he alone is left without a fitting memorial. The frescoes of Domenichino outside the church, under a colonnade, are faded and poor. Santa Maria in Trastevere, a grand basilica, stands in a piazza, with a piazza’s usual accompani- ment — a lovely fountain. There are some curious frescoes outside, of the twelfth century — the Virgin on her throne, with female saints on either side, crowned and bearing basins streaked with blood, marking them as having been martyrs. The interior is solemn and sombre, and of fine pro- portions, consisting of parallel rows of columns up the nave, great single blocks, with a high entablature above. There was an excessive air of devotion among the people present, who looked savagely at an intruder, while a sulky old sacristano would not give me any information — a rare thing in polite Italy. The apsis is considerably raised, on steps; around are many curious old monuments; every- thing, indeed, looks as antique as if no one had touched the place since the time of its founder, Julius I., in 340. It is said to have been the first church where service was ever performed. Num- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 99 bers of popes have restored and embellished it. Over the apsis are some fine mosaics — Christ and the Virgin enthroned, in the Romanesque style, which makes their relative position very remark- able; then there are popes, apostles, and prophets a V ordinaire. Kugler says, “The release from the trammels of the Byzantine school is here apparent, and they may be considered the first purely Western work of a higher order produced by Italian art.” I call this a terrible church. It quite frightened me, it looked altogether so stern. I wouldn't sleep in it for the fortune of Torlonia. I am sure the martyrs walk about with their heads under their arms. There is an elegant chapel designed by Domenichino, with an angel on the ceiling which he has left unfinished. All that brings one face to face with these great masters in “their habit as they lived” is interesting. Santa Maria dell' Orto is situated in an out- of-the-way corner, between high walls with palm trees and oranges peeping over — a very con- venient place to be robbed in. I had immense difficulty in getting in, as the sacristano is deaf, and had gone aloft to wind the clock up. His daughter, a slatternly young damsel in slipshod shoes, called and screamed, “Papa, papa!” to 200 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. every note in the gamut, for a long time address- ing only empty air. At last, when the clock was wound, down came the old man, and the door was opened. This is a beautiful church, quite a small St. Peter's, covered in the same style with the most precious marbles, and designed by Giulio Romano in admirable taste. One cannot say if it be large or small, so perfect are the pro- portions — quite a gem of architecture. It is called Dell' Orto from a miraculous picture behind the altar, found in a garden, the spot being marked by a stone, with an inscription, in the centre of the church. How strange to find such a shrine hid in an obscure forsaken corner — the cloisters too, occupied as a manufactory of tobacco! I next drove to Santa Cecilia, built on what was the house of that interesting personage; standing back from the street, in a large cor tile — a low, quaint old building, something like a barn decorated with columns. Her life, under Catholic handling, has become a pretty legend. In extreme youth she was converted to Chris- tianity, but, notwithstanding, was forced to marry a pagan. A vow of chastity prevented her consenting to live with him as a wife, which her husband much resented showing his displeasure by conduct marked by savage bru- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 201 tality. But her sweetness and resignation over- came him, and he learnt to respect without under- standing her. At this period he was visited with a dream. He imagined he was in heaven, where his hands were joined to those of his wife by angels, who crowned them both with roses and lilies. His brother Tiberius, entering his apart- ment soon after, asked from whence came the delicious odour of flowers he perceived. So great an impression was made on them both by this circumstance, added to Cecilia’s entreaties, that they became Christians. The prefect of Rome soon discovered their altered sentiments, condemned St. Cecilia to be stifled in her bath, and her husband and brother- in-law to be decapitated. In a side chapel is shown the identical bath where she was con- demned to suffer martyrdom. It has evidently been an ancient bath-room, and is exceedingly curious. There are still the remains of the leaden pipes, and the spaces and holes round the walls for the evaporation of the steam. This dates back as early as a.d. 230, she having been among the early martyrs. But the beauty of beauties is her monument under the high-altar, sculptured by Maderno, an 202 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. artist who assisted Bernini in his additions to San Pietro. The saint is lying as in an open coffin, precisely as her remains were found when, after miraculously escaping death by suffocation, she was beheaded. The face is turned away, giving a sweet curve to the neck, a little band encircling it so as to conceal the severance; the body, deli- cately small and fragile; the pretty feet bare — all, as it were, twisted into a strange form, as if flung negligently into the grave. The body is covered with grave-clothes, save only the head and neck; the former is wrapped round with a cloth. To give an idea of the affecting and exquisite beauty, the deadness of the whole figure, is impossible. I could have gazed upon it for hours. St. Cecilia, as patroness of music, is all-glori- ous in Raphael's divine picture at Bologna — young, fresh, glowing, her face upturned with an inspired look, while in her hands are the keys of an organ: a most sweet saint. Nuns inhabit the convent opening from the church. They live under the strictest rules. They never are to be seen, but fly from gazers, and sing in a gallery surrounding the church behind a gilded screen. Many of them (the female cus- tode said) are young and beautiful. I could not conclude my tour in the Trastevere DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 203 without a visit to a magnificent edifice, the Cor- sini Palace, whose only fault is its situation. Still, such a building lends dignity even to a suburb. The carriage enters a double cortile surrounded by pillars, open on one side to the garden, ascending the steep side of the Janiculum, which rises abruptly behind. One is deposited at the foot of the great staircase, which, after the first flight, divides majestically, and so mounts to the upper story, producing a noble effect. On the first-floor is the gallery, entered through a fine large hall, where the different doorways are screened with the Corsini arms, richly embroidered on red velvet. The gallery is immense, consist- ing of at least ten large rooms filled with pictures; but, on the whole, not an interesting collection. There is a great deal of trash, and too little variety; especially an over-abundance of enamelled, affected Carlo Dolces and mantire Carlo Marattas — the latter especially, all as like “as two peas,” for one sees his wife's face in every picture, always turned the same way, and with the same head- drapery. Both these painters belong to the second or silver age in painting, after the pure gold of Raphael, Titian, and the elder masters had been exhausted. There is one fine dewy Carlo Dolce — a Virgin and Child, much superior to many 204 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. other of his works here. The Corsini appear to revel in a perfect indigestion of Carlo Dolces, for the gallery of their Florence place is also full of his pictures. There is his celebrated “Head of Poetry,” which, truth to say, looks ill, thin, and languid, to my mind, afflicted also with rather weak eyes. But to return: here are some fine Guercinos, specially a head of Christ crowned with thorns — horribly beautiful — some bluish Caraccis, and some pale, inexpressive Guidos. Strange that an artist who could paint so divinely should con- descend to produce such meagre shadows as these. Never did genius display a greater in- equality. Among a multitude of uninteresting and feeble landscapes are some interesting ones by Poussin and Salvator Rosa. A number, too, of Dutch pictures are here — Boths, Berghems, &c. But I hate this low-life school at all times, and most of all in dear, romantic, poetic Italy, where such a style is an abomination. There is a fine portrait of Philip II., our bloody Mary's pale, lean tyrant, by Titian, and others of great interest and immense value as paintings by Albert Durer, Vandyke, Rubens, &c. Two pictures by the latter are especially fine, showing how well he could paint when not indulging in exaggeration DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 05 and coarseness. Luther and his wife are curious as portraits. She is hideous, which makes his marriage all the more pardonable, as he never, most assuredly, induced her to break her vows for the sake of her beauty. Luther is a fat, jolly friar, with a double chin, a vulgar face, and stupid expression. The so-called gem of the collection is a Murillo — a very ugly Virgin (more than com- monly homely and uninteresting even for him) sitting with the Infant Saviour against a sun-baked wall. The colouring is superb, but the subject — the lay figure — atrocious. What kings and princes are these Corsini, to possess two such palaces, one darkening the Lung Arno at Florence, with a superb gallery of paintings also; and this overgrown, monstrously fine place at Rome, with dozens of splendid villas in Tuscany and Romagna to boot! The other day I went to the church of St. Gregory the Great, to see a certain abbot-elect of some place in England solemnly blessed by Car- dinal A ; a grand affair, to which one was admitted by printed invitations, as if it had been a ball. The morning of the ceremony was one of the very worst of the year — a pouring rain, such as 206 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. Rome only can boast — rivers ran down the streets, and water-spouts poured from the heavens. The church of St. Gregory, beyond the Coliseum, is situated in the worst part of the city in point of roads. The carriage sank down in the soft mud, and the horses scrambled over the ancient Roman way under the arch of Titus, as if they intended to lose their legs and deposit us there in the shape of modern ruins. Despite the weather, however, a number of carriages were already as- sembled at the foot of the handsome flight of steps on which stands the church, in a quiet, se- questered corner near some public gardens, whose groves afford a pleasant shade in a fine day, and enliven a somewhat gloomy position. It is not a large building, and I was disappointed to find the interior entirely modernised. Monsignore T received us near the door, and placed us in an excellent position close by the altar. Car- dinal A soon advanced within the rails, and the organ pealed forth. The robed priests were all at the altar, and such a rustling of silks, and satins, and embroideries — such a display of lace and fine linen never could have been conceived out of a milliner’s shop. The abbot-elect un- dressed until one became positively alarmed at the probable consequences, and I irreverently DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 20 J thought of the clown at Astley’s; but, as in the case of that personage, the contingency had been duly provided against; and, much as was taken off, still more remained behind. The poor man must have narrowly escaped suffocation in his original state. As to the cardinal, he peeled re- peatedly in the course of the morning, and underwent the most marvellous transformations. He began in black, changed into red, and finally came out very splendid in purple. How all this was managed I cannot say; I can only vouch for the fact. He looked remarkably well in the last dress, with a scarlet cap — like an old Venetian picture by Tintoretto; and nothing could be more dignified and appropriate than his appearance as he sat enthroned in a great gilt arm-chair, under the temporary canopy of crimson velvet erected for him. One fat Benedictine monk in attendance on him nearly underwent strangulation in the process of dressing. He could not get into his clothes on any terms, and performed agonising gymnastics, which caused him to look very red in the face all the morning afterwards. Then others could not find the strings to tie on their vestments, and left them hanging down behind on the black sottane like untidy schoolboys. Alto- gether there was no end of confusion. 2oS DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I never was present at so wearisome a cere- mony. It lasted five entire hours. I never saw, even in Rome, such walking about, and such extra bowing, and the same things done over and over again, as if for a penance — and a real penance it was in good truth to me, heretic as I am! The abbot-elect paraded backwards and for- wards within the rails and without the rails twenty times, and put his mitre on and took it off until I actually got giddy. There was a regular ecclesiastical prompter, or mas- ter of the ceremonies, who kept everybody in order, making the funniest little nods and sub- dued gestures, like a well-behaved Neapolitan, as he marshalled them when to sit and when to stand, and if the eternal mitre was or was not to be worn. The abbot- elect (poor man, how I pitied him!) lay flat and prostrate on the steps of the altar for nearly an hour, while the seven penitential psalms were chanted over him. When he got up he looked as if he had but just escaped apoplexy. It was an immense relief when all this tiresome ceremonial was over. The Palazzo Colonna, like a true Roman house, looks nothing at all from the street; indeed, I am pretty sure that a row of shops are erected in front — stables there are certainly, and a church DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 20Q pushed violently up into one corner. Over this odd medley of buildings are fixed the stemma or armorial bearings of the great Colonna. On entering a vast cot' tile the enormous size of the palazzo appears; still, all jumbled together, and without any regular facade, masses of wall run in all directions, and open into inner courts and all sorts of wonderful places, covering an immense space of ground. Half of the piano-nobile , or first-floor, is occupied by the French Embassy; the other half is dedicated to the family and their pictures; and, as both these suites are re- spectively the finest in Rome, the extent of the whole palace may be imagined. Below, on the ground- floor, was the studio of that charming painter, the Professore Minardi, as well as a mili- tary barrack; above, al secondo , are the private apartments of the Colonna family; so altogether it is much like a Noah's ark in point of variety. Between the French ambassador and the picture- gallery one common stair is used, leading into a general ante-room of great size, where the numerous doors are all alike covered with tapestry, so that it would be a very pardonable mistake if one walked direct into the presence of the French- man. Chance, however, directed my steps aright. The first two rooms are hung with old tapestry; An Idle Woman in Italy. /. 1 4 210 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. then begin the pictures, of which there is a most pleasing, but not an extensive, collection. In the first room are two landscapes byAlbano, remark- able rather for size than beauty; and a Holy Fa- mily, by Giulio Romano, where the rich colouring recalls the Venetian school, while the admirable grouping reminds one of the disciple and admirer of Raphael. Here, too, is a beautiful Paul Veronese, bright, living, glowing. Portraits there are by Titian and Tintoretto, and Heaven only knows how many more. But who can tarry in these chambers with that glorious sala beyond, the finest room in all Rome, brilliant with frescoes, paintings, mirrors, chandeliers, statues, marbles, ivory, and gilding, all blending in one great glowing whole, charming and astonishing the be- wildered gaze? It was built by one of the family, a great general, who, after a victory gained for the Venetians, as if the palace were not al- ready immense enough, added this sumptuous gallery. Truly these Italian nobles are lodged like kings of the earth. Palatial architecture cannot be con- ceived out of Italy. I remembered the words of Gibbon as my eye swept down the gorgeous space, when speaking of the family residences of the Roman princes “as the most costly monuments of DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 I I elegance and servitude; the perfect arts of archi- tecture, painting, and sculpture having been pro- stituted in their service, and their galleries and gardens decorated with the most precious works of antiquity which taste and vanity have prompted them to collect.” To be sure, this regal pile was raised by Pope Martin V., who, with a proper portion of that family pride for which popes are famous, wished to commemorate his reign by erecting a palatial residence; for those were days when popes were vastly pushed about and irre- verently elbowed, and kept on the trot from Avignon to Rome, with an occasional flight into Spain, by way of change. Martin did, however, remain quietly in the Eternal City after the Coun- cil of Constance, and lived to finish this prize palace. The gallery is more than two hundred and twenty feet long, terminating at the further end in a sort of tribune supported by vast columns, and raised on steps. Within this holy of holies, in aristocratic exclusiveness, are two beautiful Venuses by Bronzino, whom the extreme delicacy of the present prince has caused to be draped with an ill-assorted garment painted in water- colours, and therefore removable. This dressmak- ing spoils two fine pictures entirely. It would 14* 212 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. take pages to enumerate half the pictures and sculptures in this gallery. One fine portrait of the poetess Vittoria Colonna is very interesting; and another by Vandyke, of some family hero on horse- back, striking and noble. As to the statues, I am grown difficult after the Vatican and the Capitol, and did not look at them. The thing is the superb gallery itself, the ensemble intoxicating the eye by a perfect harmony of colour, luxury, size, and grandeur. One of the marble steps is broken by a cannon-ball that penetrated the wall at the time of the revolution and siege. Prince Colonna has never allowed it to be repaired, and so it stands as a memento mori. From a window at the end of the gallery I entered the gardens which occupy the site of the baths of Constantine, on the steep ascent of the Quirinal, and the spot where those splendid horses were dug up that now ornament the beautiful fountain opposite the Pope’s summer palace. Very picturesque gardens they are, ascend- ing by double flights of steps through alleys of box and bay, along the margin of trickling streams and gushing fountains, to the hill above, where, from a grand terrace, one looks over Rome. On this terrace are some gigantic fragments and capitals, said to have formed part of a Temple of the Sun erected by the Emperor Aurelian. Near DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 I 3 by, and looking down a place much like the bot- tomless pit, are some curious remains of baths, now used as a granary, but, like all other classical ruins, vague and indefinite. I poked my head down through an aperture into a deep vault of arched caverns, and I said, “Very curious !” “Dear me, how wonderful!” without a notion why, or understanding in the least what I was looking at. Behind the terrace is a garden, not quite so ill kept as are Italian parterres in general. Great orange trees, loaded with fresh fruit, flung back the rays of the setting sun opposite, making one happy by the notion of having suddenly leaped into summer; for in these secluded nooks, embosomed in ilex and bay, within great orchards of the orange and the lemon, not a vestige reminds one of the course of the seasons, and a perennial summer reigns. We passed down a long covered berceau , and out through an iron gate opening on the Quirinal Hill opposite the Rospigliosi Palace, and near the beautiful fountain that crests the steep ascent of Monte Cavallo, opposite the Pope’s palace. Plere Castor and Pollux, in semblance of eternal youth and beauty, rein back their fiery steeds, whilst the lofty fountain rises between, sparkling, splashing, and shedding diamond drops around. 2 14 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. To-day I saw the apartments in the Capitol called the Conservatorio — a noble suite on the first-floor. They struck like a well, and even my Italian companion complained of the cold. The first two or three rooms are finely painted in fresco, the subjects chosen from Roman history. But in a certain corner chamber are collected the precious relics of the city — objects, perhaps, of greater in- terest than any others in the world. On a pedestal stands the bronze wolf with the infants Romulus and Remus. Pictures have made this group familiar in the furthest corner of the world, but the original is no less striking. To see the very bronze taken from the Forum, where it was venerated as the genius of Rome, and to see also the rent in the hinder leg made by the lightning which fell when Caesar was murdered, is indeed a leap back into bygone centuries, and to feel individualised with their most famous legends. Opposite is a bronze bust of Junius Brutus, with the eyes painted, giving it a curious sinister expression. This had every appearance of an antique head, and of being a strong likeness. To what disputes have this head and the wolf given rise! What volumes have been written per and contra their originality! For my part, I delight in a most believing spirit, and to receive with faith all the custode tells me. Here, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 I 5 too, are the bronze geese, with open, quacking bills — images of those that saved the city of the Csesars. They were dug out, it is said, at the foot of the Tarpeian Rock. Here, also, are the Fasti Consulares, containing lists of all the consuls from the time of Augustus — mutilated, broken, and obscure, yet the only authentic guide that history possesses. Here is also a wonderful head of Medusa by Bernini, fine enough to take the second place in poetic horror after Leonardo’s tremendous painting of her at Florence. Nothing in Rome carried me more back to my early imaginations than the relics collected in these rooms. Here I realised Rome. Fabulous story and far-off history seemed, as it were, within my grasp; the great shadows of antiquity were resuscitated at my individual call. Afterwards I w r ent to the church of the Ara Cceli, close by, up that long flight of one hundred and tw T enty-four marble steps overtopping the Capitol, the site of the Temple of Jupiter Ferre- trius, to see the Santo Bambino. As I was in the company of a devout Catholic, I put on my gravest face — which, however, I found it a hard matter to maintain. We were ushered into a side chapel off the sacristia, where, after waiting some time, 216 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. one of the monks appeared. We intimated our wish to be presented, whereupon he straightway proceeded to light four candles on the altar, and to unlock the front panel, out of which he took a large gilt box. The box was covered with com* mon, wearable-looking baby-clothes, which he put on one side. He then placed it on the altar, and unfastened the lid; several layers of white silk, edged with gold, were then removed, and at last appeared the Bambino, in the shape of an ugly painted doll, some two feet in length. A more complete little monster I never beheld — the face painted a violent red; the hair, also wooden, in rigid curls; altogether very like one of the acting troop in Punch’s theatre. There was a gold and jewelled crown on its head, and the body — swathed in white silk, like an Italian baby — was covered with diamonds, emeralds, and pearls, but of no great size or value; the little feet were hollow, and of gold. Of all sights in the world, the Bambino ought to be the most humiliating to a Catholic. The monk said the Bambino was of cinque-cento workmanship, which they always do say, faute de mieux , and added, with a devout look, “ Ma e molto prodigioso When he goes to the sick, he rides in a coach sent for him, and is held up at the window to be adored. At Christ- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 21 7 mas there are no end of ceremonies, in which he takes a prominent part; first, the presepio . But he is very great indeed at the Epiphany, when he is paraded up and down the church, escorted by bands of splendid military music, playing polkas, and then held up at the great door facing the hundred and twenty-four steps, on which the people kneel and worship him! The church of Ara Coeli is immortalised by Gibbon as the place where he first dreamed his future history. It was designed by Michel Angelo, and is to my mind one of the many fiascos committed by that extraordinary man. At Christmas time the Presepio is exhibited in one of the side chapels, and is much visited, as being the best in Rome. A species of theatre is formed, raised to the level of the altar, on which appear full-sized figures of Joseph and Mary; the latter holding in her arms the Bambino, wearing its diamond crown, and glittering with gold offerings and jewels. Before them are prostrated the shep- herds, their sheep reposing near; in the recesses of the grotto-stable appear the oxen feeding in their stalls; while above, in a glory, heaven opens, and the Almighty, surrounded by the celestial host, gazes down upon the touching scene. As the representation is extremely graceful, and the 21 8 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. figures are artistically correct in drapery and ex- pression, I must confess that I viewed with plea- sure a sacred picture recalling the humiliation and love of our Lord, thus visibly brought home to the senses. By Catholics it is contemplated with unquestioning and unaffected reverence and grati- tude. They adore the Saviour in the symbolic image, and earnest prayers, long looks of love, heaving sighs, and tearful eyes, evidence the in- tensity of their feelings. The Presepio is not shown until the falling day permits of an artificial light. When the body of the church is in deep gloom, this one bright, happy, genial spot shines out, shedding floods of typical and positive light around. After about an hour a Franciscan monk appears on the stage, blows out the lights, and lets down a curtain, terminating the exhibition in a most primitive manner. Opposite this stage, for ten successive days after Christmas, little children, previously instructed by the monks, mount on a kind of wooden pulpit, erected beside a column, and pronounce a dis- course, or sermon, on the subject of the divine Saviour's lowly birth and humble infant years. Some of the children (all of whom are very young) perform their part admirably, and are full of fire and animation. They gesticulate with an energy, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2ig and scream with a vigour of lungs, quite Italian, as they stand opposite the mildly-illuminated Pre- sepio, and point with their tiny fingers towards the image of Him through whom they, as well as ourselves, can alone find redemption. The gardens of the Villa Lodovisi are de- cidedly the most beautiful in the vicinity of Rome, situated at the back of the Pincian Hill, close under the walls, and not far from the Villa Albani. On entering, I was astonished at its vast extent; for, in good truth, it is a large park gardenised, affording every variety of shrubbery, parterre, wood, avenue walks, shady dells, and open spaces? a V Anglais e, planted with trees; all overshadowed by the huge frowning city walls heavy with the weight of centuries, indented and arched, with here and there an old tower looming in the back- ground above the lofty trees. On entering, we passed along a lordly gravel walk bordered by a thoroughly Italian clipped hedge, from which other walks, bordered by other hedges, all seemingly interminable, opened out in every direction, form- ing charming vistas, and ending in richly- tinted old ramparts, or in some classic temple, or tomb, or statue. The only things wanting were foun- tains, of which, strange to say, near this city of living waters, there were none to be seen. 220 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. The other side of the broad walk was laid out in elegant flower-parterres. It was quite a Watteau scene, and I expected every moment to see a party of ladies emerge from behind the high hedges, all rouged, and behooped, and bedizened, attended by flights of beaux radiant in powder and pearl white, with rapiers by their sides, enamelled snuff-boxes, fans, or bonbonnilres in their hands, like a frontispiece to one of Moli£re’s comedies; but no such “ pre - cieuses ridicules ” appeared. There was the scene, the background; but the dramatis per s once were all in their graves, and their finery, as well as themselves, kindred dust, far away on the other side of the Alps. When we reached the end of this approach, there appeared a little hill, which I ascended through pretty trimmed walks, to a charming kiosk at the summit, garlanded with creepers, and hemmed round with variegated aloes, their fat leaves turned down towards the ground. It was for all the world like a drop-scene in a play — only we, miserable sinners, spoilt the delusion by our modern dresses. Beyond was a noble view of modern Rome; for what view of the imperial city is not noble? At our feet bubbled a small stream into a great shell. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 221 From the kiosk we descended into a dark ilex wood covering the further side of the rising ground. Here were ancient trees, old enough to have bent under the same hurricane that marked the hour of Caesar’s murder and clave the bronze wolf on the Capitol. In a dell at the bottom was a tiny lake, surrounding a moss-covered pile of ruined marble, radiantly green, from whence sprang up a liquid jet whose gurgling broke the silence and answered to the breeze rustling overhead. In an open space over this sweet dell, the casino ( Anglicl , villa) appeared, whither the Princess Piombino re- pairs when she makes her villeggiatura and wishes to enjoy the beauties of nature, which the Italians have no notion of, not in the very least appre- ciating its beauties. The ladies especially, who never go out until the fall of the day, whatever be the season, care as little about this enchanting land, and the flowers, and the fragrant shade, and the delicious breezes, as a Venetian cares for a horse. They never walk, never wander about as we English delight to do, but order their carriage, and where that carriage cannot take them they never go. The casino is rather an ugly building, without the slightest pretension to anything except comfort. Within the inner hall are the famous frescoes of Guercino; his 2 22 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. “ Aurora,” and the ‘‘Night and Morning.” The “Aurora” is, alas! but a milkmaid after Guido’s goddess, and the black and brown piebalds but Flemish dray-horses in comparison with those ethereal steeds that skim through the azure main on the ceiling of the Rospigliosi saloons. However, it is a fine work, and has great force and justness of colouring. The various figures, too, emblematic of night, disappearing in differ- ent discomfited attitudes behind dark lowering clouds, all flying at the approach of day, are beautifully conceived. On either side of the hall are the figures of Night and Morning, both too well known to need more than a casual mention. I admire them much. The dead, heavy sleep of the one, whose eyes are closed over a manuscript she holds in her hand, while the owl, the night birds, and the sleeping child all tell of repose around her, contrasts capitally with the joyous, merry freshness of Day speading his wings to the morning beams with a soul-inspiring glee, full of youth, hope, and promise. Other frescoes there are, landscapes of Domenichino and Guer- cino, no way remarkable except for the excessive greenness of the former’s colouring — a defect I had already noted. The house is a centre from which innumer-' DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 223 able walks radiate through the delicious groves around. Before it wave great trees of cypress, tall and funereal as fancy can desire, mixed with immense solemn pines, whose twisted, knotted branches spread out in strange agonised shapes from the lofty trunks. High hedges border all the walks, lending a mysterious air to the grounds, suggestive of romantic meetings, and escapes, and assignations. Such hedges as these, tell-tale, hollow, and treacherous, must have divided Louis Quatorze from the still innocent La Valli^re, when overhearing her confession of love and admiration in the gardens of Fontainebleau. One walk there was under an avenue of ilex trees, forming a sombre shade, through which a stray sunbeam came struggling in as if by chance. Beyond was grass, over which the great boughs feathered down. On the other side the great Muro torto bounded the view. This walk was, I should think, two miles long, diversified by temples and statues at intervals. We followed it to a part of the grounds bordered by houses for preserving orange trees in winter, where the city wall had been utilised. The walls of ancient Rome and a modern conservatory! '* Imperial Caesar, dead and turned to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away { 224 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. Time would fail me if I told all the wonders of this enchanted garden, beautiful as the “ delec- table country” in “Pilgrim’s Progress.” Two or three large casini in the grounds we did not see at all. But we were allowed to enter the sculpture-gallery, where I saw an immense deal of modern restoration, and very little original antiquity. Some of the statues are interesting, but not many. One, which I took for Virginius in the act of sacrificing his daughter, whom he holds by one hand, proved to be a Gaul slaying no one knows whom, and so I lost my interest, particularly as the figure is altogether modern. Here is a good Bernini, “Plutus carrying off Proserpine,” only she fights too much de bomie foi to be graceful, and he looks too satyr-like to be interesting. Still there is great power in it; and I recognised the same master-hand that called the “Daphne and Apollo” into life. There are some curious old Termini, almost the only originals in the collection. On the whole I never spent a pleasanter day than at the Villa Lodovisi, wandering in its lovely groves. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 225 CHAPTER X. Audience of the Pope — Villa Doria Pamfili. I am just returned from an audience of the Pope, and sit down to write with all my impressions fresh on my mind. Two days ago a Papal dra- goon made his appearance at my door very early in the morning, before I was up, to the infinite alarm of my Italian maid, who thought he had come to arrest me. He only bore, however, a very peaceable intimation printed on an extra large sheet of paper, notifying that I was to make my appearance at the Vatican, dressed in black, on the following Sunday at three o'clock. Sunday came, and with it, in the morning, our English service, whereat seven hundred “ heretics " offer up their prayers in every variety of fashionable silks and satins, with unmistakable Parisian bonnets en suite. The walls of the “upper chamber" appropriated by the “Protes- ters" of the nineteenth century are painted in a style apparently for making it look as little like a An Idle Woman in lialy. 1. 1 5 226 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. church as possible. Everybody stares with that insolent knock-me-down air considered indicative of high ton by English alone , the manners of all other nations increasing in courtesy precisely in proportion to the rank of the individual. In good sooth, we are fearfully and wonderfully made, especially on the Continent. By three o’clock I had dressed myself selon les regies for presentation to the head of the rival establishment, viz., in black, with a veil over my head a V Espagnole — a very becoming coiffure by the way, which must, I think, have been intro- duced by Lucrezia Borgia or some other eccle- siastical belle, as being the prettiest and most taking costume her fertile imagination could de- vise. Up we drove to St. Peter’s, where those glorious fountains shoot up in masses of molten silver towards the bright sun, typical', in their transparent purity, of the faith which martyrs on that very spot have sealed with their blood. I was afraid I was late, and so hurried along the marble corridor and up the regal staircase which extends from the colonnades to the interior of the Vatican. The quaint Swiss guard were lounging about and talking some utterly unintelligible patois . These men are regular “ bestie ,” as the Italians say, and cannot be classed under any denomina- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 227 tion of Christians; they have scarcely the attributes of humanity, and only understand la raison de la force , being gifted with particularly sharp elbows, as every one who has ever been jammed into a church crowd in St. Peter's or the Sistine Chapel knows to his cost. At the top of the steps stood a servant in crimson livery; a little farther on, another. All things have an end — so at last had the climbing up-stairs. I found myself landed in the first room of the picture-gallery, where San Romualdo and his companions are represented as ascending still farther en route to heaven in volu- minous white dresses. Here I was kept waiting at least an hour, and so had abundant time to observe the crowd of ladies and ecclesiastics amongst whom I found myself. There was a group unmistakably French — two ladies as coquet- tishly dressed as black would allow, with veils which displayed rather than hid their faces. With them were two gentlemen, who fidgeted inces- santly, used their handkerchiefs like minute-guns, and took snuff by handfuls. The ladies rattled away incessantly, like true Frenchwomen. Bless their souls, how they must talk in their sleep! Next to them was a party as decidedly English; they laughed and nudged each other, and made fun of everything, were very ill dressed, and 15 * 2 28 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. seemed utterly out of place. Then came a whole circle of French again, with two abbes and a small round boy, coloured in the face like a rosy pippin. These people had brought some excellent jokes along with them, and laughed so long and loud, the walls must have been scandalized, the priests heartily joining in the fun. Certainly the vicinity of the Holy Father had no effect upon them, nor were they sobered by the presence of two nuns or pilgrims who sat motionless beside them. These were two young creatures of most interesting ap- pearance, with white cloths wrapped closely round their faces, precisely as the early masters, Peru- gino and his predecessors, represent the Mater Dolorosa. They wore dresses of dark brown stuff, with girdles of coarse knotted rope; crosses suspended round their necks, and coarse sandals binding their naked feet; in their hands they held broad-brimmed straw hats. I understood that they were destined to some mission in North Africa! Poor things! what devotion such a life requires! Immovable they sat, like monumental effigies, and as the deep shadows fell on the deli- cate face of the younger of the two, and a slight hectic colour flushed her ivory cheek, she looked like some pre-Raphaelite saint listening to the preaching of an Augustine or an Ambrose! I DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 29 wonder what they thought of the world and its vanities in the person of the French lady, flourish- ing an embroidered pocket-handkerchief and rat- tling her jewellery. Dr. Johnson says, “An hour may be tedious, but never can be long” — a proposition I utterly controvert, for I found that division of time allotted to waiting exceedingly lengthy. I grew so cold and chilled, I felt actually turning into stone. When, however, hope seemed quite vain, and after even the pilgrim nuns had moved the quintes- simal part of an inch, steps were heard approach- ing; the curtain over the door was drawn aside, and the Pope’s private chaplain, Monsignore A , advanced into the room bareheaded, magnificently attired in light purple robes, with a great cross embroidered on his breast. Making a general bow to the assembled company, who rose at his entrance, he pronounced my “ rispeitato nome ” as the Italians have it, and I made my exit through two or three empty rooms. Before entering the audience-gallery, called Degli Arazzi, from the glorious tapestries that hang along the walls, de- signed by Raphael, Monsignore A instructed me how to behave, and made me take off my gloves, which are never worn in the presence of Papal royalty. Beside the door stood another 230 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. valet in crimson. A bell rang, and I was told to advance. Pius stood at the top of a long gallery. On entering I knelt; on advancing to the middle of the room I knelt again; and at last, on arriving before him, a third time I knelt. All this is diffi- cult to execute decorously. The aspect of the Pope is extremely benignant and pleasing; a halo of kindness and benevolence hovers around him, and the sweet smile on his calm, composed fea- tures immediately prepossesses one towards him. As I made the allotted genuflexions he seemed to wave his hand as though deprecating the forma- lity, and bidding me freely advance. He looked almost pained at being approached so ceremoni- ously. On reaching his feet, at the third genu- flexion, he presented me his bare hand, and I kissed a splendid ruby ring which he wears. Gre- gory, the late Pope, desired and submitted to having his foot kissed, the orthodox salutation at Papal audiences; but the amiable Pius prevents even such an attempt by frankly stretching forth his hand at once. He was dressed entirely in white, with a small cap on his head, and shoes of red, bearing a cross embroidered in gold, and stood beside a table at the top of the room. His white robes hanging in heavy folds around him, the tapestried walls of the gallery, his grave and DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 23 I immovable attitude, one hand resting on the table, altogether conveyed the idea of an historical pic- ture more than an actual scene. He addressed various questions to me respecting my own family affairs, and listened with interest to my replies, first asking me in which language, French or Ita- lian, I could most easily express myself. His voice is soft and musical, as all know who have heard how sweetly he chants the high mass at St. Peter’s; and his manner is full of paternal kindness and affability. “ Nella gioventu” said he, “c 9 l sempre vanita; le tribolazione vengano da Dio; pregiamo dunque che siano sandijicate per mir After some farther talk he graciously dismissed me with a sweet smile, saying, “ Figlia mia, io ti benedico;” upon which he again gave me his hand, which I of course received and kissed kneeling, as is the etiquette, and forthwith re- treated, the Pope sounding a small hand-bell, on which the closed doors were swung open. I returned with the most agreeable impression of his Holiness, and quite able to understand what Count L , of the Guardia Nobile, felt when he said, “I love Pius far more than even my own father.” Among all the villas I have seen, none have 232 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. charmed me like the Doria Pamfili. On entering the great gates, three separate roads diverge in different directions through dense avenues and woods of ilex. In a dreamy and melancholy state of mind — for I had been vexed in the great city below — I chose the central one. I went on until I found myself in an open park, undulating in graceful lines, and rising into rounded heights crowned with wood, from which descended little valleys and deep nooks, black with shade, all sheltered by big weird pine trees, whose brown and naked trunks stood out clearly against the blue sky; for it was a mellow, bright day in the early spring. Tracks, rather than roads, broke the verdant carpeting all around. From the sum- mit of one hillock, and under the shadow of the overarching ilex branches, a charming prospect opened out towards Albano, with the long solemn line of the Campagna stretching away to Ostia, and that now untrodden shore where once mighty vessels rode superbly at anchor, bearing those Roman or Carthaginian warriors whose footsteps trod in blood. From the hillock I perceived a garden beneath me, and the casino, or house, with its high terrazzo. I descended into the garden, and wandered about as if under a magic spell, not a soul, not even a dog, was to be seen, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 233 and no sound broke the musical murmur of the fountains in their marble basins. Great plots of ground were filled with waxy camellias, some pure white, others rosy red, peeping out from the rich shining leaves: and beds of violets of every hue made the very air heavy with their sweet per- fume. Beside them grew long rows and plots of oranges, laden with that same glowing fruit which must have tempted our first mother, rather than the pale apple, in the gardens of Paradise. Anon I mounted a double flight of steps, by a great stream spouting out from some marble devices of dolphins and sea-gods, and reached an upper terrace-garden immediately under the casino. The sun’s rays here, in January, were oppressive, and the thousand orange-trees dotted about and ranged against the walls rejoiced in the heat, opening their golden bosoms to be warmed by Phoebus himself. In the depths of the wall were cool seats, and purling fountains dashing down through creepers, and moss, and plants, and disappearing one knew not whither. Hard by, to the left, long flights of steps led from the hill above down lower than the garden where I stood. Along the ridge of this hill grew the sacred ilex trees; in the lower garden were the flowers; and as their sweet breath uprose to greet me, visions of angels 234 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. radiant with celestial brightness, ascending and descending, seemed to glide before me. I left the solitary garden where Nature reigned supreme, and reached a large green plateau oc- cupying the summit of the gentle eminence. Here the pine wood stretched away into dells and vales far beyond, leading the eye through perspectives of unspeakable beauty. The grass was dotted with the loveliest flowers: anemones of all colours, the snowy leaves shading into red, and purple, with pink petals; star-like crocuses with yellow hearts; pink hepaticas; and bold, stalwart daisies, like young sunflowers, courting the invigorating sun — a carpet fresh from the woofs of heaven, embroidered by Nature alone, and scented by the spirit of morning with her balmiest breath. The house contains a few pictures and some solemn statues; but above, from the terrazzo, whither we were led by an antiquated crone, may be seen the most wondrous panorama that ever greeted human eyes. Below stands the great basilica of St. Peter's, within whose walls one tries to think repose all that is mortal of that often erring but attached disciple to whom Christ in- trusted the spiritual keys; its colonnades — its fountains — its courts — its pillars — its vast dome — revealed in all their immense proportions. Heavens ! DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 235 what a noble sight! Behind uprose the stern so- lemn line of Mount Soracte, standing alone like an island on an earthy ocean, disdaining its Al- pine fellows, who cluster and crouch together on either hand, leaving it in solitary grandeur. Then there is Tivoli, wrapped in the Sabine Hills as in a mantle, their summits covered with snow, glistening in the sunshine far up in the azure sky. Then a deep valley, and further on lie Albano, and Castel Gondolfo, and Rocca di Papa, and Frascati — each like a white blossom nestling in the purple mountains; and then the long straight line marking the sea-shore, and the bright mystery of distant ocean. What a circle of loveliness! What a zone of beauty! 236 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. CHAPTER XI. Italian Interiors— Churches : San Lorenzo in Damaso; San Marco— Baths of Caracalla — The Opera. To us prejudiced islanders there is nothing more uncongenial and incomprehensible than domestic life in Italy. In high society there is sameness and monotony all over the world, and good breeding, whether in London or Rome, teaches people to tone down and subdue all out- ward demonstration to the recognised standard of aristocratic reserve. In company, the fiery Italian becomes composed, the loquacious Frenchman silent, and the thorough-bred Englishman doubly impenetrable. But at home, nature peeps out un- disguised, and one sees and hears of funny things occasionally. The Countess G had a husband — a good, quiet man, who gave her no sort of trouble; in- deed, she was apt to forget his very existence oc- casionally. This forgetfulness was carried so far, that in course of time she picked up a cavalier, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 237 who turned the honourable duo of matrimony into the dishonourable trio of cicisbeism. The Italian husband cared very little about the matter, and the household went on harmoniously as be- fore. In course of time the lady grew weary of her extra spouse, dismissed him, and took another. The quiet Italian husband remained impassible, until he found that cavaliere the second, of a more excitable and unaccommodating nature than his predecessor, upset the domestic economy of the house, and, in particular, kept the dinner waiting. This was an unpardonable delinquency; and the husband, now awake to a sense of his wrongs, piteously complained to a friend in these terms: — “My wife’s first cavaliere,” said he, “was a gallant’ uomo — un bravo ragazzo. I rejoiced to see him. But this, her second amico, is a birbante. Since he has come, there is no comfort at home. I wish he were away, and the first back again. Bisogna die ne parlo colla moglie . She shall dismiss him, or we must separate. I must have my dinner at the proper time.” These are facts, strange but true, and indicate an odd stan- dard of morals. Other things of a droller complexion often occur, when the singularities committed, however suspicious, are entirely innocent. The Msrchesa 238 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. R is a woman about forty, of most pious sen- timents, and a devoted invoker of the whole circle of saints. She regularly says her prayers by the calendar, and follows the quaran? ore into the obscurest churches. Her abode is an old tumble- down palace in the environs of the city, where she lives on a mere nothing, happy as a queen. The rooms are unencumbered with carpets or furniture, the only superabundance being frescoes, and great gaunt arm-chairs keeping guard along the walls in grim and gloomy state. Fire there is none, even in the depth of winter, that being considered a useless and unhealthy luxury by Italians. The other day I went to see her, and was ushered into the bare reception-rooms by a ragged boy and a dirty woman. Her niece advanced to meet me, and, after the usual greetings and extra- vagant expressions of joy considered an indis- pensable welcome in Italy, she said her aunt was ill in bed, but would receive me notwithstanding. I was led into an immense room, equally devoid of furniture, save a small iron bed standing in the centre, without any attempt at curtains. Here lay the marchesa in a rather dirty nightcap; while at the other end of the room, to my astonish- ment, appeared a priest dressed in a black sottana , DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 239 amusing himself with a dog. I was about to re- treat at this strange apparition in “my lady’s chamber,” when she called out a cordial “Buon giorno,” and begged me not to mind Fra L , who was her priest, and didn’t signify. She then presented us. I sat down beside her bed, and the Frate returned to his amusement with the dog. After we had talked some time, she requested him to come nearer and join in our conversation, which he did, seating himself, sans cerimonie , on the marchesa’s bed. She did not look the least surprised, and the good man, who had a most amiable and innocently grave expression of coun- tenance, appeared as unconscious as a child. After we had chatted for some time I withdrew, wondering within myself what I should next see to astonish me in the penetralia of an Italian in- terior. One side of a spacious piazza is occupied by the spreading facade of a magnificent palazzo, within whose arched and wide-extending cortile deep shadows come and go as the light shoots fitfully down. That palace and cortile — designed by Bramante, uncle of Raphael — and the broad staircase descending into it from the first floor, are noted as the scene of a fearful tragedy, too recent, however, in the memories of men to have 2 40 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. acquired the same degree of superstitious awe imparted to deeds of murder mystified and deepened by the legendary horrors of long years of fearful remembrance. On those stairs was Count Rossi assassinated — into that cortile his mangled body was thrown — and out of that door was he borne, unshriven and unsung, to his long home. Included in the fajade is the church of San Lorenzo in Damaso, also built after the de- signs of Bramante. This church is an exception to the generality one meets with in Rome, being dark, gloomy, and sombre. A vestibule forming the first division, with low, rounded arches, is Gothic in style. Here are two altars — on one side that of the sacrament. The sun was shining gloriously outside when I entered, making the deep gloom and mystic repose of the church all the more striking. The transition was like pass- ing into another and a holier world — light, at- mosphere, colouring, all were different. The sun- beams found their way aslant through a crimson curtain to the sacramental altar, tinged, as it seemed, in their roseate rays with that divine stream which links our souls to Him who, by the shedding of his precious blood, opened that river of living waters along whose current our frail souls can alone hope to reach the heavenly country. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 24 1 There was an indistinct mist over the remainder of the church. Groups of kneeling figures clustered round the various altars, and told their beads under the deep shade of the heavy pillars. A monk, a nun, bowed in devotion, were here and there dotted about among the crowd, their long black or brown robes giving them a ghostly look, as of dwellers in the tombs rather than flesh and blood. At the extremity of the side aisle, near the high-altar, is a monument to the memory of the ill-starred Rossi, executed by Tenerani, with a fine bust in the centre full of individuality, under- neath is an inscription simply recording his mise- rable death. Tenerani must have laboured con amove for his unfortunate compatriot, Rossi and himself being both natives of the marble-girt town of Carrara. In the sacristy — within which there were assembled about thirty priests, all talking and laughing, offering an unpleasing contrast to the calm repose of the worshippers without — is a grand statue, by Maderno, of San Carlo Borromeo, that saint of saints, whose memory Rome care- fully cherishes. No other monument struck me as remarkable. Gay, light, graceful, and elegant is the beauti- fully-proportioned church of San Marco behind the Piazza di Venezia, at the top of the Corso. An Idle Woman in Italy. I. 1 6 242 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. Rejoicing in the richest marbles, bathed in the bright sunlight, all here is gloriously gorgeous. Elegant pillars of a precious and beautiful red marble support the entablature, behind which are piers of a pale grey marble, affording a back- ground and a relief to the brighter colour, delight- ful to the eye by the charming contrast afforded by the harmonious blending of the two shades. The entablature above is brilliant with frescoes; the side altars radiant with every device and ornament, monumental and artistic; all, however adapted with admirable taste, and forming a whole magnificent, but not meretricious. In its style San Marco is perfect, and did Rome not possess such inexhaustible treasures in the way of churches, such an edifice would be celebrated as it really deserves. But what is mere decoration, however admirable, in comparison with those immortal works of genius that, on bare and unadorned walls, bring thousands from the uttermost parts of the earth to gaze and to admire? There are some mosaics of the stiffest and most deplorable Byzantine pattern, unutterably hideous in their dolorous, long-faced rigidity. Pictures there are, too, but of no great interest. It is the whole — the entire effect — that makes this church so striking. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 243 After passing the Coliseum and proceeding along the Via di San Gregorio (so named from a church built on the spot where once stood his ancestral palace) through the arch of Constantine, there is not a step without deep interest. The soil turns up rare marbles of every variety. Co- lombarie constantly occur, and ruins crop out in all directions — in the midst of vineyards, at the cross-roads, or incorporated into modern build- ings; while gigantic cactuses, and smooth-leaved orange trees peep over the high walls, with here and there a solitary palm tree rising out of great plantations of enormous reeds. Nothing can be more gloomily solitary than this district of ancient Rome — more suggestive of the past glories of her fallen state. One treads the soil, feeling that an Apollo or a Venus, or perhaps more inimitable treasures than the Belvidere or the Medici, lie buried under one’s footsteps. After proceeding about half a mile along these lugentes campi , a huge, far-spreading mass of ruins rises abruptly into sight, on slightly elevated ground, looking much like the broken walls of a feudal castle, the rents of time causing the isolated fragments to stand singly forth like turrets, em- battlements, and tottering towers, holding on to the decrepit mass by wide Etruscan-looking arches, 16* 244 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. formed of great blocks of stone — a strange, shape- less pile, on whose frowning surface the ivy and clematis embroider themselves in waving patterns, wreathing with annual freshness the sharp hard lines cutting against the deep blue sky. The carriage turned up one of those odd Roman lanes bordered by high walls, that look as if they could lead to nothing but a rubbish-heap or a horse- pond , and yet which conceal such treasures scattered along their sides. In a few moments we were under the shadow of the great ruin, and after desperately ringing at a wooden portal, at last found ourselves in the roofless but majestic halls of what once were the Baths of Caracalla. Certainly it is the only Roman ruin above-ground worthy of competing with the Coliseum, and may, perhaps, be preferred by those admiring a ruder and more chaotic mass of positively fabulous extent. All is desolation. One’s footsteps echo mournfully under the great arches — grass grows in the vast halls — shrubs and creepers tapestry the roofless walls — wild roses blossom in the place where emperors have trodden. Still, all is grand and majestic in decay, and I felt positively over- whelmed by the stupendous ruins. One immense hall opens into another through gigantic arches in endless succession. After passing through DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 245 several, a great space, too huge to be called a hall, is pointed out as the swimming-bath, with a small apartment in one corner used formerly for dressing, where now remnants of heads and cor- nices, capitals and pillars, lie collected. From hence we mounted a staircase in one of the towers, repaired on the ancient model, with such high precipitous steps that there can be no disputing the fact of the length of classic Roman legs; I would only recommend any antiquarian troubled with a doubt to try for himself. From the summit I looked down among the ruins below and around me, and traced the once splendid halls where the barbarous Caracalla and the luxurious Heliogaba- lus had whiled away their vicious idleness. On a level with me were arches and turrets, and great isolated masses of the outer wall, huge and shape- less as though an earthquake had tossed them. No one who has not seen it can conceive what a stupendous ruin it is. Here Shelley meditated amid the silence of the past; nor was it possible for ancient Rome to offer a more melancholy and solemn retirement for a poet’s musing place. In the spring-time the winds breathe soft and low in mysterious whispers, their violence tempered by the solid walls, while the sun casts bright lights and shadows, and generates a delicious temperature. 246 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. A fine view of the distant city is obtained through an arch in the outer wall. To the left stretches the level Campagna towards Ostia, broken only by the great arches of the Claudian aqueduct and by the lovely basilica of St. Paolo fuori le Mura, like a mourning bride, desolate and forlorn in the fever-stricken plain. On descending, I passed into another immense hall, under arches expansive enough to span a river, where are some wonder- fully-preserved mosaics near the wall, marking the place of the private baths for the use of the em- perors and greatest patricians. These mosaics (once, perhaps, trodden by the wretched tyrant Caracalla himself, fresh from some horrid murder, his hands stained by a brother's blood) are as bright as ever. Around the walls, midway, are the remains of a gallery, whence the combats of the gladiators were viewed by the court whilst the deified monster bathed. Then comes the vast Pinacotheca, or library, with niches for shrines and statues, the soil still upheaved and broken on the very spots where were found the Farnese Hercules and famous Torso of the Vatican; and how many other statues may yet lie buried there, vainly awaiting an enterprising generation! Around this hall are the remains of a similar gallery for viewing the sports of the athletes. How gorgeous DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 247 this Pinacotheca must have appeared when decked with statues, pillars, paintings, and stucco, the vaulted roof glorious in gold and colours! Now the damp wind sighs through the desolate halls, and the toads hop over the openings from which fallen statues have been excavated. A whole party of young priests, having divested themselves of all unnecessary clerical costume, and tied pocket-handkerchiefs over their heads, were playing vigorously at ball in the sunshine; one or two, more studious, conned their books, seated on the great stones scattered around. A new- married couple wandered listlessly about — a pale, fair-haired Saxon girl, who saw nothing of the ruins that was not reflected in her husband's eyes, on whom she gazed unceasingly with long looks of love. He, alas! looked bored, and listened vacantly to the tiresome explanations of a valet de place — an animal highly objectionable everywhere, but specially so in a scene where “he that runs may read,” the iron finger of Time having traced the history all too well. There is every arrangement visible still for the warm or vapour baths, funnels for passing the heated water, and apertures for the evaporation of the steam. Altogether there are eight halls, and the extreme circuit is said to have been five 2 48 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. miles and a half, including the adjoining circus erected by the same wretched son of Severus who barbarously sacrificed his brother, the unhappy Geta, to his ambition. His atrocious character is stamped on the many busts that yet remain of him, all remarkable for sinister deep-set eyes, and a diabolical grin, quite satyr-like. I must not forget to mention that one of the finest specimens of ancient mosaics was found in these baths, representing athletes, masques, and wrestlers, all hideously ugly and unpleasing, but admirably executed, and wonderfully preserved. This mosaic is now shown in one of the halls of the Lateran Palace, where, transported from its proper site, it loses all suggestive interest. No ruins of ancient Rome have impressed me more than the solitary halls I have endeavoured to describe, and I hope, as the spring advances, often to return and make out more distinctly the site of the two temples dedicated to Apollo and Esculapius, the genii tutelar es of the place. But I shall look in vain for the great court, surrounded by porticoes that once adorned the inner edifice; and for the Odeon, whence music woke the echoes of the endless galleries and corridors; and for the shady groves of palm trees waving over the gym- nasium for running and wrestling in fine weather; DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 249 and also for the greater outer halls where poets declaimed and philosophers lectured. Nought re- mains but lonely vineyards extending on every side, where the patient mouse-coloured oxen of the Campagna turn over the fat, heavy soil with a plough so antique in shape, it might serve as a pattern for what Virgil described in his Georgies. The very existence of theatres at Rome is ignored by the Pope and his tonsured ministers the cardinals, spite of the immense manifesti that meet their eyes at the corner of every street, and the glaring fact that at this particular moment certainly some half-a-dozen occupy the idleness of the Romans every evening. The truth is, that Rome is one of the most fastidious places in Italy about acting and music; nothing is tolerated but the very best, and executed in first-rate style. During the Carnival the Apollo is the opera-house, situated near the Ponte St. Angelo, almost under the shadow of St. Peter’s, so that music, profane and sacred, respond to each other across the muddy Tiber. A new opera appeared the other night, and I went because I had a box sent me. The theatre was crammed inside with company, and nearly surrounded outside by Papal dragoons, bearing 25O DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. drawn swords in their hands, and great white cloaks draping about them like togas, the heavy folds falling over their horses' flanks, and looking uncommonly ghostly in the dark. Inside, the passages are guarded by more modernly- attired protectors, smelling furiously of tobacco. The theatres at Rome, spite of the goodly company they contain, are the dirtiest, blackest, most un- savoury places, I believe, in the whole world. Sometimes one's box is filled with such an over- whelming compound that it is indispensable to open the door, but as a soldier immediately comes and looks in suspiciously, and mounts a kind of guard over one, there is no help but to close it. The Apollo is no exception among its fellows, and is as dark and dirty as years of filth can make it. No wandering breath of fresh air ever strayed in there; it would have been frightened long before in the stairs and corridors, and either died, or got out again to moan over the wrongs done it among the richly-laden orange trees and myrtles in the Pope's garden at the Vatican close by. Up and up stairs we mounted until our box was reached and the door opened, which species of mysterious suspense and expectation preparatory to entering the penetralia of a theatre always DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 5 I makes my heart beat somewhat quicker. I looked round, and found a nobly-proportioned house, as large perhaps as Covent Garden. If it had only been clean, one might have admired it, but the walls and the ceiling were grimed with the accu- mulated smoke of some fifty years at least, and the great central chandelier gave so little light that it was difficult to see anything before the footlights were raised. The house was immensely full, the boxes looking like an overcrowded flower- vase, as the pink, and white, and blue draperies of the fair lapped over the edges like great leaves, and here a pretty hand protruded, and there a rounded shoulder. But honour to whom honour is due: no one here goes to the opera dressed in that state of classic nudity in favour at home, where, as Gavarni says, “Les Anglaises se dScol- letent jusqii aux jarretttres ” The dragoons would decidedly be summoned in such case. As for the opera, I have not the wildest sur- mise what it was about; the ballet was a regular burlesque, being no other than the sorrows of Mary Queen of Scots done into dancing. Oh shade of Robertson, Froude, and other learned and grave historians, who have devoted such ponderous tomes to elucidate her history and de- fend her problematical virtue, what would have 2 52 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. been your outraged feelings could you have seen your poetical heroine reduced to a squab, broad, red-faced woman, of surpassing ugliness, with staring, bead-like eyes, and a great wart on the expanse of her forehead, gesticulating with furious and frantic vehemence, throwing abroad her arms and legs as if they did not belong to her trunk, but moved quite independently on springs? No mad woman escaped from Bedlam could have been more excited. Anywhere else than in Italy surprise would have possessed one at the sacri- legious prostitution of sweet Mary’s name; but after seeing The Prophet at Florence perform capers and entrechats , and dance himself into the good graces of the three Anabaptists, I could wonder at nothing. I believe, if the creation of the world was considered a good coup for a ballet, an Italian would be found to arrange the roles and the pas seu/s f and all Italian would be found to applaud it, provided only the mise en seine was sufficiently voluptuous to tickle their fancy. Darnley, a dark, lugubrious man, discovers a fact about which historians are still in doubt, but with the peculiar perspicacity and penetration proper to the dramatis personae of a ballet, he cuts the Gordian knot of ages, and decides as to the guilt of Mary with Bothwell — a lusty, stalwart knight in DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 253 full armour, who does unutterable things with his sword, which he continually swings over his head, leaping about the while like nothing human but a Red Indian. The Italian idea of Scotch costume is ex- ceedingly obscure, as I had already remarked in Lucia di Lammermoor . In the present instance the claim of the performers to be considered in- habitants of Old Gaul consisted of a variety of tight, coloured bandages, tied round their legs like garters. Mary is put in prison for her flirta- tion with Both well, who, together with his fol- lowers, penetrates there, and swears to liberate her, in order to accomplish which feat some of them descend into the bowels of the earth (trap 2, right-hand wing), and with many grimaces and contortions place a train of gunpowder all ready for explosion. Darnley appears, wearing an angry brow generally, and particularly towards the Queen, who really deserves all the abuse she gets, for her atrocious ugliness; he then enters the palace, and Mary conveniently faints, while Catherine Seaton, a skinny, middle-aged woman with scanty petti- coats, executes a despairing fandango around her until — hey! — presto — away! — up blows the palace, covering the stage with fragments, and the electric light rising out of the ruins makes the house look 2 54 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. like broad day, quite putting the yellow candles to shame. Of what the electric light is typical — unless it be the supposed soul of Darnley — I cannot conceive; but who asks for congruity and consistency in a ballet? Not Italians, certainly; so the pit applauds, and the soldiers cry “ Bravo !” and we all go off in a very good humour out by the banks of the dark Tiber, still rushing to the sea through the dark night with the same rapid current, whether modern folly or pagan rites “rule the hour.” DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 55 CHAPTER XII. The Cupola of St. Peter’s and Sistine Chapel — The Museum at the Lateran — San Pietro in Vincolo and the ** Moses.” A great deal has been said and written about the ascent of the cupola of St. Peter’s in which I cannot agree; and as I went up yesterday, I con- ceive myself — minnow though I be — entitled to an opinion among the great tritons of the goose- tail. From the church we entered a door to the left, where sits a functionary to whom the ticket is delivered up; each holder of a ticket being re- sponsible for the safety of the party of five which it admits. A broad staircase, a cordoni (meaning that there are no steps, but a steep inclined plane, to ascend), circles round and round; a horse or donkey, biped or quadruped, might go up with perfect ease, so gradual is the ascent. Many em- perors, kings, and princesses have so far conde- scended to stretch their royal legs, as is set forth on the marble slabs that line the walls. We ar- rived on the roof, which is like the roof of any 256 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. other great building, before we were conscious we had done anything. I saw no fountains or work- shops save a few sheds in corners, and I could quite realise that I was walking on a roof, and not on some debatable country, extending to a fabulous distance, midway between earth and heaven. I did not see anything astonishing ex- cept the size, for which one comes prepared by a knowledge of the vast proportions of St. Peter’s. One circumstance is wonderful, and I note the fact, that upwards of six or seven thousand a year is annually expended in keeping the exterior in repair. Standing there, I could not but contrast in my own mind the bald and bare aspect of the leaden plain before me, broken only by the vault- ing arch of the central nave, and the huge dimen- sions of the statues over the fajade — great clumsy giants of Bernini parentage — with the delicate tracery, the forest of airy pinnacles and spires, each different and all beautiful; the stars, the crosses, the bosses, pure in colour as when drawn from the marble bosoms of the Carrara mountains, the world of statues, the long vistas of overarching supports, light and bold as the recollection of a dream, seen on the roof of the wondrous cathe- dral at Milan — that stupendous yet graceful fabric, which in bridal whiteness challenges the snowy DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 257 Alps whose crested summits, mingling with the clouds, close in the Lombard plains. There, as I contemplated the elegant confusion of the roof, at certain points perfectly symmetrical, at others absolutely labyrinthine in confusion, like the Fata Morgana turned topsy-turvy, I was not for an in- stant reminded of the solidity of the structure, but my eye dwelt alone on the incomparable decora- tions, the inimitable coquetry with which the solid walls are festooned, surmounted by the arrow-like spire dashing upwards into the heavens with a transparent lightness quite miraculous; the walls being open and the staircase visible, as it were, in the air, twisting up cork-screw fashion between the apertures, looking altogether of a material more akin to the vapoury clouds than marble and stone. I must, therefore, commit the delinquency of declaring that I prefer the exterior of Milan Cathedral as decidedly as I do the interior, with its deep, half-revealed Gothic aisles, to the gaudy trappings and glaring light of St. Peter's. But to return. The great cupola of St. Peter's rises perpen- dicularly from the roof in a manner so sudden that ascent appears impossible; but entering a small door at the base, we addressed ourselves to the labour, proceeding crab- wise up flight after An Idle Woman in Italy. 1 . 17 258 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. flight of stairs, one-sided and lurching, like a ship in a gale of wind, and making one feel about as giddy. These curiously-shaped ascents run be- tween the exterior coating and the interior vaulting of the cupola, and are bent to follow its arching form. At length we gained the gallery of the dome, and looked down from that immense ele- vation on the church beneath, and on the altar and tomb of the apostles. The four figures of the Evangelists — to my thinking incomparably the finest mosaics in the world — now appeared in their true gigantic proportions. We were the pigmies, and the people below, like dots, darkened the bright marble pavement; while the great letters in the inscription round the entablature grew taller than the tallest man that ever lived. Above was the superb arched roof of burnished gold, covered with mosaics; a glorious firmament, sown with sparkling stars, and a radiance quite celestial, as the sun poured down through the central aperture, lighting up the angels, apostles, saints, and mar- tyrs, who from above keep eternal watch and ward over the sacred tomb below, where burn by night and day the emblematic lamps. The celestial hierarchy around me, prefiguring the elders sur- rounding the great white throne, seemed planted there in expectation of the last trumpet. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 259 Some more steep climbing up eccentric stairs, and the great outer balcony was reached, and the noble view stretched around. From this belvidere the Eternal City narrows to a space small as the palm of a man’s hand, intersected by a thread of water flowing beside the tombs and ruins and the busy haunts of men, towards the desolate Maremma, where a visible curse lies heavy on the land — a curse of sterility, and poverty, and sickness, where life becomes a living death. Rome lies like a corpse at one’s feet. The glory of the seven hills is humbled, and their undulations are scarcely perceptible at the foot of the vast basilica, pre- eminent in height and dignity. Twice mistress of the world, Rome can now only be deemed queen of the past. The murmurs of the multitude, con- founded with the hum of the fountains, were borne aloft in the sighings of the scented breeze which fanned the orange-terraced gardens of the Vatican. How can vain words do justice to this noblest panorama of the land reverenced by all mankind as the centre from whence power, arts, religion, laws, history, beauty, bravery, civilisation have risen — the Cybele of Europe? At this altitude the volcanic Alban mountains, veiled in deep forests, and the calcareous summits of the Sabine heights, looked but low hills, mark- 17* 260 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. ing the limits of that vast upheaving plain, the Campagna, nowhere level, yet nowhere precipitous, bounded on one side by the Tyrrhenian Sea, on the other by more distant mountains, dry, naked, solitary, a lonely pine here and there crowning a rounded hill. I thought on all the theories extant accounting for the strange peculiarities of the Roman Campagna; that it had been once an ocean, those heights its shore; Mount Soracte a rocky island, against whose sides the roaring billows beat; that Nature had formed it from the beginning for a great battle-field, whereon the destinies of mankind were to be fought out as long as time endured; that it had once contained countless volcanoes, whose united action formed the unnatural substratum of lava of which it con- sists. None of these fancies pleased me save the battle-field — that is the impress the heavy lines bear, as though the very hills had hardened after having gazed for untold centuries on blood and horror, death and destruction, where powers, nations, and potentates have fallen, “the Goth, the Christian, time, war, flood, and fire” — the pale faces of the slain turned upwards, making death hideous. The islands on the sea towards Ostia were visible, the clouds of morning mist obscuring the empyrean blue — all, save heaven, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 26 I was dead, brown, dried up, a very skeleton of Nature. Some persons are possessed with a foolish ambition of climbing up into the ball, which will hold about five persons, in an atmosphere resem- bling the black-hole of Calcutta. I have a desire to be, rather than to seem, and never go any- where for the mere sake of saying that I have been there, so I gazed at the scene around me, and allowed others to laugh and joke at the mis- haps that befell them. After our descent we strolled into the Sistine Chapel, rigidly guarded by a Cerberus looking out for francs. The interior is by no means large, yet there is a chastened elegance in its aspect quite peculiar — solemn, yet rich, and admirably blending in general effect. I never could endure the “Last Judgment;” it is to me a scene of un- utterable Titanic confusion; no peace, no joy, no hope, but all terror, horror, dread, foreshortening, and anatomy. Indeed, it requires no little study to realise which are the sheep and which the goats, so generally uneasy do the entire mass of saints and sinners appear. A great work of art may be invaluable as a study to cognoscenti, and yet most unpleasing and unpalatable to the multi- 262 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. tude. The sombre brown of the figures on the blue background reminded me of the grave-like colouring of all nature in the prospect I had just quitted. The attitude of the Saviour has every attribute of a Jupiter Tonans rejoicing in the chaos he again calls forth for the destruction of the creatures he had formed; and the graceful action of the Madonna, veiling herself at the sight of the sufferings she cannot avert, may sound poetical on paper, but is quite lost in the agonised mass around her. To me the charm of the Sistine Chapel consists in the beautiful frescoes that adorn its walls, on whose calm outlines the eye rests with complacency after the uneasy action of the “Last Judgment.” Beautiful is Perugino's delineation of our Lord's temptation; the three movements combined into one picture with the quaint arrangement common to the early schools. Beautiful also, perhaps finest of all his works, is “Christ delivering the Keys to Peter,” the general arrangement and grouping of which served as the precise model to Raphael in his lovely picture of the “Spozalizio,” now in the Brera at Milan. Here, too, Ghirlandaio, Roselli, Botticelli, and Signorelli, the great fathers of the Florentine school, have striven in noble emulation, and united to produce a result not only artistically of DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 263 the highest excellence, but delightful and ad- mirable in the eyes of all who crowd hither from every quarter of the civilise^ globe. The folly of endeavouring to form separate galleries of sculpture in the same city as the Vatican Museum is apparent. Even Rome, were all her subterranean treasures revealed, could never hope to form another such temple to sculp- ture. The overcrowded rooms of the Capitol Museum present an aspect of confusion proper only to a lumber loft, while the bare walls of the spacious halls at the Lateran are in the other extreme, and appear so nude and unfurnished, it is quite desolating to look on them. Why should not the gems of both collections be placed in that boundless Vatican, whose countless galleries and corridors might yet receive thousands of fresh statues, and still have room, and to spare? On the whole, I was more pleased with the Lateran collection than with that of the Capitol, where excepting the ‘‘Dying Gladiator” — if gladiator we are to call him, with that cord and horn — and the “Flora and Faun,” I never could see much to admire. At the Lateran I was enchanted with the Braschi “Antinous” — a colossal statue of miraculous beauty, second only to the “Apollo Belvidere”— if, indeed, second to that. Antinous 264 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. appears in the character of Osiris, crowned with ivy berries and leaves, a lotus-flower placed in the centre of the garland — a rich, varied, and classical head-gear of the utmost beauty. The hall appropriated to the family of Augustus is wonderfully grand and interesting. Ranged around the walls stand the solemn statues of the imperial house in calm majestic attitudes, monumental in character. The statue of Livia has a lovely face, and stands in an attitude full of grace and dignity, with one hand upraised; the flowing robes and stately presence breathing a very at- mosphere of imperial majesty tempered by wo- manly sweetness. Augustus and Drusus wear the eternal togas — -those classical bedgowns I so detest. Tiberius appears crowned with oak and acorns, a face full of youthful beauty and godlike repose, passionless as the calm surface of the summer leaves. Who could imagine such vices lay dormant under so winning an exterior? Agrippina bears her proud character and great beauty stamped on her lofty brow. Her attitude is less pleasing than that of Livia, masculine de- termination preponderating over more feminine charms. Two statues of Germanicus, habited in full armour, express an amiable, gentle character, appealing to our sympathies by its unassuming DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 265 yet manly expression of perfect goodness. His head is unadorned, and both statues are of high value, from the admirable likeness and perfect state of preservation in which they have come down to us. Very interesting is the rough Dacian, men- tioned by Murray, with the sculptor’s points still visible. But most of all was I struck by an ad- mirable basso-relievo on a marble tomb, of Orestes pursued by the Furies — wildly horrible in their hideous aspect — his murder of Clytemnestra and her lover in the centre — and, in the other corner, the shade of Agamemnon, an old man, wrapped in a deep, mysterious cloak, with a hood over his face, inciting Orestes to revenge. This is one of the very finest basso-relievos in Rome. Opposite is an inferior work, the destruction of Niobe’s children, on another tomb. Near by are two splendid marble pillars of Pavonazzetto, taken from the bed of the Tiber, whose beauty suggests the question, What must Rome have been, avenued with such colonnades? One of the finest statues here is that of So- phocles, bearing the name of the Antonelli family inscribed on the pedestal. It was discovered by a curious accident. A poor man, working in his vineyard, near the campagna of Conte Antonelli, 266 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. brother of the cardinal, came upon a block of stone that resisted all his blows. He dug and dug until he discovered a statue, which he threw upon terra fi7~ma . Off he goes to his patron e the conte, to relate to him the occurrence. But, says he, “cosa importa a me? I have neither a cart to carry it, nor horses nor oxen to drag the cart; via! there it must lie. Perhaps, however, sua eccellenza the conte would give him some- thing for it?” The conte returned his query like a Quaker, by asking another — “What did he want for the thing?” At last, after a great deal of discorreria , fifteen scudi were agreed on (three pounds), and the contadino went away gloriously contented. The statue was dragged to the cor tile of the count's casino, and lay forgotten in a corner until Gregory, the late pope, during one of his provincial progresses, passed by Terracina and breakfasted with Count Antonelli. Passing through the cortile , the papal eyes turned on the recumbent statue. Ma che cosa abbiamo qui ? Qualche cosa di bello mi pare!' So the statue was raised and examined, and pronounced entirely excellent. The count begged to present the fifteen scudi worth to his Holiness, who gladly accepted the offer, and ordered the statue to be packed off to Rome, where it was cleaned and DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 267 repaired by benevolent antiquarians, who, acting as sponsors, named it Sophocles, under which title it now appears, the principal attraction of the third best gallery in Rome — and all for fifteen scudi! The thing now is priceless. The interior court of the Lateran Palace is surrounded above and below with an arched colonnade, richly painted in fresco, which pro- duces a very noble effect. Indeed, the whole building is grand and palatial in the extreme forming as it does a kind of wing or addenda to the most imposing church in Rome, far more perfect externally than St. Peter’s however in- ferior to the great leviathan in size. I ascended the stairs, and found the upper suite of apart- ments of fine proportions, and decorated with much splendour, but desolate, damp, and forlorn. They are now the cradle of an infant picture- gallery, but as yet in a hopelessly infantine state. I remarked one picture by Caravaggio, that Moli&re of painting, “The Tribute Money,” as fine as anything I remember of his works. There, too, is a sweet “Annunciation,” by the Cavaliere Arpino, where Mary is represented as the simple gentle maiden one loves to picture her, not the made-up simpering beauty to which she is too often degraded by even the first masters. Her 268 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. youthfulness and freshness here are most engag- ing, and quite charmed my eyes, accustomed to the glare and grandeur of Parmegiano and Dome- nichino, who never dream but of the Queen of Heaven. The picture by Sir Thomas Lawrence of George IV. is a tremendous affair. I never saw an individual so overladen with orders, chains, ribbon, and velvet, even at the Carnival. During Lent there are what are called stazioni for prayers at ail the old out-of-the-way churches; and if they possess miraculous treasures, they are displayed for adoration on these occasions. I have been to-day to San Pietro in Vincolo, where the stazione was held, and the church open all day. The road to this church is the identical Via Scelerata , so named because here the wicked Tullia, daughter of King Servius, drove over the body of her aged father, murdered by Lucius, her husband, son of the banished Tarquinius. Servius was slain on this very road, situated on the Es- quiline, which, when Tullia heard, she mounted her chariot and drove to the Forum, where, un- abashed and untouched by her father’s bloody death, she hailed her husband king! As she re- turned home the body of her father lay in the way. The driver of her chariot stopped short, and showed Tullia where her father lay in his DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 269 blood, but she bade him drive on . The chariot rolled over the body, and she went to her home with her father’s blood on the wheels of her chariot. Flocks of pedestrians and numbers of carriages made the dust fly in perfect clouds about the solitary lanes and walled-in alleys in the vicinity. All the neighbourhood was up and alive. Droves of beggars sit or stand grouped on the steps, and clink their boxes and ask for alms for the sake of the Madonna, and for the love of heaven, with an energy reminding one of their brigand as- sociates, whose prayer becomes a command, and the command death if not promptly obeyed. Some soldiers were keeping watch outside the building. Priests, nuns, fine ladies, contadine, perfumed beaux, and liveried servants, cardinals and mon- signori, were streaming in and out of the doors; some kneeling at the altar, others prostrate before a favourite saint, ornamented for the occasion with new artificial flowers. The fine proportions of the elegant church told well as a background to the moving, animated scene, the graceful marble pillars (pilfered from some ancient temple) springing airily to the roof. On the grand altar were displayed the chains which, tradition says, bound St. Peter in prison; hence the name of the 2 70 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. church “in Vincolo.” They lay exposed to the veneration of all true Catholics in a small box lined with crimson silk. Wrapped in deep medi- tation and prayer, numbers knelt on the steps, and so would I have knelt also, if I could have believed the tale, but alas ! — “Mi manca la fede !” I thought the chains looked particularly moderh, and very weak and feeble in the links — -fancy sort of chains, and not at all the kind of articles wherewith to bind a man who had a mind to break them. I gazed with the crowd, but did not believe. Flowers (of cambric) ornamented the altar all about, while the grand old “ Moses ” frowned down from the corner where he is so barbarously wedged in, with a look of supreme contempt at the scene around. The more I look at that statue, the more I dislike it, profane as it is not to rave about the so-called “capo d’opera” of Michel Angelo “the divine.” Nothing can be more ill placed than the statue, on a low seat nearly on a level with the spectator, the gigantic form squeezed between two columns, on a monument which all the while is not a monument. Certainly this image does not impress one with a high idea of Moses. The grossly sensual expression tells of passions proper rather to a satyr than a lawgiver, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 7 I and the long, ropy hair falling from the head and beard painfully remind one of a shaggy goat — faults which are unrelieved by any nobler indica- tions save an air of arrogant command. The drapery, too, is ill folded, heavy, and bad. Should a great lawgiver who speaks with the Almighty appear in such a guise, with such a look? No, truly. Still, amid all its defects, this is a re- markable work of art — specially remarkable for a peculiar savage air of grandeur all its own, and not to be described. It has also great power, consisting in the anima which makes the cold marble palpitate with vivid expression. The action, too, of the figure is natural, the forms bold without being overcharged, like many of Michel Angelo’s works. The modelling of the arms is particularly fine. But how wanting is the statue in all wherein the Greeks so excelled — the sedate, noble simplicity, the profound, contem- plative look, communing as it were with eternity, which almost excuse the worship paid by an ignorant people to these sculptured gods. Above the “Moses” lies a recumbent statue of Julius II., so placed as to appear precisely like a sphinx. For this atrocity Michel Angelo is not responsible. Over an altar there is a lovely St. Margaret, by Guercino, rebuking a monster ready to devour 27 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. her. It positively riveted me. One may here admire his admirable colouring, compounded of the Roman, Venetian, and Bolognese schools, with that bold opposition of light and shade in which he so delighted. Who ever had a finer appreciation of female beauty than Guercino, of that glowing, warm, gorgeous type perfected under a southern sun, flourishing along with the luscious grapes and the pomegranates, and often brown and sunburnt as they? St. Margaret is in white, with a purple drapery; her long hair falls dis- hevelled over her shoulders; and the almost saucy air, girlish yet commanding, with which she menaces the creature (whose great jaws, well furnished with teeth, are opened to devour her) is uncommonly charming. I shall never forget that picture of “Valiant Margaret,” as Wordsworth calls her. In the sacristy hangs Guido's “Hope,” a sweet pathetic head, fit to match with the Cenci. There is a picture, too, by Domenichino of “Paul's De- liverance in Prison” — maniert , hard, and ill co- loured: the angel looks most positive and earthly in his stiff curls. Certainly this “celestial visitant” brought with him “no airs from Paradise.” I have no notion of admiring a picture because it is celebrated, and praised by Murray. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 73 CHAPTER XIII. Baths of Titus at the Coliseum, at San Martino di Monti, and at the Sette Sale —Cardinal Antonelli. Close by the Coliseum are the Baths of Titus, on the side of a vineyard- covered hill. On driv- ing up, they present very much the appearance of a gigantic rabbit-warren enclosed by brickwork burrowing into the hillside in oblong holes, shaped something like the vomitoria in the Coliseum. I was astonished at the contrast they presented to the grand, awful-looking masses of the Baths of Caracalla, which rise like the ruins of some mediaeval castle fabulous in extent, with turrets, walls, and bastions cresting the sky. The glories of the Baths of Titus are, on the contrary, deep buried underground, and one must descend down and down deep stairs, and through long subter- ranean passages, before their wonders are re- vealed. Here, where the light of the bright sun never falls, and day and night are alike gloomy and mysterious, halls of interminable extent open- An Idle Woman in Italy. /. 1 8 274 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. in g into long suites of chambers, corridors, and temples, penetrate the earth in a state of perfect preservation. The imposing grandeur of this underground palace cannot be described; it im- presses the mind with funereal thoughts and spe- culations on other centuries and nations, when the world was as unlike that place we inhabit as the moon would appear to us were we trans- ported thither. These ruins have, so to say, a triple antiquity, being supposed first to have formed part of the villa of Maecenas; then to have been appropriated to the golden house of Nero, whose memory was so execrated that his burnished palace, of sur- passing size and magnificence, was degraded by being made the foundation of the public baths erected by Titus, and its chambers filled up the more securely to consolidate the superstructure, which can alone account for the firm and com- pact manner in which those portions still unex- cavated are completely packed with stone and rubbish, although the roofs and walls are still entire. Standing in the central hall, the long vista opening on either hand is a sight not to be for- gotten. It wants but the garden and the trees, bearing the bright many-coloured fruit, to carry one away to Aladdin and the Arabian Nights. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 75 On one side were the rooms intended for winter use, then looking full on the sun, which has never penetrated here for so many centuries; the other facade, for summer habitation, faced a garden, now buried deep down in the soil, and only to be surmised from the situation of a great hall, with an arched opening, in whose centre still re- main the ruins of a fountain, where the water welled up from an enormous marble basin, now the wonder and glory of the great vaulted hall in the Vatican. Along the margin where it stood still appear stone troughs for enclosing earth, where flowers — their blossoms reflected in the water — gave the finishing touch to what must have been a scene of more than Epicurean luxury. There are other places where portions of the Baths of Titus are visible, as, for instance, in the church of San Martino di Monti, which is, how- ever, disputed, for some look on these remains as portions of the Baths of Trajan and the Sette Sale, a general reservoir common to the Baths and Coliseum. Up a particularly filthy and narrow lane, break- ing off from that glorious highway leading in a straight line from Santa Maria Maggiore, crown- ing the Esquiline with its snowy domes and colonnades, to the old Lateran Basilica, proudly 18* 276 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. spreading its immense, though elegantly light, facade on the summit of the Ccelian Hill, is situated one of the grandest and most interesting martyr- churches of Rome — San Martino di Monti. No mere casual observer would ever discover the church, hemmed in as it is in a narrow alley bordered by great blank walls, standing in a tumble- down cor tile where a soldier keeps guard, part of the monastery being occupied as a bar- rack. On entering the spacious and admirably- proportioned edifice, the eye is perfectly over- come with the gorgeous ensemble of painting, gilding, marble, mosaics, and fluted columns, all surmounted by a ceiling so magnificent in purple, gold, and crimson, the colours finely mellowed by age, that it requires some moments actually to realise its splendour. The central nave is large and grand, the columns supporting the aisles of ancient, and therefore classical, workmanship; the altar, raised on double flights of coloured marble steps, is resplendent with magnificent decoration; the tribune above glows in gilding and rich frescoes; and side chapels of great beauty open out beneath the arches of the aisles, decorated with statuary and painting. I can give no details, for my memory seems oppressed and stupefied by the grandeur of this DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 277 superb ecclesiastical drawing-room , such being the only appropriate term I can apply to it. I do remember one curious painting of St. Elijah, as the Catholics call him, who, in company with the Wandering Jew, is, according to tradition, sup- posed to be still walking the world until the end of all things. He, as if wearied by his endless pilgrimage, reposes on a rock, while an angel beckons to him, pointing to the sea stretching away before them, as if animating him to proceed on his wanderings. The aisles are filled with paintings, alternating with the interesting frescoes of Poussin — poor and washy, however, in execution, I confess, to my eyes, and much injured by damp, as are his water-colour paintings in the Colonna Palace, though, as far as the drawing goes, full of fancy, and rich in Italian character. I descended down marble stairs to the first subterranean church, situated immediately under the altar, which, being visible from the nave, gives great lightness to the tribune, as row after row of coloured marble balustrades meet and in- tersect each other, ascending and descending very gracefully. The second church, or crypt, is circular, the arched roof supported by clustered columns of 2j8 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. much beauty. Here lie the bones, not only of Silvester, but of four martyred popes, besides those of many other early confessors to the faith, who sealed their life by a glorious death. The monk acting as my guide, whom I in- stantly discovered to be Lucchese from his accent, made his reverence before their remains, and then opened a door at one side, where, through a narrow arched stair, we descended into a dimly- lighted cavernous vault below. Having early been consecrated as a church, and serving as a place of concealment to Silvester in the stormy days of persecution prior to the accession of Constantine, these vaults have been wonderfully preserved — no Roman remains in Rome are more perfect or more striking. Green damp covers the gigantic piers supporting the boldly-arched roof, while here and there great entrances, now built up, lead into other long-drawn aisles — we know not how far beyond — communicating with the interminable network of catacombs surrounding subterraneous Rome. We walked upon a black and white mosaic pavement, similar to that I have noticed at the Baths of Caracalla. Not a sound, not a sight, but was in harmony with this dark region of the tomb. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2*J0> “ Faint from the entrance came a daylight ray,” gleaming down the passage by which we had entered into the solemn crypt, heavy with the dews of long ages, and rich in the association of both pagan and Christian Rome. No modern hand has desecrated it — Bernini (thank Heaven!) having left untouched this earliest sanctuary out of the catacombs. A place more awful and solemnising cannot be conceived, and as I wan- dered among the huge arches and beheld deep vistas of solemn gloom, I felt penetrated with in- describable reverence in the presence of these consecrated remains that even ruthless Time has spared. Pagan Rome is gone, and Christian Rome is but a name; but those solemn walls stand firm and majestic, even in decay; and those altars, where rest the martyred saints, are entire amid the consecrated gloom which the sun has not penetrated these eighteen centuries. Close by the church there is a well-walled vineyard, bearing the inscription outside, in small chalked letters, “Sette Sale.” A stranger might pass hundreds of times up that lonely lane hemmed in with walls, and not remark it; yet there are treasures of ruins within that wooden door, which opened to us after long knocking. 2 8o DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. A highly-cultivated garden appeared, with a broad path winding through the trellised vines, which I followed. The good-humoured contadine stood up as I passed, and, smiling, wished me “ Una buona passeggiata ” In one corner of the pretty vineyard, positively bristling with ruins, is a hillock formed of crumbling walls, overgrown with grass, and myrtle, and dwarf ilex bushes, with here and there a long straggling vine, in whose side seven arched openings, hoary with decay, open into seven enormous vaults — great cavernous recesses, all black and dismal — used, as it is supposed, for reservoirs of water to supply the Coliseum and the Baths of Titus, which lie farther on, near the fall of the hill. The cabbages and lettuces grow up to the very brink of these awful pits, and all nature wears a smiling, domestic character, utterly unsympathetic with, and sternly repulsed by, the frowning ruins, which scorn such impertinent approximation. Wandering down a little farther, 1 came to an enormous portico, forming one of the angles of the baths, where the philosophers used to expound their Grecian wisdom in the ears of the degenerate Romans. Perhaps under that very arch, the siege of Jerusalem, the obstinacy and destruction of DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 28 1 the Jews, and the magnanimity of Titus were dis- cussed and commented on as the latest “news from the East.” How are the mighty fallen! Rome lives but in a few unintelligible ruins — a fragment and a confusion! Titus, his arch with its triumphs, and his gigantic baths, are moulder- ing in decay. The Jews are wandering homeless over God's wide earth; and here a few olive trees bask in the warm sunshine under the vaulted roof, once radiant in marble and gold, where con- gregated the learned few whose togas swept the rich mosaic floors. The pillared colonnades, the shady groves, the magnificent shrines, have vanished; the sumptuous pile is no more; and Nero's golden house, accursed for his sake, and exiled from the surface of the earth, alone pre- serves its subterranean walls, buried deep down in the bosom of mother-earth — that parent whose cold embrace cherishes so carefully all intrusted to her keeping. I made the acquaintance to-day of a very re- markable man, on whose shoulders at present rests the entire responsibility of the Papal Government — Cardinal Antonelli, secretary of state to Pius IX., and minister also of finance, of police, of justice, of everything — multum in parvo, in fact; for he has appointed such mere lay figures to these 2 82 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. various offices that he alone bears the onus and the weight of the entire machine of state. Antonelli was instrumental in his Holiness’s escape to Gaeta, and very nearly himself got murdered in those stormy days when Rome was given up to Red Republicans. But now he is installed in the Vatican, and appears neither to dread nor to remember the fate of poor Rossi, the best and most upright minister in Italy. Without question, his successor, Antonelli, is a very re- markable person, and gifted with superior talents for government. Reste a savoir if one man can do everything — a state problem the solving of which has cost the Roman States another revolu- tion. In the meantime, the good Pope is given up to prayer and religious observances, and Antonelli alone guides the helm of state amid the angry breakers and sunken rocks of the stormy sea that beats furiously against the aged and rotten timbers of the fisherman’s navicella, weakened, crazy, and disjointed by the tempests of accumulated cen- turies. On the occasion of our visit to the cardinal, on whom fortune smiles, we entered the labyrinth of courts forming that part of the Vatican in which the Pope resides by a private entrance, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 283 after making the circuit of St. Peter’s, whose colossal proportions can only be rightly estimated by such a giro , or by mounting the cupola. Our carriage dashed through entrance after entrance into a succession of courts, all guarded by mounted sentinels, until reaching the spacious and beautiful cortile decorated by Raphael, where we dismounted. An interminable staircase of per- haps one hundred steps next appeared. Up and up we climbed, encountering Swiss guards at due intervals. At last, having gained the fourth story — quite the piano-7ioUle at Rome — came the ante- room, with its allowance of cringing menials, who as we were honoured guests, bowed us at once into a handsome apartment furnished like a dining-room. As the cardinal was engaged at the moment, we were here entertained by an old French mon- signore, canon of St. Peter’s, a rabid Legitimate, as he informed us. My Italian companion, the Countess San G , is a perfect worshipper of the Emperor Louis Napoleon, and of the Bonapartes collec- tively and generally. This she was too cunning and acute to declare openly, but drove the poor old monsignore skilfully into a comer, forcing 284 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. him to acknowledge how much the Emperor Napoleon had done for France. “Mais oui, mais oui; la Providence a agi, il faut l’avouer,” replied he. “Enfin, la Providence se sert de tous les moyens,” in a whining tone. “ Was not Marshal MacMahon a great general?” “Mais oui; un homme de talent, cependant mondain.” “Ah!” said my friend, “France is prosperous; cela suffit; ses beaux jours sont revenus;” at which undeniable fact the canon looked glum, although the pink of old-fashioned French politesse. * Feeling himself worsted, he passed to a tre- mendous eulogy of the cardinal. “Mais il fait tout, ce cher cardinal; il a des talents universels; il pense a la finance, a la diplo- matic, au gouvernement interieur; enfin, c’est un homme miraculeux, et si bon, si aimable!” As this “universal” character is the very thing for which Cardinal Antonelli is reproached by his enemies, who stigmatise his ministry precisely because he insists on doing everything, I could scarcely suppress a smile at the ill-timed enthu- siasm of the canon. “Ce cher homme,” continued he, “vous savez qu’il a manque d’etre tue lorsque le saint P&re * This was written before the war. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 285 s’est enfui: comment aurait-il jamais echappe? Ah! il faut adorer la Providence ! ” saying which, he folded his hands, and assumed an unctuous look of devotion. I was growing weary of this old man, with his “ providential” tirades, when the major-domo entered, and announced that the cardinal would receive us. We passed through a suite of rooms to the writing apartment of his Eminence, where were tables overlaid with letters and papers, all arranged with the nicest order. Here stood the cardinal, a tall, handsome man, of a grave and majestic presence, which at once, without any effort on his part, inspires respect. He was dressed in a purple robe, or sottana , edged and trimmed with red, a red skull-cap on his head, stockings to match of red silk, with the nattiest shoes on the neatest feet, set off by gold buckles. I cannot positively assert that Antonelli is handsome, but he has a fine Roman face, almost Zingaro in character, with brilliant black eyes, and that rich sun-burnt complexion common to Italians. The expression of his countenance is excellent; and the suavity and kindness of his manner in receiving a party of ladies (who must have been a great nuisance to him) admirable. 286 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. My companion the countess was intimately acquainted with him and his family; nevertheless, her reverence for a cardinal prince operated on her so strongly, that she cast herself on her knees before him and kissed the hem of his robe — a proceeding he vigorously opposed, but without succeeding. My genuflexions were also profound, but of a more moderate character, as became a protester , within the precincts of the Vatican. The cardinal led us into a charming boudoir, or drawing-room beyond, exquisitely furnished: sofas and chairs of the richest Berlin work; carpets into which one’s feet sank, as it were, to rise no more; walls covered with valuable paintings in glowing frames; and crystal cabinets enshrining priceless collections of those articles named of “ bigotry and virtue.” The windows looked out over the great Piazza of St. Peter’s, and formed part of the fagade that faces high up over the colonnades to the right. Sure never were fairer apartments wherein a favoured cardinal kept his state; not even Wolsey at Hampton Court was better or more nobly lodged. We two ladies were seated on the sofa, while the cardinal placed himself opposite, and it was then I fell to admiring the extreme beauty of his foot and the almost feminine whiteness and deli- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 287 cacy of his hands, where on one finger sparkled a superb emerald. A conversation now began with the contessa, who rattled away in a lively, sparkling way on a variety of subjects. She spoke of her desire to make converts to the Catholic faith. Antonelli received her remarks with a silent smile. “I,” said he, after a pause, “ being a Catholic and a cardinal, naturally would desire to see all the world even as myself — come son io stesso — but such a change should arise from deep conviction and mature reflection in order to be acceptable to God. I little admire the violent efforts of those who think that by promiscuously making converts they perform a good and acceptable work. For worldly motives to operate in such a question is obviously most improper, and I much fear many sudden conversions of inconsiderate persons arise from that cause.” These were noble sentiments, and came with double force from Rome and the Vatican in the nineteenth century. After this little rebuff to the good-natured but over-zealous countess, who so eagerly desires to see the whole world within the embrace of the “one true Church,” the conversa- tion turned on England. Of that country the cardinal professes himself a great admirer. And 288 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the extraordinary memory which he possesses! All he reads he remembers, even to the most minute descriptions of public buildings, streets, & c. He told us that he had astonished the Duchess of S by describing to her exactly the exterior of her London mansion. “Why, you never told me you had been in London,” exclaimed she. “I have never been there,” replied the cardinal; “but I read some years ago a description of the great London houses, and I remember some of the distinctive features of your Grace’s mansion. And,” continued he, “I have surprised Germans and French too with my accurate descriptions of certain marked features in their capitals.” He inquired particularly about myself, taking really a lively interest in much I told him. “Come to me,” said he, “if I can serve you. It would give me pleasure to be useful to you.” Twenty requests were on my lips in a moment, especially an introduction to a certain ambas- sadress; but I reflected that the offers of princes were sufficiently complimentary and gracious in themselves, and, like relics, should be hung up to be venerated and admired, but not to be used. However, I must observe, par parenthhe , respect- ing Cardinal Antonelli, that I knew an English DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 289 lady really in distress to whom his kindness and protection, when invoked, were quite Samaritan. We chatted on in the most agreeable way for more than half an hour, and, although prepared to move, the cardinal did not allow conversation to flag for an instant. He made the contessa quite happy by promising her the consecrated candle which he was to bear at the approaching feast of the Purification, one of the grandest in the Roman calendar; and charmed me by the paternal kindness with which he addressed her as daughter, calling her mia figlia , with the most graceful tact possible, assuming thus his own position while he indicated hers. At last we rose to depart, when the contessa, spite of all opposition, would perform the same genuflexions, although he exclaimed — “ Ma — le prego — Davvero mi duole — Come viai ,” &c. He shook hands with me, and actually conducted us to the outer door of his private rooms — an atten- tion duly observed by the servitii in waiting, who received us with all manner of homage in conse- quence. So we retreated, quite comblees d'honneurs , and descended to our carriage in the best pos- sible humour with ourselves and all the great universal world. An Idle Woman in Italy. /. 19 29O DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. CHAPTER XIV. A Roman Jumble, or Sketch of a Day. One of these fine, bright, sunshiny days is so mixed and varied by all sorts of sights, that it is like a mimic life. The four-and-twenty hours extend and dilate into a well-filled existence, and I find myself taking in so many and varied ideas, and passing through such shifting scenes, that, unless I came home and put it all down, I could never believe one day would afford so kaleido- scopic a variety. It is only at Rome one can spend such days, where the present and the past meet, clash, or harmonise, as the case may be; where one may rush from the catacombs to the marionnettes, or from an appointment with the Holy Father to the hurdle-race ridden by real English jockeys. New phases of life open out with the passing hour, each by turns engrossing, enticing, intoxicating to various minds. Every chord of intellectual sympathy is touched, and the spirit grows well-nigh paralysed under the over- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2QI whelming sense of its utter inability to grasp even a portion of the mighty whole that unfolds in all its excellence before it. The sculptor — the painter — the antiquary — the lover of antique art — the philosopher — the interpreter of Christian antiquity — the pro found theologian — the admirer of Nature in her wildest and most unadorned beauty — the epicurean, who delights in sumptuous palaces, marble halls, and pillared terraces, stretching into orange groves luxuriant in tropical profusion — the sportsman who revels in his exhilarating flight across the free Campagna — the fine lady, who lives only for routs and balls and incessant dissi- pation — the nonchalant elegant , her husband, who reads the Times, and lives at “the club” all day — the solitary pilgrim, journeying from distant lands to fall prostrate before Christ’s vicegerent upon earth — the soldier who loves reviews and the “pomp and circumstance” of war — the lawyer, who buries himself in musty libraries — the architect, come from the far North to study classic porticoes, colonnades, and piazzas of Palladian palaces built for the bright summer, glorious as its sun, where other Romeos may love, and still fairer Juliets be wooed, under the shadow of deep cypresses, in azure nights when reigns a softer day — the musical dilettante, who finds here the best opera in har- 19* 29 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. monious Italy — last of all, the idle rich vagabond, without end or aim in his senseless life, simply seeking for amusement, — Rome, in her boundless multiplication of varied resources, will satisfy and fascinate. In the morning I strolled into the Borghese Gallery, always invitingly open — that superb palace which flings back as it were disdainfully the meaner houses pressing upon its long fagades, stretching away down entire streets. Little Pauline Bona- parte must have felt rather proud when, on enter- ing the grand central cor tile, with its open gal- leries and graceful colonnades, she was hailed as its mistress. The apartments devoted to the picture-gallery are on the ground-floor, and of almost intermin- able extent, ending in a corridor decorated with a sparkling fountain, and commanding a lovely view of St. Peter’s, rising out of the green meadow encircling the Vatican on that side, and extending to the water-side. Close under the windows rolls the turbid Tiber, widened here into the Porta di Ripetta, with divers squat, miniature steamers rid- ing on its muddy current, which take passengers and cattle (the latter decidedly predominating) up the river as far as possible into the dreary Cam- pagna. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 293 I had already visited the Borghese Gallery many times, but it is a place not to see, but to live in, among those grandest pictures time has spared. I of course saluted the divine Sibyl — the presiding deity of the whole collection, singularly bright and glowing for the usually sombre pencil of Domenichino. I cannot but look, however, on that picture as intended for a St. Cecilia rather than for the pagan prophetess. Then there is her magnificent rival, Circe, by that wonderful colourist the Ferrarese Dosso Dossi, who has here called forth the most gorgeous ensemble of beauty the eye ever rested on. There is a strange repose in the aspect of the enchanted wood within whose shadow she rests, dressed in a rich Eastern costume, drawing around her circles of magic incantations, which she calmly watches, as though certain of success. Of what a different class are the Sacred Fa- milies by Andrea del Sarto! — monotonous in ex- pression and grouping, always the same face of his somewhat Dutch-featured wife, with nearly the same head-dress, but soft and harmonious in colouring, as though his brush had been dipped in morning dew: ruggiadoso , as the Italians have it — a word dropping as it were with glittering dewdrops. 294 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. But most of all do I revel in three or four pictures in the Venetian rooms; specially those grandly beautiful Graces, by Titian, bearing the bow and quiver of Cupid, whose eyes Venus (a type of perfect loveliness) is binding. Where did Titian procure such models? or didYiz ever procure such models? Rather are they not visions of his glowing imagination called forth from the vasty depths of his own Venetian skies, as he floated in his gondola under the fragrant shade of the green islets that encircled his native Venice? Then comes “Sacred and Profane Love,” con- templating each other on opposite sides of a well, with Cupid between them playing with the water: the one calm, reserved, reflective, clothed in white robes of the Venetian style, wearing flowers in her auburn hair; the other vain and careless, with a certain abandon in her attitude, revealing her terrestrial propensities — the ever-lighted lamp of pleasure burns in her upraised hand, as she turns towards her staid companion, her graceful limbs concealed by no jealous drapery, but set off by the red mantle lying near, and the thick, tangling tresses of golden hair falling over her snowy shoulders. What shades, what magic colouring enchant the eye in these glorious works of Titian, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 295 he who created at pleasure the entire circle of Olympus — free, open, and serene! Hard by hangs Giorgione's “David," clad in a complete suit of silver- steel, standing out from the canvas with the power of a basso-relievo, the personification of a chivalrous knight, though, sooth to say, as little indicative of the young Israelite as possible. This picture is a fine speci- men of the painter's austere, emphatic manner. I have generally an objection to chefs-d'oeuvre , and will frankly confess that I care neither for Raphael's “Entombment" — to my mind a feeble, inexpressive group, always admitting the extreme beauty of some of the heads — or for Correggio's “ Danae," a picture where connoisseurs profess to admire the finish of his chiaro-oscuro and the transparent brilliancy of the lights. To me she appears a mincing, ill-limbed, quite unattractive nymph — ungracefully sprawling on a couch, and not at all worthy the fuss Jupiter made about her. Nor do I care to dwell on Garofalo's great picture, stiff and mannered, though admirably coloured; but my eye rests with delight on that noblest of Raphael's portraits, called “Caesar Borgia," where the painter has evoked so vivid and imposing a likeness of that depraved but 2g 6 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. romantic man, who horrifies yet delights one by the alternate depths of wickedness and bravery, of cruelty and intellect, that chequer his life. There, encased in that frame, he stands; and every one who has ever heard his once dreaded name can read his character in those bold, com- manding eyes, which seem to follow one round the room like an evil spirit. I delight in the murmuring fountain splashing melodiously over the porphyry pedestal in the centre of the great hall, the only sound that breaks the silence of those endless rooms. And I delight, too, in the chamber of mirrors, where painted garlands and festoons obscure the brilliant glass which they are intended to decorate. Cupids lurk among the flowers, and roll in very joyous- ness under their perfumed shade: while gilding and stucco, and statues and marbles, enrich the walls and the ceiling. Even for stately, palatial Rome this is a glorious old palace, and my memory will often fondly return to it, summoning back the pleasant hours I have dreamed away in its silent halls. From the Borghese Palace I ordered the car- riage to drive by the Corso towards the Aventine. The Corso to me bears the impress of a perpetual festa, arising, I suppose, from reminiscences of the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 297 Carnival and those two hours of the “Moccoli,” when its lofty sides become transformed into cavernous precipices of incessantly-moving lights, glittering and sparkling with an eccentric will-o’- the-wisp brilliancy, that puts the pale stars to shame. At the top of the Corso the dark turrets of the Austrian ambassador’s palace frown down on the ever-gathering crowd below — all that remains of the feudal ages in Rome. Built, like the Farnese and so many other palaces, from the spoils of the Coliseum, it was once inhabited by Charles VIII., when, full of young and untaught presumption, that carpet-knight descended into Italy, as he imagined, to behold and to conquer, until the Keys of St. Peter and the Lion of Venice gave him such sore blows he was glad to return to “la belle France.” This imposing structure, more a fortress than a palace, is the only spot in Rome which really preserves the characteristics of the middle ages. Connected with the Piazza and Palazzo di Venezia is the glowing little church of San Marco, the glittering new-fledged daughter of a glorious time-honoured mother, on the placid waves of the blue Adriatic. Near at hand a whole faubourg of palaces raise their proud heads in mutual rivalry — the Doria, the Altieri, and the Torlonia, where that citizen keeps his state by 298 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the side of Rome’s most ancient nobles. Presiding over the district appears the sumptuous church of the Gesu, dark and sombre in its magnificence as the pages of its annals. Here, in a gorgeous chapel, lapped in a funereal urn of bronze and gold, under a winding-sheet of marble, with precious stones and Oriental alabaster heaped around, the whole surmounted by an enormous globe of lapis-lazuli, lies Ignatius Loyola — his mausoleum as resplendent as his life was poor. Statues people the lofty aisles; pictures animate the glittering altars; the rarest marbles sustain the roof; and the most precious metals form the capitals. His history is written on the walls in marble and in bronze, and an image of solid silver adorns the altar. Enthusiastic, devoted, brave, the Spanish monk was the latest, and per- haps the strongest, support of the Church. Its foundations, sapped by Luther, were sustained by Loyola. Strange contrast! theGuelphic shrine of Loyola hard by the Ghibelline palace of the Austrian Caesar! Theocracy and feudality face to face, measuring each other like two athletes in an arena! Another palace is near, forming a part of this suggestive corner, but, like the history of its race, it lies detached — that of Madame M£re, where once resided the mother of the plebeian DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2Q q Charlemagne, a ruler who, if fate had spared him, would have really established throughout Italy lo buon stato of which poor Rienzi dreamed. But I have been tempted to linger on my road, and at this rate shall never complete, as I desire, the day that I have chalked out. Let us on to the Aventine, once divided from the Pala- tine and the Capitoline Hills , in the days when history was young, by a marsh so profound that the plebs of Rome could only reach their favourite hill in boats. On we go, skirting the open ground where stands the temple of Vesta, the prettiest ruin perhaps in the world, its base washed by the Tiber, and the church, known as the Bocca della Verita once a temple dedicated to Ceres — mounting an ascent, up the steep side of the Aventine, where none but Roman horses could have kept their footing, to say nothing of dragging a heavy carriage after them. I was ex- tremely alarmed at finding our centre of gravity so utterly unsupported; but as the Italian coach- man only laughed at my fears, and declared it would be a vergogna towards himself if I did not allow him to proceed, I was fain to sit still and resign myself to my fate. Arrived at the summit, horrid, envious walls rose up, bordering lonely lanes which opened out in various directions. Not 300 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. a soul appeared — not a sound was heard, save the busy hum of men below, blended with the rushing waters of the Tiber. Above, all was solitude and desolation. The very ruins are no more; destruction and time have not spared a stone. The Aventine possesses only suggestive recollections. Instead of being crowned by the sacred Grove dedicated to the Furies, it is belted by a noble zone of churches. The walls, how- ever, were impenetrable; and I could only dis- mount and dream of Hercules and his victory over the ancient monster, and remember the un- propitious augury of Remus, and rebuild in my own mind the magnificent shrines and temples that once uprose on this hill in honour of Diana, erected by the united Latin tribes in emulation of her great fane at Ephesus — the stately edifices in honour of Juno, and of the Bona Dea, who sat enthroned, crowned with her mural coronet. It was on the Aventine that the last Gracchus re- tired to die — that Marius was born — and, more interesting still, that the second separation of the senate from the people occurred after the death of Virginia in the Forum. Those words of fire in which he dedicated the soul of Appius to the infernal gods had no sooner been spoken by Virginius than the plebeians, goaded to madness, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 301 retired to the Aventine; but not before the body of the slaughtered Virginia had been borne in solemn procession through the city, followed by the Roman matrons and damsels strewing flowers, jewels, and locks of their own hair as offerings to her offended manes. Virginius, on returning to Rome from Mount Algidus with the revolted legions, encamped on the Aventine. Here, too, were situated those once beautiful Horti Serviliani, in whose groves Nero took refuge when he fled from his golden house during the sedition that cost him his life. The Tiber lay invitingly at his feet, as it winds round the abrupt slopes of the Aventine, and he de- termined to end his life by a plunge in its waters; but, pusillanimous and undecided, he, who was unworthy to live, wanted courage to die ! Along the centre of the hill extends a broad road, where stand three churches — Santa Sabina, San Alessio, and the Priorato — without doubt erected on the site of pagan temples. I tried in vain to obtain admission to San Alessio; but I penetrated into its neighbour (only divided from it by a garden), and entered a cor tile, within which stands the dignified but modern-looking church of Santa Sabina, on the supposed site of 30 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the temple of Juno Regina. It might have served as a portico to a city of the dead, so desolate was its aspect. Grass grew in the cor tile, and moss had gathered round the columns. Un- broken silence prevailed: the very birds were silent, and I felt actually afraid of waking the melancholy echoes by pulling a bell at one of the great doors. After waiting some time — for in Italy patience becomes one of those cardinal virtues one is forced daily to practise — a boy appeared and opened the church, a fine large building of basi- lican form, but exceedingly damp and chilly, with scarcely a vestige of antiquity remaining. In a side chapel is one of the most beautiful pictures in Rome, the “ Virgin of the Rosario,” painted by Sassoferrato, which, being hung in a good light, is seen to perfection. It reminded me of those pretty verses (a remnant of the republic) addressing the Virgin as — “ Maria della bionda testa I capelli son fila d’oro, Rimirando quel bel tesoro, Tutti gli angeli fan festa.” The Virgin, a beautiful creature, not too much idealised, draped in red, presents the infant Saviour to San Dominico and Santa Catarina of DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 303 Siena, who, habited as a nun, kneels at her feet. There is a sweet youthfulness in the figure of the saint which is extremely touching; a sort of de- votional abandon in her prostrate attitude full of expression. Beautiful angels, graceful as Albano’s Cupids, hover above, bearing a red flag or drapery over the Virgin, the warm tones of which harmonise charmingly with her robe and the white lily at her feet. I left the church and strolled along the sum- mit of the Aventine, silent and musing as all nature around. The sun shone hotly, though in January; and all around prevailed that death-like repose peculiar to mid-day in Italy. I wandered into the open cancello of a villa, and followed a dark walk of overarching box and ilex, on to a stone terrace overlooking the city, which lay at my feet, divided by the river into two unequal portions. There was the Ponte Rotto, now broken no longer, a handsome iron suspension-bridge connecting the old Roman arches yawning on either side of the river. Beyond, in the centre of the current, was the island of the Tiber, with its ship-like prow, still retaining the artificial ap- pearance of a vessel which the ancient Romans gave to the spot where stood the once magnificent temple of Esculapius. On the opposite or Tras- 304 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. tevere side, gardens filled with richly-laden orange and lemon trees enlivened the long sombre lines of the houses, flinging back the sun's rays, and lighting up the bright globes of fruit that clus- tered on the dark boughs; the Janiculum hill backing the prospect broken by villas and casinos, with here and there a solitary pine tree. The church of the Priorato is situated in this romantic garden, belonging now to Cardinal Marini, and incorporated into his villa. Within the church, its walls all white as the driven snow, lie monumental effigies of Knights of Malta in full armour, carved in marble, stretched in stern repose, each on his funereal pile. The woman custode threw open a wide door, and a glorious view burst into sight. Rome was invisible, but the windings of the Tiber through the leafy groves called Campi del Popolo Romano, and the desolate Monte Testaccio, surmounted by a single cross, occupied the foreground. Beyond lay the low, marshy Campagna towards Ostia, broken by the magnificent basilica of San Paolo fuori le Mura, surrounded by vineyards and gar- dens, the trees just bursting into snowy blossoms. All save this bright spot was indescribably melan- choly. In the surrounding plain, malaria, ruin, decay, and pestilence unite to form a wilderness DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 305 noxious in summer both to man and beast. The wind sighed gently as it rose from the plain, fanning the deep woods of the garden, like the voice of Nature mourning over the desolation of this once rich and pleasant land. I turned into a little lawn in the surrounding garden, where grew an immense palm tree, at whose foot ran a little streamlet, issuing from a broken fountain, presided over by some mutilated god of ancient Rome, now shorn of his fair pro- portions, “sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.” By this time the whole population of the custode’s family having gathered round the forestiera , all repeating the usual cry of “ Dammi qualche cos a” I beat a rapid retreat. The roads along theAventine, now mounting- up, then dashing down, covered with rough masses of unbroken rubbish, would be the despair of any but Roman coachmen, who possess the art of teaching their horses to climb like cats. Down at last we jolted into a deep hollow at the back of the Forum, to a dirty, miserable open space, where the wretched malefactors of modern Rome are executed. A more dreary place to die in can scarcely be conceived. It was but a moment, and the intervening walls shut out the dreary arena where crime sighs An Idle Woman in 7ialy. I. 20 306 diary of an IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. out its last wretched groan; and I found myself descending into a kind of hole before an ancient church in my search for the Cloaca Maxima, whither I was bound. Beside the church, and much below the level of the surrounding buildings, stands a well-preserved marble arch, low, but of massive proportions, having four distinct arched entrances, marking the meeting of four ancient highways. Rows of niches, separated from each other by small columns, still remain, indicating where statues once stood; and it has a solid, sub- stantial look, defying even now time and decay. The arch is that of Janus Quadrifrons, and the church is that of St. George, whose name, joined to our national cry of “Merrie England,” still de- fies the world. Close beside the church (a grotesque old pile, sinking into mother-earth out of sheer weakness and old age) stands another arch, almost incor- porated into the building, richly decorated with arabesques and bas-reliefs, erected to Septimus Severus by the bankers and tradesmen of the city. On one side appears the emperor, with his con- sort Julia; on the other, their sons Geta and Caracalla, though the figure of the former has been effaced by order of the brother who so bar- barously caused his death. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 307 Here was a rich corner that detained me some time, though no Cloaca could I discover, and the solitude was unbroken by the appearance of even a beggar. I was just going away in despair, when I was attracted towards a pretty garden in which some labourers were working. On my asking where was the Cloaca, one of the men led me along a little pathway to a screen of orange trees skirting a bank, from whence the ground fell rapidly towards a deep watery ditch, penetrating the adjoining houses through an arch, precisely as a stream passes under a mill. “Ecco,” said he, “la Cloaca.” The place swarmed with washerwomen, who scrub perpetually at small reservoirs in the thick- ness of the wall, under the massive vaults once the pride of Rome. I was infinitely disappointed, and could only marvel at the high trumpetings which lead half Europe to gaze on an impure ditch! It is all very well for books and antiquarians to tell us that those blocks of stone are of Etruscan architecture, and were hewn and constructed in the time of Tarquinius Priscus, fifth king of Rome; but these details do not alter the fact that the much-extolled Cloaca, through which Strabo says a waggon loaded with hay might once pass, must now be 20* 308 diary of an IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. classed as one of the many disagreeable objects from which one turns disgusted away. While I stood there, a Cistercian monk entered the garden dressed in white, with the red and blue cross peculiar to the order conspicuous on his breast. He had spied me out, and came to ask for “elemosina,” that universal chorus of the modern Roman tongue. He was a venerable- looking old man, and I fell into conversation with him. “You are English ?” said he. I owned the soft impeachment. “You are a Catholic ?” “No,” replied I. “Are there,” said he, “many convents in England?” “Very few,” said I, “and we wish that there were still fewer. Monks may be very well here — in questo paese — but we are too active and busy in the North to admire them.” “Alas!” said he with a sigh, “la Madonna vi aiuta! Our great convent,” continued he, “is in France; there are none of our order in England, dove per lo piu so bene che ci sono pochi Christiani” — such being the opinion Catholics ex- press when they speak frankly of us, who esteem ourselves the lamps of the world, the sun and DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 309 centre of civilisation! We are not even Christians! 0 miserere! In this obscure neighbourhood are the now nearly invisible remains of the Circus Maximus, under the shadow of the Palatine, which rises abruptly aloft, crowned with the stupendous ruins of the palace of the Caesars. The Circus, situated in a vale between that hill and the Aventine, must ever be interesting as the well-known site of the rape of the Sabine women. Successive rulers, from the time of Tarquinius Priscus to the Emperor Claudius, enlarged and embellished this the grandest monument of Rome before the erection of the Flavian Coliseum. Gold, marbles, statues, and altars were not wanting for the adornment of this raliving-point of two hun- dred and sixty thousand spectators, where horse, chariot, and foot-races, wrestling, boxing, and combats with wild beasts, varied their amusement. On the spina passing down the centre of the arena were erected the two obelisks now adorning the Piazza del Popolo and the square of the Lateran, at whose base were placed the bands of music that enlivened the audience during the games. Of the vast multitude who age after age ap- plauded the skill of the charioteers and the courage of the gladiators, history only records the grati- 310 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. tude of the lion to the generous Androcles, who, being exposed to fight with wild beasts, was re- cognised by a lion from whose paw he had some time before extracted a thorn, who fawned upon him in the midst of that great circus, and licked his hand. Even the iron Romans were interested by so touching a sight, and the gratitude of the noble animal saved his benefactor’s life. Alas for the utilitarian nineteenth century! the site of this once superb arena is now converted into a gasometer, as red and as flaunting and ill- odoured as any gasometer in any little country town; and here is a pert little white house in the centre of the yard, and a cast-iron railing in front fresh from Birmingham, desecrating the soil where kings, dictators, and Caesars held their imperial state, their gorgeous togas sweeping the mosaic floors as they passed out of their gilded palaces on the Palatine down through the marble colon- nades of the stately Forum, to witness the cruel pageant displayed on “a Roman holiday.” Leaving this part of the city, I drove by the Coliseum towards the magnificent basilica of San Giovanni Laterano, the parent church of Rome, whose porticoes and domes crown the Coelian Hill, and are approached through a long park-like avenue extending from the grand facade of the 312 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY, plateaux of grass, jumbled together in a manner quite irrational for this country. My day had already been varied enough, but there were still further contrasts in waiting, as it was not more than three o’clock, and our list not yet completed. How intoxicating it was thus to sur- render oneself to the varying impressions, scenes, sights, and wonders around, making one day in Rome richer, fuller, and more satisfying than years of ordinary life! I re-entered the grand old walls that yet girdle Rome — those walls so broken by ruined towers, and castellations, and mouldering arches, with here and there higher towers flanking Etruscan-looking gates breaking the shadows that began to fall, with glimpses of bright sunshine. We passed through a maze of dirty cavernous streets, damp and mouldy, and unwarmed by the life-giving sun, to where the Forum of Trajan sinks below the modern level of the city, in an oblong piazza strewed with broken columns and capitals, and surrounded by a square of shabby, commonplace houses. Let us pause for a moment before proceeding onwards under the portico of one of those Siamese- twin churches flanking its extremity, and recall a few of the recollections that spontaneously arise. ' DIARY OF AN IDLE WQMAN IN ITALY. 3 I 3 All the world knows that the sculptured marble column — in which I can see no beauty — rising before us, once served as a pedestal to the statue of Trajan, whose life was passed in continually running over the world in search of fresh enemies and renewed battles. He who must be execrated as one of the persecutors of the Christians is now dethroned from his lofty stand * and replaced by a statue of St. Peter, erected in rather questionable taste by Sixtus Y. The Forum beneath was de- signed by Domitian, and executed by Trajan, under the superintendence of that same architect, Apollodorus, who afterwards lost his life for daring to utter an unfavourable criticism on the temple of Venus and Rome, designed by the Emperor Adrian. Beside it once stood the Ulpian Basilica. Here Constantine the Great, seated in the tribune of that superb edifice, surrounded by dignitaries, senators, and princes, a goodly company, where the West greeted the East — many of them, how- ever, being pagans, who listened with horror and rage — in the presence of the assembled multitude, whose loud and frequent applause, echoing down the triple aisles and into every columned recess, shewed that Christianity had at last found many believers — here, I say, Constantine proclaimed “Christianity the religion of the world, and ex- 314 diary of an idle woman in Italy. horted all to abjure the errors of a superstition the offspring of ignorance, folly, and vice.” These words, that still sound, after the lapse of fifteen centuries, grand, solemn, and impres- sive, were received by a populace mad with joy, who for two hours echoed a chorus of “ maledic- tion on those who denied the Christians,” repeat- ing “that the God of the Christians was the only God, that his enemies were the enemies of Augustus, and that the temples should now be shut, never more to be reopened; and calling on the emperor to banish from Rome that very day and hour every priest of the false gods.” But Constantine (whom God seemed to have inspired with the very spirit of wisdom) replied, “That there was this distinc- tion between the service of God and that of idols — that the one was voluntary, and the other forced, God being honoured by the sincere affection and belief of the intelligent creature he had created in his image. Therefore,” continued he, “let those who refuse to become Christians fear nothing; for, however much we desire that they should follow our pious example, it is alone by persuasions, and not by force, we would induce them.” Having thus spoken, the emperor descended from his throne, and, passing out of the great portico by the equestrian statue of Trajan, proceeded to his * DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 315 palace at the Lateran in the midst of the applause of his subjects, after which all the city was bril- liantly illuminated. A spot so consecrated in the history of Christianity, in itself the most architec- turally beautiful monument in Rome, was spared even by the ruthless barbarians, but towards the ninth and tenth centuries the city was given up to internal disorders and excesses of all kinds, and to that period may be referred the ruin of this, as well as many of its other most ancient sites. From the Forum of Trajan I hastened to the church of San Giuseppe-of-the-Carpenters near by, beneath which lie the Mamertine prisons. The exterior (fronting the Roman Forum, only divided from that of Trajan by a small block of houses) is prettily painted in bright frescoes: a double staircase conducts to the portico, somewhat raised from the ground. I passed into the interior of the small church — its walls almost covered with ex voto offerings — and after some difficulty succeeded in unearth- ing the custode, whose presence was indispensable, as I intended descending to the Mamertine prisons below. The custode, good man, was well used to his trade, and soon produced the torch which was to lighten our darkness in our descent under the 3 I 6 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. arch of Septimus Severus into the very bowels of classical Rome. An iron wicket guards the en- trance into the vaults, from which we descended to the first dungeon, of rather large proportions when compared with the dismal piombi of Venice. But the rigour and sternness of the Republican Romans are visible even in the architecture, the walls being formed of great blocks of solid tufa joined without cement, like the cyclopean walls of the Etruscan cities that crown the Latin hills. On one side of the ceiling were the remains of what once was a trap-door, now walled up, through which the bodies of prisoners condemned to the lingering tortures of starvation were drawn up after death. This upper prison is now con- verted into a chapel, and has an altar bearing hideous effigies of St. Peter and St. Paul. No- thing could have been visible but for the torch carried by our custode, a garrulous old man, who had no scruple in making the solemn walls echo to his gossiping, interlarded with many a “Si, signora ” — “Mi favor is ce di qui” — “Vuole vedere di la,” &c. Down some steep and narrow stairs we descended to the lower prison — small, con- fined — the great masses of unhewn stone just over our heads. This is the Tullian dungeon, authen- tically traced as existing as far back as the reign DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 317 of Ancus Martius, having been completed by Servius Tullius, whence its name. In this suf- focating hole, where the infernal gods reign supreme, and a heavy and unwholesome air only penetrates through a small round hole opening into the upper prison, died by starvation that gallant son of the Desert, the brave Jugurtha, who nobly defended his country against the Roman arms. Here his ardent spirit burst its earthly bonds in solitude and darkness, while, regardless of his unmerited fate, the Roman senators and proud patricians, swelling in the pride of power, gathered their ample togas around them as they swept through the stately colonnades of the neigh- bouring Forum. Here, too, by order of Cicero, or rather of his wife, the haughty Terentia, the wretched Romans concerned in Catiline’s con- spiracy were strangled. In these prisons died also the vile Sejanus, that cruel and degraded panderer to the base passions of the brutal Tiberius. Historical tradition confidently names this as the locality where St. Peter was imprisoned, and as such it will be venerated by every denomina- tion of Christians until the day when the earth shall exist no more. I cannot give expression to the contending feelings that agitated me as I 3 I 8 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. glanced round on the very walls where his eyes had rested, and placed my hand on the very pillar to which he was chained, when I pictured his sufferings, his heavenly consolations, and hor- rible death. Such emotions are overwhelming, and can only be realised in full force on the very localities where, as with Thomas the Apostle, one’s finger touches the sacred marks, and the doubting soul is, as it were, forced into belief. Here is the spring said to have gushed miracu- lously forth out of the solid stones (and solid in- deed they are, and of Etruscan massiveness) in order to enable the Apostles Peter and Paul to baptize, during their imprisonment, the keepers of the prison, Processus and Martinian, who were so powerfully affected by the teaching and example of the Apostles, that, on the return of Nero from his Grecian expedition, they suffered martyrdom in the persecution that then commenced. The water wells up bright and pure, never rising or falling, and is now enclosed in a kind of setting of masonry, and covered by a bronze lid. After the emotions and recollections excited by these prisons I could see no more; the day, too, was already falling, and the light, when we reas- cended, had become pale and dim. I had, during the last few hours, felt, admired, and examined DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 319 so much, my mind was oppressed by the weight of recollections. On returning home I caught up a pen in furore , determined to convey on paper, however faintly, some idea of the variety offered by one day’s sight-seeing at Rome. PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. BY FRANCES ELLIOT, AUTHOR OF 44 PICTURES OF OLD ROME.” COPYRIGHT EDITION, IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. LEIPZIG BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 1872. The Right of Translation is reserved . CONTENTS OF VOLUME II. Page CHAPTER I. The Artists’ Festa 7 — II. A Roman Steeple-chase — The Martyr-Church of Santa Martina and Accademia of San Luca— Footsteps of St. Peter and St. Paul — An English Hunt at Rome — Martyrdom of Sixtus II. and St. Lawrence — Church of St. Lawrence — A Singular Tradition — Circus of Romulus — Tomb of Cecilia Metella . . 23 — III. The Carnival — The Valley and Fountain of Egeria — Society and the Artist World . . 67 — IV. A Classical Excursion to Albano and Nemi, intended for those fond of the History of the Past 92 — V. Something about Nuns and Convents— The Quirinale and Pius IX 126 — VI. The Holy Week — The “ Miserere” — The La- vandaia— The Cena — The Sepulchre — Castel Fusano — Ostia — Modern Readings of Virgil 156 — VII. The Adoration — The Lateran — Mass of the Resurrection — Trinitk dei Pellegrini — An Anecdote — The Environs of Rome — Rocca di Papa — Maria— Home Scenes . . . 188 6 CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, Page CHAPTER VIII. Monte Cavo — Home Life — Maria— The Geese — The Dance — Marino, and Gossip about its History — A Night at a Convent 222 — IX. A Hot Day in Rome — Sunsets — The Tra- montana-Classical Recollections of Al- bano and Castello — The Festa of the Ma- donna del Tufo — Characters . . . 255 — X. Feast of SS. Peter and Paul — St. Peter’s Illuminated —The Girandola 284 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. CHAPTER I. The Artists’ Festa. One day, and another day, had been talked of for the artists’ festa, annually celebrated at Rome, unless wars, or rumours of wars, or bloody red republicanism scare the old walls of the Caesars from their propriety. A certain Monday was fixed, and we set forth, a merry circle, chiefly of American friends, de- termined, like the charity children sent down by the railway for an excursion in the country, “to make a day of it.” Eight o’clock saw us emerg- ing from the Porta Salara, with its entourage of beautiful villas, each enshrouded in woods of laurel, box, and ilex, traversed by long vista- walks of clipped yew and cypress heavy in unbroken shade, with terraces bordered by statues, and balustrades leading down long flights of majestic 8 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. steps to the sparkling fountains below — abodes such as no land but Italy can boast. Just now the gardens are full of roses, flowering everywhere in luxuriant masses, specially the white and yellow Banksian roses, which fling themselves over the high walls, and festoon the very trees with * wondrous-clustered blossoms. Honeysuckles, tulips, and bright ranunculuses caught our passing sight in the gay parterres. Especially, too, did I ad- mire the groves of Judas-trees, real mountains of purple blossoms, without a single green leaf to break the gorgeous colour. They are generally planted near the marble basins of the fountains, in advance of the deeper woods which serve as an admirable background. How much have those to learn who never beheld the glorious burst of spring in this luxuriant land! that idyllic season realising all the glowing descriptions of the poets. The process of renewed and opening life, occupy- ing long months in the cold North, mysterious Nature here accomplishes in a few days. The land, radiant with new life, puts on its vernal mantle of freshest green, its jewels of brightest flowers; even the sullen rocks and frowning ruins are embroidered with garlands of snowy May, and flowering grasses stream in the soft breeze. The turf becomes a perfect garden — cyclamens, ane- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 9 mones, crocuses, violets, poppies, and hyacinths growing in such profusion, that the sweet blossoms are wantonly trodden under foot. The woods too, those primaeval fortresses of ancient trees, are painted with every tint and shade of green, and vocal with innumerable nightingales, whose soft songs invite one to wander under the chequered shade, beside cool bubbling brooks and splashing fountains, all overarched by the heavens, serenely, beautifully blue. At length we bade adieu to the zone of villas clasping like an enchanted circlet the grim city walls, and entered the Campagna — a sea of emerald green. In the direction of the Porta Salara it is beautifully varied by accidents of wood and dale, high waving headlands, and broad moory valleys, through which old Tiber flows majestically down from the fat lands of Tuscany. After descending a rocky ravine, we drove along a spacious level plateau, through which the river sweeps in many windings, bordered by hills — a region of wild craggy dells and far-stretching fells and hills, some black, rocky, and dreary, others clothed with low woods and stunted shrubs, crowned here and there with a ruined tower, or an old tomb standing out sharply against the sky. We were reminded of the object of our drive by IO DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. meeting now and then a masker gaily caparisoned, on horseback; a poursuivant, all crimson and quarterings; or Stenterello, the Southern brother of “ Punch,' ” dressed in white; or a Chinaman in flowered drapery of chintz — most incongruous apparitions in that prairie wilderness. Behind, between the parting hills, uprose the great dome of St. Peter’s, sole evidence of the neighbouring city. After an hour’s space we crossed the Ponte Salara, a fine old Roman bridge, built by Belisa- rius, and drew up at the Torre, close by an an- cient tomb, surmounted by a mediaeval tower, in whose foundations an “Osteria” shelters itself — ruin upon ruin, all desolate and decayed. Here a dense crowd of maskers were awaiting the arrival of the president of the sports, grouped at the base of the old tomb. Such a medley: dia- mine! par impossible! Austrian generals mounted on donkeys, wearing great stars and orders of painted pasteboard, fighting imaginary duels with wooden swords bearing the motto, u Non amazzo;” hunters with guns, yards long, quite suitable to Glumdalclitch in a sporting mood; Mercury, fat and rosy, in a tin helmet, fringed chlamys, boots, and pantaloons; a negro; Hercules with his club, in Turkish trousers and worsted slippers; Don Quixote, with a real brass barber’s basin on his DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I I head, riding a mule; and Ganymede, painted all over with bacchanalian devices, such as decorate wayside public-houses in this land of the vine; his shoulder-knots the bottoms of rush wine-flasks, and ivy and grapes painted all over his clothes — a walking “ Spaccio di Vmo.” He had no sine- cure, by the way, Ganymede, pouring out the wine to the thirsty throng, all that livelong day. There were soldiers and gendarmes magnificent on donkeys which kicked, and now and then rolled in the road; and Venetians, in red velvet and pointed hats (recalling the dark gondolas, shooting through the bridges, and love, and in- trigue, and mystery, and cloudless skies, and snowy churches, and tinkling guitars in dear Venice); and a male Pomona, embroidered all over with amber satin apples and green leaves; and the great sea-serpent on horseback, much encumbered by the wind continually catching his tail; also a priest of Jupiter with a patched eye; Chaucer in a red mantle, with gold bells, and a close blue hood with a tail, and pointed shoes, wearing spectacles too; and a Bedouin Arab, who drove out in a small gig made of basket-work, and invested himself with appropriate drapery of black and white in a quite off-handed manner, holding the horses’ reins in his mouth, after which 12 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. he offered us coffee out of a large pot; Medea driving about in an easy calhhe with two old wo- men — getting in every one’s way, and causing those gallant souls, the donkeys, to kick; and Paul Pry, with an eye-glass as big as his head, together with an unfortunate gentleman in black, of the melancholy time of our own first Charles; others in ruff and doublet, and hat and feathers, of the Spanish or Raleigh school. Many charac- ters, however, were quite indescribable, fluttering all over with oceans of variegated ribbon, others nearly buried in flowers, and some crowned with ivy and with bay — the only wreath, possibly, they may ever win, so let them enjoy it pro tempore , poor souls! Harlequins and Shylocks — quite cor- rect from the traditions of the Ghetto; a school- boy with his satchel and tight-fitting “ whites;” a Greek with red cap and mantle looking die-away and romantic; a mediaeval page, pretty enough to please “a fair lady’s eye;” the Postilion de Long- jumeau in pink and white, a dapper little fellow bestriding a huge horse, and a vetturino in long boots and a laced coat. But I have done : how can I describe one-half, or give the faintest idea of that motley charivari , merry, noisy, many-coloured? The troops of donkeys, some laden with splendid mediaeval DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 13 heroes in a red stocking, perhaps two; horses bearing gentlemen in mufti — steady married men, “who would not condescend, could not think,” &c., of such tomfoolery; the waving banners, the trum- pets, the braying of the innumerable donkeys (which evidently felt themselves specially ill-used and victimised on this occasion, and with reason), the laughter, the cursing of the cabmen (to speak nationally) who had come out from Rome, and were indignant at any interference with their wretched cattle (one little man in particular got so violent, and gave utterance to such a volley of Italian oaths, I thought he would have had a fit; indeed, he was only stopped by the Austrian general belabouring him with his wooden sword), the Babel of languages, English, American, Ger- man, French, Italian, each louder than the other, but the Teutonic guttural decidedly predominat- ing, as did the artists of that nation. In the midst of this universal hubbub, all eyes were sud- denly directed to the bridge, where appeared a Red Indian crowned with waving ostrich’s feathers, clad in skins, embroidered and edged with rich fringes, wearing a necklace of coral and big shells, his face painted and streaked with black, and crimson, and brown, mounted on a big horse covered with leopard-skins. His quiver and ar^ 14 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. rows were slung at his back, and with a rifle in his hand he galloped forward in a wild, reckless way, looking altogether quite terrific. Never did I behold such a happy masquerade. He was re- ceived with shouts of applause as he dashed over the bridge, and he had not been on the ground five minutes before three different artists implored him to sit to them for his portrait. Next went forth the cry that the president was coming, and the Germans cried “Platz!” and the Italians “Largo!” and the English “Make way,” and a passage was cleared through the crowd for a huge triumphal car slowly passing over the bridge, wreathed and enveloped with laurel, and olive, and bay, containing a knight of portly and noble bearing, clad in cloth of gold, and wearing a helmet. This was the president, a very Bacchus- god, whose broad, smiling countenance told of merry nights spent with boon companions over the rich wine, more than of days of study. His helmet was garlanded with vine and ivy leaves, and he looked the very condensation of the frolic, good-humour, cosmopolite jest and merriment of the festa. Yes, he was well chosen, that presi- dent: and there was a large and genial soul under that massive, manly form, that looked out from his pleasant blue eyes, dancing with glee as he DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 15 bowed and waved his helmet, while the thrilling shouts arose of “Hoch lebe der President!” “Evviva!” “Hurrah!” joined to the firing of mimic cannons, the inarticulate shouts and cries of many dialects, the braying of the donkeys, and the imprecations with which Medea and the two old ladies driving in the easy caliche were loaded for eternally getting in everybody’s way. Then the president, sitting royally on his car, distributed medals to all the artists present, quite appropriate to the occasion, being half bajocchi (the very smallest copper coin) strung with blue ribbon; these were fastened in the button-hole, and worn along with the tin drinking- cups everybody — the married dignitaries, as also the melancholy Charles I. characters — slung over his shoulders. The ambassadors were then presented; the Chinaman and his attendant, bearing an um- brella over him of brown holland, covered with dragons and monsters in coloured paper; and the Turkish minister, and the Grand Llama, and the Red Indian. Speeches were made — the deep, manly voice of the president often audible — and then songs were sung, and after that all the cavalry, the gendarmes and distinguished military authorities on donkeys, and lastly, the foot, were marshalled on the grass of the surrounding Cam- 1 6 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. pagna. One unfortunate little donkey, bearing a heavy cavalier, out of sheer desperation, positively lay down and rolled at the gate, overcome by the prospect of its manifold misfortunes. But it wouldn’t do; he was dragged up and forced to join in the muster, and then the procession was formed — the president in his pagan car, drawn by great white oxen with scarlet housings, leading the way, followed by the banners and the horse and donkeymen, Medea in the easy caliche, now fairly under way, the Bedouin in his basket-gig, and lastly, a cart loaded with barrels of wine, wreathed with laurel and bay, which poor Gany- mede will have to distribute, running about on those fat legs all day. Then the carriages fall in, and we all go driving farther out into the green wilderness so desolate and fair, along the river’s bank, whose murmuring waters are rarely drowned by such strange sounds of holiday. The solitary road along which we pass is overshadowed by the past; the merry present finds there no sympathy: hills rise around, and beyond, on the opposite bank of the river, wooded heights stretch far away into infinite space, sweeping over the plain towards the far distant, just visible Monte Soracte; and near by are rocks of a sunburnt, ruddy tint, protruding through the grass in the fissures of the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I 7 hills, giving a wild, characteristic look to an other- wise monotonous scene. We reach an opening opposite the river, flowing away with full majestic stream to the left; a broad valley, broken by a stream, cleaving asunder the low, rounded heights, and winding away through red-looking rocks, with nothing but a few ragged shrubs and tufted grass and brambles clinging to their sides. It is a sad and lonely place, like some old battle-ground heavy with the curses of the slain. There are deep grottoes, too, in the rocks, and on one side a precipitous mound of black stones and broken earth, difficult of access. On the summit of this mound the artists’ banner is planted, and flutters gaily in the wind; for it is a fresh and breezy day, divided between delicious wafts of sea breezes and a southern sun. Under the rocky mount a tent is erected for the dinner, beneath whose shade the ponderous wine-barrels are piled, fol- lowed by Ganymede ever in close attendance; and the president now, descending from the triumphal car, assembles his motley court on the hillside. The whole valley is peopled with in- congruous groups of maskers scattered here and there; hundreds of spectators bivouac among the fissures, and crevices, and chasms of the rocks, and recline on improvviso divans on the fresh An Idle Womun in Italy . II. 2 1 8 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. grass, forming a vast human amphitheatre, to wit- ness the games below on the level ground. Loud laughter and sounds of mirth soon arouse the echoes of the hills, especially when Ganymede emerges from the tent, and rushes frantically about, bearing the .wine-cup. The games are announced. First came a donkey-race — those unhappy victims of the artists’ rejoicing — with piteous brayings, being forced to carry large men, who urged them across a stream, which they positively refused. Few would go at all, being utterly regardless of the feelings of the mailed knights, and ambassadors, and nobles of high degree they bore, and the whole race ended in a grand melee and confusion. A thing very like a gibbet was then erected for riding at the ring, the riders being arranged on one side all bearing lances, with which, dashing forward, they were to carry off the ring from the hook. Chaucer, with his cap and bells, got a fall, Pomona rolled on the grass in company, and the Chinese am- bassador, whose long plaits of tow he evidently considered a masterpiece, tumbled on the top of both; the Red Indian carrying off the ring amid shouts of laughter echoing from hill to hill. This game was repeated many times with various suc- cess; then the wine-bowl passed round, and the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 19 deep bass voice of the president was heard en- couraging the sports; while the indignant donkeys brayed louder and louder, waking the whole Cam- pagna with fresh fun and frolic. At last, when the sun had become intolerably hot, and the Be- douin had long settled himself down in the shade to drink coffee out of his large pot, the dinner was announced, and the president and his court, and the masquerade company generally, adjourned to the tent, where for the space of two hours they were lost to mortal ken under the shadows of the great wine -casks. Knots formed, too, among the spectators for eating and drinking, but there was no shade, not even a bush, to temper the sun’s rays on the burning Campagna that mocked one with its fresh mantle of emerald green. I ate an excellent dinner, with the hap- piest, merriest party of Americans and Italians. We were perched on the summit of a rise, full in the sun, which neither umbrellas nor parasols could render invincible, but we were so hungry we didn’t mind it. Last of all, when the day was waning, came the distribution of the prizes. The president, glittering in golden armour, took his stand in the centre, while one by one the victors approached him — humbly kneeling as he presented to each 20 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. crockery vases of various shapes and sizes, which were received as treasures with delight and re- verence, as also a draught of wine out of his own peculiar flagon, which Ganymede had to replenish very often that sultry day, I promise you. As each successive victor retired, bearing on high his earthen vessel, he was received with loud and vociferous acclamations: deified Caesar, passing up the Forum and greeted by the as- sembled Quirites, was not more enthusiastically cheered. There was a mock solemnity about the whole scene that reminded one of enacted tableaux vivants out of Cervantes; it was the heroic age of knight-errantry admirably travestied and run mad. The grave and majestic demeanour of the pre- sident, his eyes alone twinkling with suppressed merriment, as he presented a crockery scaldino to Shylock, victor in the donkey-race, and addressed him in a speech of dignified eulogy on his gallant achievement; the gibberish conversation between himself and the Red Indian, the majestic and solemn salutations exchanged with the ambas- sadors who advanced to take their leave, all was perfectly in keeping — the sublime of the burlesque. The beautiful “Am Rhein ” was then sung in parts, as none but Germans and enthusiasts can sing it, the rocks and hills of the Campagna DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 21 echoing each long-drawn note of the rich Northern melody. It still lingers in my ear; I think I hear again the rise and fall of those many manly voices, and see their upturned faces beaming with life, and light, and energy, now deepening into one overwhelming sentiment of national remembrance. When it was all over the excitable Italians cried “Bravi” like perfect demoniacs, and rent the very air with their wild applause. The president, his broad honest face flushed with emotion, then ad- vanced into the centre of the throng, and with outstretched arms, like a very pagan patriarch, closed the rejoicings of the day by drinking one long, grand, universal lebehoch (health) to all languages, nations, people. “The entire world,” exclaimed he, “I greet in this last loving cup!” There was something catholic in this grand con- vivial salute to the universe, and it reminded me (not, as Hamlet says, “to speak it profanely”) of that thrilling scene by which the Roman Church winds up its Easter rejoicings, when the venerable pontiff, from the central balcony of St. Peter’s, with outstretched arms includes all the nations of the earth in one solemn bene- diction. After such a soul-stirring finale to a happy day, I returned home rejoicing to the eloquent 22 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. city that now, as ever, speaks with tongues of liv- ing fire to all hearts and sympathies, nourishing in her mighty bosom art, genius, learning, and religion. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 1 CHAPTER II. A Roman Steeple-chase — The Martyr-Church of Santa Martina and Accademia of San Luca — Footsteps of St. Peter and St. Paul — An English Hunt at Rome — Martyrdom of Sixtus II. and St. Law- rence — Church of St. Lawrence— A Singular Tradition — Circus of Romulus — Tomb of Cecilia Metella. There is a lonely spot in the Campagna — lonely even for that desolate wilderness — situated in a bend of the river near the Ponte Nomentana, that most picturesque of all Roman bridges, with its castellated walls and towers engrafted on the solid masses of which it is formed. Weeping willows, and feathering pollards just bursting into the brightest tints of spring, sweep across the rapid stream flowing between high banks of grass carpeted with gayest flowers. Just beyond is a low, square-shaped mound, whose green sides are unbroken even by a furze-bush: that is the Mons Sacro, so celebrated in the republican annals as the spot where the commons, or plebs, retired on account of the great numbers confined for debt, until they were pacified and brought back to the 24 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. city by the consuls. To the left a lonely ex- panse, encircled by low hills, forms a natural amphitheatre, the deep and rapid river dividing it from the road; while farther on rises abruptly an eminence once crowned by the well-known city of Antemnae, one of young Rome's bitterest rivals. The sides of the encircling hills are broken by patches of bright wheat, little dells shaded by low copse-wood, and here and there a solitary watch- tower. I have visited that natural arena, singular for its wild symmetry, when all nature has been hushed; the only moving creatures being flights of birds whirling round in giddy circles ere they launch into the blue expanse — the only sound the bleating of the goats, as they follow the shepherd home to be milked — the only foreground objects great flocks of sheep, with here and there a wild, shaggy horse browsing or galloping at will. But to-day “how altered was its sprightlier scene!" for this same lonely spot is no other than the race-course; and to-day is the “steeple- chase," and all Rome has turned out to see the fun. Clouds of dust rising high in air indicate the road from the great city, sending forth its immense visitor and native population. Antiquity, and soli- tude, and contemplation are effectually put to the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 25 rout. The bridges heavy with memories of Rome —the old towers — the sacred mount — the hills — ■ all echo to the rattling, talking, laughing multi- tude. A grand stand, ornamented with bright red drapery, that told well among the universal shade of emerald green, was erected under the hills, and there the mass of the company gathered. I took my stand on a rising ground commanding the whole space, and found myself unexpectedly in good company. The French ambassadress was there in a picturesque riding-dress, reposing a la Phillis on the grass, quite rural and touching to behold, surrounded by a whole etat-major of at- taches and officers, fancying themselves rustic for the nonce. Well, there we stood, gentle and simple, rich and poor, noble and plebeian, form- ing a diadem on that grassy mound, and all gazing on the animated scene below. At certain distances along the course, which extends about two miles, hurdles were erected; and there was a low, artificial wall, and a deep ditch which the people persisted in calling a river. Even an Italian might have ventured those leaps; but, considering discretion the better part of valour, they abstained from taking any part in such dangerous sport. Over the plain were scat- 2 6 DIARY OP AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. tered innumerable groups; and there were hun- dreds of carriages, and those toujours perdrix of- ficers — an indispensable ingredient of every Roman scene — the carabinieri keeping the course, and rushing violently about in pursuit of the unhappy and much- abused plebs. And there were fair equestrians, unmistakably Saxon, who conde- scended to curvet and canter in a show-off style quite refreshing to the profanum vulgus. Two knots of young priests clothed in scarlet (Greeks, I believe), not being allowed to descend among the mundane, stood on distant mounds, and grouped wonderfully well among the great uni- versal ocean of green. Then there were contadine in picturesque dresses, and the poetical-looking beggars who sit for models and congregate on the steps of the Trinita di Monti; and vendors of drinks — acque buone — screaming; and coachmen swearing fine-sounding classic oaths — “By the body of Bacchus!” — and, altogether, such a pretty, animated, moving scene, that I quite despair of describing it. The distant mountain-tops, still white with snow, melted lovingly into the fleecy clouds, leav- ing one in doubt which was land and which was vapour — lending a visionary and mystic frame to the prospect, and leading the mind away to un- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 27 real worlds high up in the distant heavens, or to the voiceless solitudes of primeval forests among the Alban Hills. How merrily the sun did shine, making all nature glow and palpitate with renewed life at the jocund burst of spring! This season is the real summer of the Cam- pagna, when the grass is green, the flowers blos- soming, and the low trees in the damp dells covered with leaves of a pale, delicate green. When the great heats come, all is dried up as a very potsherd, partaking of that burning tint that strikes down from heavens of brass in arid, con- suming heat — destructive to every living thing, animate or inanimate. By-and-by, after much waiting and grumbling, out dashed the horses, with their pink, and red, and yellow riders, scudding across the plain as quick as the eye could follow. Up and over they go in a trice; the hurdles are cleared, and then the ditch and the wall, clean and neat — quite beautifully taken! No, there is one brute that will lag behind; and see! he won’t leap that sham little wall. At length — see! they have all arrived safe and sound; for to be sure they were the very mildest of leaps, and the steeple-chase was surely the most innocent affair in all sporting annals. Fame says a young Frenchman won; 2 8 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. and no great glory to him either. But the good horses were English hunters — cela se comprend — so, like dear brethren as we are, the glory of victory was divided! In a moment the pent-up crowd swells over the plain in a moving mass, and we come down and drive up and down on the smooth turf to see the equipages and the people. There is Torlonia in a high English curricle, with two footmen in royal liveries behind him; and there are Americans, with blue eyes and Turkish beards; and English gentlemen in top- boots, forgetting their morgue , and becoming quite excited; and carriages full of smart wives and daughters ; and drags with six horses covered with bells, and fur, and feathers; and Italian gentlemen, very magnificent in gold chains and studs, with wonderful trousers, mounted on miserable hacks: and away we go towards home, into the mystery of dust, flying mountains high before us. I looked back, and already the lonely spot I knew so well, cleared of the ephemeral crowd, had returned to its loneliness. The sun was now sinking in purple and gold behind the mountains; long, soft shadows were spreading over the plain; down from the low hills crept the great flocks of sheep, pressing on and on to their old pastures, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2Q which the busy world had so lately usurped; the birds circled, and shot on “whirring wing” as before; and the cool evening breeze came laden with the scent of flowers and herbs, the frankin- cense Nature sends up to God’s altar in the sky. Tired of the dust, the noise, and turmoil of the Carnival, where men and women play at rude romps for a whole week, and do not even put an “antic disposition on” becomingly, I wandered up to the Capitol, and then down the steps on the other side, by the arch of Septimius Severus, to the church of Santa Martina, in a corner of the Forum. The day was cold and chill, but a warm sun fell on the steps leading to the portico of the church, where lounged all the beggars and idlers of the neighbourhood at full length — a motley assemblage of bronzed, half-naked savages, sullen- eyed and heavy- featured — clad in sheep-skin, the fur turned outwards. The church of Santa Martina, although one of the oldest martyr-churches of Rome, has been entirely and ruthlessly modernised by Pietro di Cortona, who was so satisfied with his work of destruction that he called it “his daughter.” When I say modernised, I mean made to look as lumber ly and awkward as St. George’s, Hanover Square. In form it is circular, with three prin- 30 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. cipal altars. In a niche stands the original of Canova’s “ Religion” — a majestic figure richly draped, pointed flames forming a glory round the head. Near by is the picture of an obscure martyr who suffered under an imaginary Roman emperor; some one who had his hands and feet burned off, and was killed, but somehow came to life again, and painted a picture in the Lateran church, dying after all comfortably in his bed. A flight of stairs mounting from the church Conducts to the Accademia of San Luca, to which it was attached as a sanctuary. In modern times the name of Carlo Maratti is intimately connected with its increasing celebrity, he having been its president for many years. The gallery was icy cold, and I found the custode endeavouring to warm himself over a miserable scaldino . This old fellow was a great character. “ Evviva ,” said he, starting up as I appeared. “I am delighted to receive madama. Why was she not at the Corso, to see the furore of the Carnivale? That was strange, for ladies like fun — ma, si vede bene — the signora is a dilettante . Ah, hr aval Now let us view the pictures, che sono belli , bellissimi.” He did not know half the masters, and those DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 3 I he named were wrong; but there was no putting him down. “This,” said he, “is a ‘St. Jerome/ by Titian. Ugh! che color ito, un originale. This is Fiamingo ” “Was it Rubens or Vandyke?” This question he pretended not to hear. “Si, si — Fiamingo , ecco . Un originale pro - prioS “What is that head?” said I. “The Queen of England,” replied he. “Not the present one?” “No, centuries back;” Elisabetta, he thought, was her name. “Non l bella , but she was a fine woman, and diverted herself in her day. Si e diver tit a immens ament e, ma , poi! Now the worms would not feed on her. Pah!” There was an exquisite “Venus,” by Titian, very little troubled by drapery, surveying herself in a glass held by Cupid — a charmingly-coloured work, the goddess radiant in the rich type of Venetian beauty. “ E bella” said the old fellow, scratching his head, “ma un po scoperta , ma! come si fa? Na- ture made us all, and Eve wore no petticoats.” A young man, dressed in the romantic-Ger- man-artist style, was standing by an easel, bearing 32 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. a copy of a most splendid “Claude,” one of the gems of the gallery. “ Ecco? said he, “ questo signore , he is come all the way from Genoa to copy our pictures, and it is so cold he can’t work to-day.” “ Si, davvero troppo freddo ,” replied the long- legged youth. “He is the Marchese X ,” whispered the old man; “motto gran ’ signore , ugh l Nobilissimo , but he loves the art, che gli fa onore .” “I cannot paint,” chimed in the sans-culotte marchese, “it is too cold; diantre! quel froid d cette saison!” There is much trash and many fine pictures in this collection, of which Murray says absolutely nothing. There is a splendid Titian, Diana bathing, surrounded by her nymphs, discovering Calisto, a group by no means convenable for the goddess of chastity; indeed, quite fit to figure on the walls of Fontainebleau in the time of Francis I. This picture was presented by a Russian, and when the Czar was in Rome the custode said he came to see it, and was very angry so fine a painting had been sent out of the kingdom. No wonder. It is superbly coloured, and leads one’s thoughts away to the bright blue, dancing Adriatic, mirroring the snowy churches like great snow- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 33 drifts, within whose pillared sanctuaries such treasure-pictures are stored away. The old man grunted immensely over this picture. “Ah!” said he at last, “it is dangerous to bathe sometimes — specially in company.” He seemed to have a malicious pleasure in informing me that the most decollete pictures had been the donation of different popes; and as there are many of this description, I really am afraid the associates of San Luca have, notwithstanding their saintly patron, a terrible turn for the world, the flesh, and the devil. One of the most beautiful genre pictures in Rome is here, by Guido Cagnacci, a pupil of Guido Reni’s, — Lucretia with Sextus Tarquin holding a dagger over her. Suffice it to say that it is one of those remarkable works that stand out distinct when hundreds of others fade into the mist of memory. Copies of it are multiplied to an incredible extent; but it could not be hung up in a church, call it by any name you would. The picture tells the story, and tells it all too well. “Ah!” said the custode, “Lucrezia was a fine woman for Tarquin’s son to have lost Rome for her sake.” Sextus’s face tell of love, despair, determina- An Idle Woman in Italy. II. 3 34 diary of an IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. tion, rage, rapture — all mingled together in a wonderful way. Those magic shades must have come from Guido’s own pencil. The so-called picture of San Luca, said to be by Raphael, is weak, mannered, and utterly deficient in grace. San Luca, seated at an easel, is painting a por- trait of the Madonna, who stands pushed en profil in a corner, and of so plain and ordinary a phy- sique that it is impossible Raphael could ever have imagined such a creature; there is not one cha- racteristic of his style. The painting is on wood, and has been broken in two places. Of this work Kugler says, authoritatively, that the head of San Luca alone is executed by Raphael. When I told the old custode this he became very indignant. “What can books tell about it?” exclaimed he. “All the world knows it is by Raphael. It used to hang below, in the church, over the altar; bestie di libri. Don’t believe them, signora, I beseech you. They only teach people lies. They know nothing about it!” There is a large “Venus and Cupid,” by Guercino, which the custode introduced to my notice in these words: — “ JEcco , Venere — con tutte le sue consolazionif” I love Guercino and his inimitable chiaro-oscuro and depth of shadow, contrasted and tempered DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 35 by a peculiar sweetness produced by the happiest combination of colour, though he did live in the time of the Decadence , and belonged to the Ec- lectic School. Here also is Guido’s “ Fortune rising from the Globe,” one of the finest frescoes in Rome — a glorious form — reminding one of the Rospigliosi “ Aurora,” with full rounded limbs, and matted yellow hair flying in the wind, by which Cupid holds fast as though determined to win and keep her. The concetto is most poetical, and the colour- ing perfect. I have dwelt longer on this most varied and interesting collection from the fact of its being comparatively little known or appreciated. When I departed, the old custode doffed his weather-beaten hat, and bowing down to the ground, said — “ Addio , car a signora; I honour and respect you — Stia buona bene e felice — and remember the poor old fellow that keeps the gloriosi quadri .” I wish to note down the traditionary footsteps of St. Peter and St. Paul at Rome, having visited the various spots connected with their supposed residence here with great interest. I have spoken of my descent into the Mamertine prisons, where for nine months they are said to have lain in 3 * 36 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. close imprisonment. While St. Peter was still unmolested and residing at the house of Prudens — now the spot where stands the interesting and most ancient church of Santa Prudenziana, near Santa Maria Maggiore — he again exhibited an example of that weakness of character which led him basely to deny the Divine Lord he loved. A persecution against the Christians was again threatened; he became alarmed for his personal safety, and his friends strongly urged his flight. Peter listened to them, and allowing himself to be influenced by their persuasions, he fled from Rome, passing out of the Porta San Sebastiano, under the massive arch of Drusus, spanning the Appian Way — now called the Street of Tombs. He proceeded about a mile, to a spot where the road separates, forming a fork, leading in one direction towards the Fountain of Egeria, and by the other to the church of San Sebastiano, built over the most practicable entrance into the cata- combs, beside the tomb of Cecilia Metella. St. Peter, says ecclesiastical tradition, had reached this precise fork where the road separates, when he beheld advancing towards him his Divine Master. Astonished at the sight, he exclaimed, “Lord, where goest thou?” (“ Domine quo vadis?”) To which question the glorified form DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 37 replied, “I go to Rome, to be again crucified;” and disappeared. The vision explained to the Apostle what were the intentions of his Divine Master respect- ing himself, and the meaning of that prophecy — “ Verily, verily, I say unto thee, When thou wast young thou girdedst thyself, and walkedst whither thou wouldest; but when thou art old thou shalt stretch forth thine hands, and another shall gird thee and carry thee whither thou wouldest not.” He instantly retraced his steps, and returned to Rome, where shortly the deepest dungeons of the Mamertine prisons opened to receive him. The actual church of Domine quo Vadis has nothing but its beautifully suggestive legend to recommend it, otherwise it is a miserable little place; indeed, there is a vulgar, tawdry look about the interior quite painful to the feelings of those who arrive eager to behold the scene of one, if not the most touching, of the Church’s early legends. A stone, bearing the impress of what is said to have been the Divine foot, but which measures some thirty inches at least in length, and is singularly “out of drawing” in every way, stands just at the entrance to the nave. When the Apostles quitted the Mamertine pri- sons, tradition leads them to the Ostian Way, 38 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. where they were separated previous to undergoing martyrdom. A stone marks the spot, engraven with their parting words: “Peace be with thee, thou founder of the Church” — (St. Paul is sup- posed to say to St. Peter) — “thou shepherd of the universal flock of Jesus Christ.” To which St. Peter replied, “God be with thee, thou mighty preacher, who guidest the just in the living way.” St. Paul was then led on to a deserted plain three miles from the city, to which I shall return, first following the footsteps of St. Peter through the busy streets, and over the Tiber, to the steep heights of the Janiculum, where, in sight of great pagan Rome, he suffered crucifixion — begging of his executioners to be reversed on the cruel tree, as a last and crowning act of humiliation, declar- ing himself unworthy to die in the same upright attitude as his Divine Master. Where he expired, and on the spot where the cross was erected, now stands the church of San Pietro in Montorio. It was selected by Rome's republican defenders as a barrack — showing how little Papal teaching for the last eighteen centuries had profited the lower population of its own ca- pital. The balls rained like an iron hail-storm on the venerable edifice, enriched and adorned by the munificence of various sovereigns. All the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 39 sight-seeing world go there to examine the paint- ing by Sebastian del Piombo of Christ’s flagella- tion — a work, I confess, to my judgment, dark, unintelligible, and unpleasing; a bad imitation of Michel Angelo, who needed all his individual genius and grandeur to make his contortions bearable. No imitation of his style can ever succeed. In the cloister, whither we were led by a kind, smiling monk, is a beautiful circular church — a bijou of the Renaissance (very like in form that temple introduced by Raphael in the background of his cartoon of St. Paul preaching at Athens), erected by Bramante over the exact spot marked by tradition as that where St. Peter was crucified. “ E proprio un miracolo ” said the monk, “that this church escaped, when the walls around it were battered to the ground? Si vede che qui sta il santo. He protected it.” It is divided into an upper and lower church. In the latter is shown the aperture where the cross was fixed on which St. Peter suffered with his head downwards; thus nobly vindicating, at the last moment, his love and devotion to the Saviour he had once denied. A lamp burns before the aperture. The monk put down a long reed and brought up some of the golden sand from below, 40 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. presenting it to us as una cosa di devozione. The soil of the hill is in this part entirely of sand of a particularly bright tint — hence the name of the church, “Montorio” — or of the golden mount. I must now take up the traditonary footsteps of St. Paul from the same point as those of St. Peter, namely, before his entrance into the Mamer- tine prisons. On first arriving in the Eternal City, St. Paul remained for two years, unmolested. During that period he resided in a house situated where now stands the church of Santa Maria, in Via Lata, next door to the sumptuous palace of the Dorias. During this time he was only guarded by one soldier, and from this retirement he addressed his Epistle to the Hebrews, and preached continually to all within his reach, Jews as well as Gentiles. St. Luke is said to have borne him company, and under his dictation to have written the Acts of the Apostles. The present church is devoid of all save tradi- tionary interest. But there is a subterranean chapel, containing three rooms (then on a level with the city), which he is said to have inhabited, with arched roofs, formed of great massive stones rudely placed together, like the blocks forming the Mamertine prisons. Here, too, is also shown a well, said to have sprung up miraculously, in DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 41 order that he might baptize those converted by his inspired preaching. After the imprisonment of St. Paul and his separation from St. Peter, he was led on about three miles from Rome — on the Ostian Way — to a desolate place in the Campagna, where he was beheaded. Tradition asserts that his head, se- parated from the body, bounded three times from the violence of the blow, and that at each spot where it touched the ground a spring gushed forth. To commemorate this miracle a church was built at a very early period, and called San Paolo alle tr& Fontane. I am always anxious to survey every place sanctified by tradition, how- ever uncertain. It gives a local colouring and vitality to recollections beyond the perusal of a thousand books — making the events recorded, be they historical or religious, in a manner one’s own. I therefore set forth, through the gate leading to the great basilica of San Paolo, on my pilgrimage. After passing the huge church, we turned off from the great Ostian road a little to the left, up a steep ascent. Around, the low grassy undula- tions of the Campagna, now of a refreshing green, sloped down gradually towards a central valley or amphitheatre, where uprose three large 4 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. churches, without a single tree or cottage within sight over the vast range our eye embraced. A strange and solemn sight are these solitary sanc- tuaries in the midst of that lonely plain. To our left lay a winding valley, stretching away for miles through gently undulating hills, whose soft and delicate outlines assimilated well with the de- licate tint of the fresh herbage mantling their sides. No sound broke the silence. Mountains in the distance of a rich purple tint, the blue sky above, and the green earth beneath, mingled in a broad harmonious colouring. I descended towards the churches which people this wilderness with such a crowd of affecting recollections. They lie under the shadow of a low hill, nestling round a ruined building, once a convent occupied by the monks of St. Bernard, but now a ruin, malaria having driven away its inhabitants. As we approached the first church, that of Santa Maria della Scala Santa, a ragged, barefooted monk approached, and offered to conduct us. He was the last of the brethren who had dared to linger there. Within the Gothic church, con- sisting of a long central nave, bordered by low, rounded arches, he pointed out frescoes of pro- phets and saints, said to have been originally painted by Raphael; but they are now so entirely DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 43 retouched and over-painted as only to display grand and striking outlines. There is a second large and handsome church, with a dome, forming a conspicuous object from the surrounding Campagna, dedicated to St. Anas- tasia; but I hastened on, by a narrow path, led by the wretched monk, towards the Church of the Three Fountains. I was vexed to find an edifice painfully modernised, and yet again fall- ing into a ruin devoid of all dignity. It is long and narrow, undivided by aisles. The pillar is shown to which the Apostle was bound, and down the side of the outer wall appear three apertures enclosed in marble, surmounted by a sculptured image of his decapitated head, where the purest and coldest waters flow. I did not visit the spot in the spirit of criticism or of levity, therefore I am in no mood to consider what ob- jections may be urged against this touching tradi- tion, which lends so profound an interest to the wild scene around. * * * * * Hurrah for the breezy, fresh Campagna, sweetly scented with wild thyme, where the Me- diterranean gales rendezvous for sport, and play with the blasts sweeping down from Monte Cavo and the snow-capped Sabine Hills! Hurrah for 44 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the bright sun lighting up the low copses fring- ing the deep valleys, where grow the freshest grass and moss, and the fairest flowers of the spring! And, last of all, hurrah for the hunt and the pink coats, and the splendid horses, and the dogs with their stiff tails! — for there really is an English hunt at Rome, and I have seen it, and have been driving about in its wake for four mortal hours. Now I will tell you all about it. English are English all the world over; especially so at Rome, where they assemble in such multitudes, they are apt to forget the existence of the Pope and the Romans altogether, and fancy that the city of the Caesars has become a British colony. Wherever they go — our delightful countrymen — they take their manners like their clothes, carefully packed up, and preserved quite unaltered or improved; and they drink their burning wines in tropical heat, and import “ papers,” which they read all day seated in stifling rooms in glorious weather, and cultivate their morgue and pride, and their long purses, their unquenchable curiosity, their iron prejudices on all subjects, and their utter inability to speak any tongue but their own; and, last of all, they take their horses, and their dogs, and their grooms, and the whole paraphernalia of DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 45 their hunt. Although I am a born Englishwoman, I never knew to what a singularly remarkable and obstinate nation I belonged until I came into Italy. A wonderfully national nation are we, and therefore it is quite astonishing why people so satisfied and delighted with their own habits and customs should ever leave that all-perfect country they will insist on forcing everywhere. But I have done, and I will go off and away up the long hill, winding round the sides of Monte Mario, crested by the Villa Mellini, and its groves of cypress, ilex, and pine — a very diadem of beauty — with the olive gardens nestling in the warm folds of the hillsides; and on and on by a long road, very dusty and very dull, until we reach a great green plain covered with grass, quite boundless to the eye — green below and blue above — nought save those two colours of primeval nature, the open Campagna. Here, close by the road, which now becomes a grassy track, is a striped booth erected, fixed on one side to a large van, just like a show- caravan at a country fair; and round the little booth, which looks very solitary and odd, stuck up alone in that awful plain, are grouped beauti- ful hunters, sleek and satin-coated, pawing the ground, while others, with proudly curved necks 46 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. and flashing eyes, are galloping here and there with their masters on their backs. Some are ridden by fat English grooms, dressed quite cap-a-pie , talk- ing cockney as they congregate together. Red coat after red coat trots up, and carriage after carriage full of pretty ladies, but quite properly and suf- ficiently distant in their looks to make it certain that they are English bred and born; and then last of all come the two whippers-in and dogs, nice sagacious creatures, which qietly lie down to rest and husband their strength until the right moment comes — and then we shall see. The wind blows fresh from the glorious mountains skirting that boundless plain, and one begins to wish the red coats would leave off hanging over the carriages and entertaining the belles within — because it is growing cold — when, just at the right moment, we are off. On go the dogs, and the horses and riders, and a little man on a rough pony, with a hatchet to cut through the hedges (hear this, O ye of Melton Mowbray and the Warwick Hunt!), because the infant hunt is too weak to leap much; and after come the car- riages in a long file, driving out, as it were, to sea on the trackless waves of that placid ocean of grass. There was no road, and we bumped up and down on the inequalities of the grass in a DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 47 most comical fashion. The hunt crept slowly on seeking for a fox they could not find. On they went, forming the prettiest tableaux imaginable, down into narrow valleys, damp and dewy and emerald green, their sides clothed with low-tufted woods and luxuriant sedges — now hiding, now displaying the persevering red coats — standing some above, on the brow of the little rising hills; others below, winding in the sinuosities of the glades far onwards. We in the carriages quietly followed the noise- less search after a fox that would not be found, and, mile after mile, crept on up little rises, and down into gentle dales, in the most singular drive I ever took in all my life. Every now and then I thought we must be overturned; but not a bit of it. One carriage ventured, and the rest fol- lowed like a flock of obedient sheep. The breezes, fragrant with the rich odour of herbs and flowers, swept softly around; broad shadows formed gigantic shapes on the grass; flocks of small birds rose, and dispersed at our approach; and the sallow, skin-clad pastori , mounted on shaggy ponies, or leaning on long staffs, came forth to stare at the elite of the great city below. The scene, though moving, was silent; voices were lost on that great hunting-ground; the val- 48 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. leys still bent onwards, and led us enticingly away, away, far out into an unreal and dreamy world. By this time I had almost forgotten why we were there, and neither cared for nor heeded what was passing around. I desired to return, and so we hoisted sail and steered towards the huge dome rising so strangely out of nothing, like a great balloon sailing in a firmament of green. As we proceeded, the sheep in their folds started up and stared at the unusual invasion, and the pas fori rested on their poles, gazing sadly upon us. Had it not been for them we never should have landed on the road. When I look back on those hours spent on the boundless Campagna prairie, it comes before me like a vision, and the hunt and the silent pro- cession like phantasmagoria, perfect and beautiful, but shadowy, soulless, and unreal — forms con- jured up from the deep recesses of those en- chanted valleys to lead one on, ever wandering, like the vague and endless strivings of a dream. We returned as the sun was setting, and I am much inclined to believe those spirits melted away and vanished in the long shadows of coming night, and that ourselves were the only living beings who returned to the great city. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 49 When the Holy Father Sixtus, the second of that name, pope and martyr, was dragged to the stake by command of the Emperor Valerian, a young priest, of gentle and engaging aspect, fol- lowed him, and thus addressed him: — “ Father, whither are you going without your son and your deacon? Never before were you wont to offer sacrifice without me. Have I been wanting in my duty? Have I displeased you? Try me, and see if I am not capable of enduring torments, fire, or imprisonment for the sake of our Lord.” “I do not leave you, my son,” replied the venerable pontiff, moved at the youth’s generous impatience for the rack and the flames of martyr- dom; “my spirit shall watch over you, who are reserved for a greater and more glorious trial than is vouchsafed to me. In three days we shall meet in heaven!” Then the young priest rejoiced to hear that he should be so soon with God, and, like a tra- veller disposing himself for a long journey, pre- pared all his worldly affairs, distributed his scanty means to the Christian poor, who bathed with their tears the deep-hidden altars in the mysteri- ous catacombs, where the holy sacrifice was offered. His proceedings were not so well hidden but that An Idle Woman in Italy . II. 4 50 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the Roman prefect got word of them, and, in high rage, sent for the young priest, and desired to be shown his hidden treasures. “Bring to light,” cried he, “those vessels of gold and candlesticks of silver you possess. They are wanted for the altars of the gods. Render also to Caesar the things which are his; he needs the coin for the maintenance of his armies. Your God certainly coined no money on earth, and needs none now he is dead. Words alone were his revenues; keep thou them and give the gold to Imperial Caesar.” The young priest, nothing daunted, replied: — “You say the truth; the Church indeed is rich in inestimable treasure. I will make out instantly an inventory, and display to you all our posses- sions.” Then the young priest went round to all the holes and corners of the city: he sought in the sand-pits of the Esquiline (where herded the slaves who were branded, and the vile murderers escaped from justice) for the persecuted Christians, who were happy if there they might burrow like beasts, so that they had but peace. He went into foul holes and noisome courts — to the close-packed houses under the Tarpeian Rock — to the poor huts beyond the Quintilian meadows — and he as- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 5 1 sembled at length all the Christian poor — maimed, deaf, and blind — in a certain spot on the Coelian Hill, together with the lepers, and the poor vir- gins, and orphans, and widows. He then went to the prefect, and told him to come, for the treasure was spread forth. When the luxurious prefect, fresh from the scented waters of the marble baths, came among such a loathsome throng, he gathered up the folds of his toga, and burst forth in a great rage: — “By the eternal Jove! I will teach you to mock me! How dare you, base Christian, to bandy pleasantries with me? What means this abject crowd?” “Why are you displeased?” rejoined the young priest, unmoved by his rage. “It is gold that is low, vile, and mean, and incites men to violence. We have none, we despise it. You asked for the treasure of the Christian Church — lo! it is before you — the sick, the weak, the wretched, they are Christ’s jewels, and with them He makes up his crown! I have none other.” Then the prefect grew more furious. “Do you presume still to mock me?” cried he. “Have the axes, and the fasces, and the sacred eagles no power? In your vanity and your folly you desire to die the same vile death 4 * 52 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. as Jesus; but new tortures shall be invented — death shall be to you the sweetest boon.” Then the prefect commanded his lictors to make ready a great gridiron, and to cast under it live coals nearly extinguished, that they might slowly burn; and Lawrence — for he was the courageous young priest — was stripped, and bound, and extended on the gridiron, until his flesh was slowly burnt off his bones; he all the while con- tinuing in earnest prayer, and imploring the Divine mercy on his native Rome, and that, for the sake of his sufferings, the Christian faith might be planted there. So he died; and his remains were carried without the city to the Veran field, beside the road leading to Tibur. In after years, when Constantine the Emperor had seen the glorious cross hanging in the blue sky over the Monte Mario, where he lay encamped against Maxentius, and had been converted, and had proclaimed Christianity the religion of the universe in the great hall of the XJlpian Basilica, he bethought him of this glorious martyr, and built a church over his tomb. I quitted the city by the Porta San Lorenzo, anciently called Tiburtina, with its two antique towers, twin sisters of decay, and its long links of aqueducts stretching far away into the plain. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 53 About a mile distant, on a dusty road now leading to modern Tivoli, the basilica appears rising out of solitary fields. The portico, running the entire length of the front, might, except for the six Ionic columns — pilfered from some pagan temple — serve as the entrance to a large barn. Bare wooden rafters support it; and the walls are covered with fiery frescoes, quite smelling of brimstone and an un- utterable place below. These atrocities are said to have been executed in the time of Pope Hono- rius III. I need not add that art was then almost at its dying gasp, weighed down under the in- fluence of the dark ages. Here is the soul of St. Lawrence, represented as weighed on a balance by black fiends; the coronation of Peter Courte- nay, as Emperor of the East, which took place in this basilica; dead men raised to life; souls rescued from purgatory by the Pope flying up to heaven — all wild, indescribable scenes, and represented in the stiffest form of Byzantine pattern. The interior is of majestic proportions, every way worthy of the proud name of Basilica; but nevertheless there is a bare look about it, in spite of much magnificent decoration. The nave is supported by Ionic columns of classical workman- 54 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. ship, but the entablature is only whitewash, while the old wooden ceiling, carved in high relief, is infinitely rich, and coloured of a pale blue. The floor is opus Alexandrinum . The two ambones, or marble pulpits, from which were read the Gospel and the Epistle, have been spared, and are of rare beauty, ornamented with large slabs of rich red and green marbles, with mosaic borders of even more precious materials. The whole of the apsis, or tribune, considerably raised by marble steps, is supported by twelve magnificent pavonaz- zetto columns, all, save two, decorated with grace- ful Corinthian capitals. Unfortunately they are half sunk to accommodate the elevation of the tribune; their proportions can, therefore, only be judged of from below. Above is an arched gal- lery, supported by smaller columns. This forest- like mass of pillars, arches, and capitals, all of exquisite workmanship, produces a fine effect. Old frescoes ornament the vault of the tribune, mosaics decorate the arch. Under the high altar is a subterranean chamber, or “ confession,” visible from above, where lie enshrined the bones of St. Stephen and St. Lawrence. These remains are approached by Catholics with extreme awe, for, when restorations were going on in the church, in the reign of Pelagius II., the marble sepulchres DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 55 being opened, and the bones irreverently touched, all present died within ten days. As I stood leaning against a pillar on the high-altar, I could not but feel penetrated by the solitude and singularity of the scene — the heavy damps of ages, the solemn traditions of the mar- tyred dead breathed from these stern old walls. Not a sound was heard from the outward world; through a side door the sun streamed in from a spacious cloister, surrounded by columned arcades — all solitary, silent, forsaken. I had had a fancy to visit the shrine, from a most singular tradition attached to it. In the reign of Pope Alexander II., about the time that the Normans invaded England, there lived in the convent a pious monk, who was so fervent in prayer that he invariably rose before daybreak to invoke the intercession of the holy martyrs, whose remains lie under the altar. Once — it was a Wednesday in August — while kneeling there, he saw, with his open eyes, just as the daylight began to glimmer, the great doors open as of themselves, and a stately man, with a long beard, enter, habited for the performance of mass, accompanied by a deacon of a youthful and pleasant aspect, followed by a crowd of many soldiers, monks, and nobles, all in strange attire. 56 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. Although a numerous retinue, their footsteps raised no echo — the church was as quiet as when the monk prayed alone. Astonished at the strange sight, he rose from his knees trembling, and as the procession silently advanced up the nave, he hid himself behind a pillar and watched. As they approached the high-altar the monk softly approached the young priest (for his mind mis- gave him, and he was very curious, though sorely frightened), and, with much respect, whispered to him in these words: — “I pray you tell me who are you that prepare with such solemnity for the morning mass?” The youth with the pleasant aspect replied: — “The one habited as a priest is St. Peter. I am Lawrence. On the anniversary of the day when our blessed Lord was betrayed by the wicked Judas’s kiss, and when the judges ap- pointed that he should expire by the slow torture of the accursed tree, I also suffered martyrdom for his love; therefore, in memory of that day, we are come to celebrate the solemnity in this church built over my bones. St. Stephen is also among this blessed company; the ministers are angels of paradise; and the others are apostles, martyrs, and confessors who have all sealed their faith with their blood. They have had in re- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 57 memb ranee the day of my death, and because it should be known of all and honoured to the glory of our Lord in the universal church, I have desired that you should see us with your mortal eyes, that you should make manifest this solemnity to all men. I therefore command you, when day breaks, go to the Pope, and tell him from me to come here quickly with all his clergy, and to offer up the blessed sacrifice for the people.” “But,” returned the monk, now pale with awe and fright, as he saw the visionary multitude gathering round him, and felt the icy chill of their garments, “but how shall I, a poor monk, make the Pope believe my words if I have no sign of the holy vision?” Then the young saint took off the cincture with which he was girded, and gave it to the monk, to show in token of all he had seen. The monk, being full of fear, returned to the monastery, and, as the day was now broke, assembled the brethren, told them of the vision, and showed them the cincture. Then all, knowing the holi- ness of the monk, believed his words, and went with him to the Pope, who then dwelt at the Lateran Palace, on the Ccelian Hill, and he, after assembling the conclave of cardinals, gave great thanks to God and the holy St. Lawrence, and 58 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. celebrated solemn mass at the church, which is repeated every year. This, therefore, causes much fervour to St. Lawrence, and induces crowds to go on a certain Wednesday in August to venerate his remains. Beyond the church of San Sebastiano, the Appian Way extends in a straight line to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, about a quarter of a mile distant, which stands crowning a rugged eminence, “firm as a fortress with its fence of stone.” Turn- ing to the left, in a large park-like expanse of the finest turf, one of the rarest prospects of old Rome opens before one. It is enchanting! How shall I describe it? I will try. At my feet lies a mass of majestic ruins, at first confused and undefined, but by-and-by the long lines of walls, the turrets, and porticoes range themselves into symmetry and order, as under the touch of a fairy’s wand, and I see the great circus of Romulus stretching in two long parallel lines before me to the length of 892 feet, a mighty enclosure, narrow in breadth, with tur- reted towers at the extremity near which I stand. Beyond are the walls of another square enclosure, supposed to be the stables of a riding-school con- nected with the circus. There are the marks of DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 59 arches still engraven on the great outer walls, which alone remain. Above, the ground rises in* a gentle swell, covered with vines and pale mystic olive trees, perhaps the most appropriate shade Nature ever devised to overshadow the ruins of the past. On the edge of the hill stands the church of San Sebastiano, and a dark cypress grove, while among the olive-grounds appear no less than three separate temples and porticoes. I know of no scene in or near Rome as satisfying to the mind as this little-frequented spot, where so much re- mains to tell of the grandeur of ancient Rome. Following the line of the hill, beyond the olives and their accompanying vineyards, comes a soft picturesque plantation of feathery elms, stand- ing out alone on the great background of the open Campagna, undulating here in endless in- equalities of rounded hills and gently-sloping val- leys, spanned by the majestic line of the Claudian aqueduct, marching, as it were, in an ever-ad- vancing procession towards the Eternal City. Above rise pale outlines of mountains and the rounded summits of the Sabine and Alban Hills, now, as the sun is sinking resplendent with delicate shades of pale pink and purple, melting into the blue vault of heaven in charming grada- 60 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. tions of colour. Here and there a white mass — Frascati or Tivoli, or the great convent, once the temple of Jupiter Latialis, on the summit of Monte Cavo — catches the lateral rays of the sinking sun, and shines out in dazzling whiteness. I wandered on over the smooth green sward to rising hillocks opposite, on a level with the great round tomb of Cecilia Metella. Here Rome itself burst on my sight, with its walls and domes, turrets and spires, never more beautiful than when seen from this side, softened by foreground and foliage, and backed by the wooded slopes of Monte Mario and the steep Janiculum. Around me fed an immense flock of sheep spreading themselves over the classic meadow; a herd-boy, with the brigand-pointed hat and gay- coloured girdle peculiar to the Campagna, sat upon a stone and watched the sheep and me. The vast mausoleum frowned down on me, flanked by its turreted walls, erected by the Gaetani in the middle ages, when this solid structure was transformed into a fortress. These walls have in their turn become ruins, adding to, rather than detracting from, the dignity of the tomb they en- shrine. I suppose no one ever visited this monu- ment without mental questionings in some sort * DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 6 1 similar to those so gracefully expressed by Byron — to end, as did his, in this simple fact — “That Metella died. The wealthiest Roman’s wife : Behold his love or pride 1 ” The ivy and trailing plants that now diadem the summit of this magnificent monument were fanned by the soft evening breeze. No sound was there to awake the remarkable echo which accurately repeats all sounds intrusted to it, so that when Crassus mourned the loss of “that lady of the dead,” the funeral solemnities must have been infinitely multiplied by endless repetitions of the wailings of the mourners, as if the infernal gods themselves and all the souls in the nether Hades had united in one vast chorus of groans and cries to bewail the deceased Cecilia. It seems strange that after the lapse of so many ages, the same echo which repeated the lamentations for the wife of the Roman senator, “so honoured and conspicuous,” should remain to serve with “damn- able iteration” the impatience of every cockney visitor. That echo, too, must have borne many a rough message in the mediaeval days when this tomb-fortress was besieged by the Connetable de Bourbon, who opened his trenches before the Aurelian wall and the Street of Tombs as re- 6 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. morselessly as though these venerable remains boasted not a single recollection. Fortunately for me, the present was tranquil as the past; silence reigned supreme. I next descended into the arena of the circus of Romulus immediately beneath, through one of the ruined towers flanking its extremity. The interior, carpeted with brightest grass, is luxuriant in vegetation; whole gardens of variegated flowers, the wallflower, ivy, and low plants of ilex tufted the ruined walls, clothing the nakedness with the rich colouring of returning spring. A peasant was gathering fennel, and immediately approached, begging me, for the love of Heaven “ e per le la- grime della Madonna ,” to assist him, and pointing to the scanty herbs which he had so carefully col- lected, in order to make into minestra , or broth; “for,” said he, “we are starving in the city, and I am come out here to gather a few herbs, to us most precious.” It is from the well-defined remains of this circus, so much more perfect than any similar structure, that antiquarians collect their actual knowledge of the arrangements. It was first sup- posed to be the circus of Caracalla, and is so named by the accurate Eustace; but later excava- tions made by the Duke Bracciano, brother of DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY, 63 Torlonia, to whom the ground belongs, prove from inscriptions that it was erected to Romulus, the son of Maxentius, a.d. 31 i. From its ad- mirable preservation, extreme beauty of position* and the poetry and interest of the ruins around it, this circus may be considered as unique among the remains of ancient Rome. The external walls are almost unbroken; in many places the vault supporting the seats still remains; the foundations of the two obelisks, terminating either extremity of the spina (running lengthwise through the circus, and forming the goals), still exist; and on one side stands a sort of tower where the judges sat. Near where I entered is a gallery, which contained a band of musicians, flanked by the towers I have mentioned, whence the signal for starting was given. There were seven ranges of seats, containing upwards of twenty thousand spectators, and the extreme length of the circus was 1,006 feet. The chariots passed round the spina, and the most fearful accidents constantly occurred from the rapid driving, the narrowness of the space, and the jostling permitted, as also from the fact of the reins being fastened round the bodies of the charioteers. A large gate is found near the spot where they started, used only for the removal of 64 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the bodies of those killed in these encounters, as the ancients deemed it a most portentous omen to pass a gate defiled by the passage of a dead body. I studied the place till my imagination built up the ruins and filled the vast arena with specta- tors. I fancied the solemn procession advancing before the commencement of the games, headed by the emperor, seated on a superb car. Troops of young boys follow, and escort the charioteers driving the chariots destined for the race, some harnessed with two, some with four, and even six horses. Then come the athletes, almost naked, followed by troops of dancers, consisting of men, youths, and children, habited in scarlet tunics, and wearing a short sword and a helmet ornamented with feathers. They execute war-dances as they advance to the sound of flutes, and harps of ivory, and lutes. Hideous satyrs covered with the skins of animals, over-grown Silenuses, with all kinds of monsters in strange travesties, imitate with various contortions the more dignified dancers who precede them, seeking to divert the specta- tors by their extravagance. Then appear a troop of priests, bearing in their hands vessels of gold and silver containing incense, perfuming the air as they advance. Their DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 65 approach is heralded by a band of music. Others bear the statues of the gods, who in honour of the occasion condescend to leave their temples. Some deities are borne in splendid cars enriched with precious stones; others, too sacred for the eyes of the profanum vulgus , are enshrouded in close litters; they are escorted by the patricians, and nobly-born children are proud to hold the bridle of the horses that draw them. The pro- cession makes the circuit of the assembly, and is received with general acclamations, especially on the appearance of any idol particularly venerated by the credulous plebs. The statues are then placed in a temple on cushions of the richest materials. The emperor, descending from his chariot, pours out libations — the earthly Jupiter to his heavenly brother. The games are then proclaimed, and the chariots of green, blue, white, and red emerge from carceri and rush on their furious course, as a white cloth, thrown from the imperial gallery, gives the signal to begin. There is a melancholy charm, a silent though eloquent language of the past, interwoven with these ruins (now warmed and tinged by the bright sun into a ruddy brown), inexpressibly enticing. It is a sheltered, sequestered spot to while away An Idle Woman in Italy. II . 5 66 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the twilight hours, on the soft banks of grass under the shadow of the high walls, and surren- der oneself up to fast-flitting fancies. I seated myself on the capital of a fallen pillar, among the long grass and waving reeds. The arches, the pillars, the towers, the ruined temples peeping out of the olive wood on the hill above, all spoke out plainly their sepulchral language: and the dark cypresses beside the catacomb church whispered also as the breeze moaned through their heavy branches. I at length reluctantly withdrew, passing under the triumphal arch at the opposite extremity of the circus through which the victorious charioteers drove amidst the shouts and acclamations of the multitude. That ruined arch now abuts on a road leading to Albano; but time would not permit me on that occasion, to proceed farther. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 67 CHAPTER III. The Carnival — The Valley and Fountain of Egeria— Society and the Artist World. I love the Eternal City, after my fashion, with a devotion as unquestioning and entire as ever animated the bosom of an ancient Roman; but I am bound to confess that there is one period when Rome is most unacceptable — during the Carnival. A perfectly contagious plague of folly, vulgarity, license, noise, and ribaldry is abroad, and I would desire to retire from all possible contact with the incongruous scene. Solemn, grave, meditative Rome, with its dim memories looming through the chasm of bygone ages, its frowning palaces, its deeply- shadowed cavernous streets, its classical population (wanting only the toga to make proper senators), its religious displays, pious associations, popes, cardinals, churches, ruins, relics, palaces, sculptures, and mosaics, given up for ten days to vulgar common- place tomfoolery! Oh, horrible! May I never see 5 * 68 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY# “the Niobe of nations” so debase herself again! It was to me the most profoundly melancholy period of my stay, and I only went into the Corso to be able, from actual seeing, the more heartily to abuse the degrading scenes there en- acted. Elsewhere the Carnival may be very amusing in picturesque bright Italy, where the very beggars wear their gaudy rags with a kind of royal dignity, but it is utterly unsuitable to the grandeur of the Eternal City, and ought to be discontinued by general acclamation. If the Carnival, and the English, and the Codini were banished from Rome, there would remain nothing “to fright it from its propriety.” During the latter days of the Carnival, from two till six, all the world rushes madly to the Corso, now fluttering with flags, tapestry, and banners, while red and white hangings pictu- resquely drape the galleries, terraces, cornices, and windows of the stern old palaces “of other days,” until their familiar faces become quite unrecognis- able; for though masks were denied to the people, the houses certainly are allowed to adopt them. People are crushed into carriages and cars by dozens; streets overflow; the windows are crammed; the galleries and verandahs tremble with the blARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 69 weight; the dust flies like sand on the desert; the sun shines too hot; the wind blows too chill; and after all this chtasso , “what come they out for to see?” A few dozen miserable ragamuffins of the lowest grade in dirty costumes hired in miserable slop-shops (for none but the lowest ever dream of a regular costume)— crowds of the refuse of a great city — troops of half-tipsy and much-excited soldiers — gentlemen with a charming return to in- fantine simplicity, dressed in “over- all” pinafores of brown holland; and ladies wearing blue wire masks, which make them look particularly hideous. Then one is pelted with black and dirty flowers, and blinded with showers of lime (the gesso of the studios put to such unholy abuses!) which every rascal may freely fling in one’s face, and which descends also in deluges from above, mak- ing one’s eyes intolerable for days (mine posi- tively ache to write of it), screamed at, sworn at, stared at, by a vast crowd, where one recognises not a soul, so muffled up is every one in the aforesaid wire masks, veils, and great hats of the conspirator cut — all this martyrdom being occa- sionally rewarded by a tiny bag of sugar-plums thrown by a compassionate male friend, or a bouquet of decent flowers, which is either lost in the street, or the next instant torn violently from 70 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY, one’s grasp by a vile little street urchin, who makes a few bajocchi by its speedy sale! The enormities committed by the ladies and gentlemen placed in the galleries are utterly out- rageous and unaccountable; it is a serious, solemn system of folly unrelieved by any excuse of fun or frolic — a so-styled farce, without laugh or jest. English, and Germans, and Americans there take their stand with all the grave reserve of the sober nations of the North, and, from buckets filled with lime and baskets of unpleasant little musty bouquets, alternately shovel out bushels of lime, or pelt with faded flowers the crowd beneath, looking as composed and serious as if fulfilling some religious penance. Sure such a travestie of mirth never was beheld! The Italians have some fun about them, and play the harlequin like gen- tlemen; but the others! The ancient Romans marked their season of Feriae by universal peace, happiness, and liberty. Slaves were manumitted, and masters waited on their servants at the feast; and doubtless they would thus have handed down the tradition to their descendants, had not the Christian strangers of modern days, called by the Romans “barba- rians,” misapplied and abused the once genial and classic games in honour of the god Saturn, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 7 I who in the golden age ruled with his wife Astraea, or Justice, over the tribes of ancient Latium, and was worshipped in his lofty temple on the Capi- toline Mount. ■ It was cold and disagreeably windy weather, and clouds of white dust strewed the streets, the houses, the carriages, poisoned the air, and clung to one’s clothes, and face, and hair. The roars, the cries, the screams, the rush and roll of a great multitude, made it a scene of perplexity, annoy- ance, and discomfort not to be described. No one laughed — no one joked amid this Babel; it was noise without mirth, romping without play. I was inexpressibly disappointed and disgusted. At five o’clock theCorso is cleared; and after the carabinieri have properly persecuted and an- noyed the crowd, in order to make room, eight or ten riderless horses, covered with jingling chains and little sharp-pointed stars and triangles of gilt metal, rush or dawdle along according to their private feelings at the time, like runaway beasts that no one will take the trouble to catch. These miserable apologies are called the Barberi , because Arabian horses used to run here in the good old times; but nothing now remains of the Arabians except their name, as it is yet comme- morated in a street called the “Ripresa dei Bar- 72 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. bari,” where they are caught after accomplishing their dismal career. This contemptible wind-up to the day’s weari- ness is wretched beyond description. I thought of Ascot and Epsom, and the noble satin-coated steeds scarcely touching mother-earth in their giddy flight across the great heathery commons, and I could scarcely believe the scraggy animals which had just passed were of the same race. Each day I returned home from the Corso more weary and fatigued — a moving mass of white dust, sitting knee- deep in dirty bouquets and dSbris of confetti . The only part of the Carnival that moved me with a sensation of enjoyment was the night of the “ Moccoli Dark-winged benignant night wrapped the flaunting scene in her sable mantle* harmonising the incongruous groups into broad masses. The hum of the multitude, united and softened by the gloom, rose up like a vast chorus of rejoicing; the ribald jest, the insolent attack, was mitigated as the lights came out by millions, above, below, around — “whiter than new snow on the raven’s back,” as Juliet says — a universe of bright twinkling stars. On the windows of the palaces, along the roofs, in the balconies, there were lights— myriads of lights; while below, every DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 73 creature among those moving thousands carried his or her taper — sometimes a whole bunch — dancing and dashing to and fro in the dark streets like planets fallen from their spheres, and fairly gone mad. After a time the glittering mass resolved itself into what appeared the deep pre- cipitous sides of a mighty cavern, blazing with countless flames that ebbed to and fro in the evening breeze like waves of gems rising to meet the heavens. Meanwhile, the moon, pale and subdued, shone serenely in a softened atmosphere of blue. The fun waxed fast and furious during the two hours’ duration of this grand and dazzling pageant; but to my mind it was more subdued and chastened to the humanities of life than the charivari of the day. Those who merely looked on like myself, and bore no moccolo , were let alone and unmolested, or only saluted with now and then a long doleful cry of “ Vergogna , ver- gogna , senza moccolo , senza moccolo-o-o ” — a kind of indignant wail in accents of infinite disgust — or a sharp “Come, signora! senza moccolo , par im- possible — Z pazza /” from some pert youth, who, finding his reproaches ineffectual, walked scorn- fully away, brandishing his light vigorously to assault a more congenial stranger. 74 diary of an idle WOMAN IN ITALY. The showers of lime and the bouquets had now vanished, all being intent on the exquisite fun of extinguishing each other’s taper. And fun there was — real good living fun, not at all of the drawing-room sort — uproarious tumult, universal deafening noise, fighting, screaming, laughing, and struggling — men scuffling over the expiring remnants of a light, women stretching half over the balconies and struggling out of carriages after obstinate tapers held securely on high; whilst, lo! from behind — thump! — it is gone; and the cry, “Senza moccoli!” rings out, and then all separate ii\ chase of new fun, and are instantly re-engaged, fighting hard as ever. “ Moccoli , morte a chi non porta moccoli!” sounds again; men rush hither and thither, carrying torches, paper lanterns, and pyramids of light, dancing to and fro on long poles, until the cry becomes like the watchword of a general conflagration. Along the street there were windows and doors full of merry Roman girls — jolly, rollicking grisettes! — mad with fun and laughter, holding high above their heads the fated moccoli , which crowds of gallants were endeavouring by inde- scribable feats to extinguish. How they did laugh! — it was delicious! They were always at the same game whenever we passed, and would DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 75 be at it now had the bell not sounded at eight o’clock — that horrid bell — when all the world is driven away, and the last moccolo is blown out by those disagreeable carabinieri , who seem to have a wicked spite against the mirth in which they cannot join. And so it is over, and Rome quiet. The hosts of strangers are gone, disappearing in great machines dragged by strings of horses to the station; and the streets are silent, and the car- riages no longer lined with white to save them from the showers of confetti; and I am truly glad, and never wish to see Rome desecrated by the Carnival again. I now resume my account of that portion of ancient Rome in the vicinity of the tomb of Ce- cilia Metella. On returning a few days afterwards, I passed through the circus of Romulus, out by the ruined Arch of Triumph on the Albano road, and found myself in a feathering grove of elm trees, fringing the inequalities of the Campagna. The perfume of violets blossoming in the fine herbage scented the refreshing breeze, and swept over the verdant expanse, singularly and most picturesquely broken by ruins — here, a temple; there, a ruined portico; near by, a wall over- mantled by ivy— all serving to mark the rise and 76 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. fall of the ground, backed by the Claudian aque- ducts on one side, while on the other Rome her- self, plainly defined, crowned the Coelian and Esquiline Hills. Nature and art combined to form a scene of Arcadian beauty and Palladian grandeur; the past, the present, and the future were visible to the reflective eye; the broad heavens overshadowed all; and the setting sun, that eye of the universe, gave the final touch to the harmonious unity of this sublime picture. I strolled on through the open wood towards the small ruined church of St. Urbano alia Caffa- rella, once a temple of classic beauty, dedicated, it is said, to Bacchus, whose picturesque worship was especially suited to these wild idyllic solitudes, where the sighing of the wind across the Cam- pagna might be mistaken for Pan with his reedy pipes wooing some coy nymph; or where the summer breeze might whisper the voice of Zephyr as he approached the chariot of the light-footed Iris; or where the deep shadows in the clustered trees resolve themselves into the forms of dryads and hamadryads, half hidden in green leaves beside clear brooks whose bubbling waters sparkle on the flowery turf. It is easy even now to trans- form every ruder sound into the discordant laugh of a satyr or a mocking faun; to people the DIARY OP AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 77 valleys with green-haired nereids, and to believe that a spirit or a god appears in the grotesque contortions of the gnarled trees around. Solitude feeds these fancies. I was alone, and gave free rein to my imagination; built up every ruined altar and decaying temple whose ruins now strew that verdant plain; filled the portico of Bacchus’ ancient fane with worshippers; crowned the hills with glowing Bacchantes, torch in hand, ready to celebrate the Brumalia with shouts and cries as they bear aloft the golden image of the god crowned with vine-leaves and purple grapes. I pictured, too, those pure and poetic existences of the “graceful superstition” of old, the nymphs, whose haunts were in the wooded dale or piny mountain, “in forests by slow stream or pebbly spring, in chasms and watery depths,” dividing under their gentle sway all the realms of Nature. But to resume. I now had reached the temple of Bacchus, barbarously disfigured by being con- verted into a church, which has in its turn be- come a ruin. Below the decaying altar a dark door leads down into the catacombs, which extend even to this distance into the Campagna; but the door has been closed ever since a party of young collegians, attended by their tutors, were lost in the gloomy passages. Below the temple, or 78 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. church, the ground rapidly sinks into a deep and narrow valley, enclosed by soft rounded hills, at whose base runs a stream — the Almo, I believe. Immediately opposite is a dark grove of ilex trees, circular in shape, still called “// bosco sacro,” one of those spots anciently consecrated by solemn pagan ceremonies, where the Gods revealed pro- phetic secrets to the priest or priestess of the neighbouring temple. Descending into the dell, and passing to the left under the hill, I reached a deep grotto, over- shadowed by fluttering aspen, feathering ash, long trailing garlands of fresh May, yellow broom, and luxuriant weeds, which beautified and con- cealed the ruins to which they clung. The sides of the grotto are covered with moss, the slabs along the floor are slippery with the same verdant carpet, and there is a bubbling of waters with a fresh earthy smell of spring and flowers, which is perfectly delicious. The grotto is entirely un- covered, the sides are walled, and at the lower end, under a solid arch, lies the mutilated statue of a recumbent nymph, buried in ivy, once that “Egeria, the sweet creation of some heart which found no mutual resting-place.” For I was now standing within the sacred precincts of Egeria’s retreat; and the “cave-guarded” spring that DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 7Q gushed from beneath the statue, and found its way into the valley along little stone-conduits bordering the walls, is said, by tradition, to be the very rill beside whose running waters Numa met his goddess and his love. Antiquarians as- sure us that it is not so, and that tradition has no right to appropriate this sweet spot conse- crated by Nature to the sylvan deities; but I love to go in a believing spirit, and to accept the beauty, actual and suggestive, around me. A tradition so replete with beauty, a spot so exquisitely romantic, are subjects too ideal and delicate to endure the rough handling of anti- quarian critics. I do not desire their lore. I will only listen to the bubbling of that sparkling little stream as it dances forth through the moss and the weeds into the valley beyond. Juvenal is said, in classical days, to have angrily lamented that the walls of the grotto were plated with rich marbles, and the fountain artificially decorated. His ire might be now appeased, for it has re- turned to its pristine state of solitude and sim- plicity — the grassy margin and the naked rock. The marble linings, the pillars, the statues, have disappeared; and Nature alone adorns the monu- ment of the past. Egeria herself is now but a mutilated torso! 80 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. Of all the legends of infant Rome none is more poetical than the story of Numa and his goddess-wife Egeria, who descended from her place among the gods to inspire him with wis- dom and counsel. Tradition says that after living some years with his first wife Tatia, the daughter of Tatius, co-sovereign with Romulus of yet un- built Rome, he became a widower, and was chosen to govern the growing state founded on the Seven Hills. It was then that Egeria came to his aid, and in those mysterious meetings under the sacred grove beside the little streamlet dic- tated that code of just and wise laws which the Roman people so prized and loved. But, alas! Numa was not always faithful to his spirit-bride. Egeria had rivals of her own in- corporeal and mystic nature, for Numa met also the Muses in these nocturnal interviews, and boasted that he was specially distinguished by one Tacita, the Muse of Silence, to whom he erected temples. But his gentle love, Egeria — his tried and constant friend — was not to be disheartened: she loved him to the end, and we shall find her again among the classic shades of Nemi proving her love in death. There is an extraordinary mysticism mixed up in the character of Numa, full of graceful interest DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 8 1 and incident — his love for Egeria, her vale, her grotto with its sparkling rill, his meetings with the Muses, and the strange story told by Plutarch of his interview with Jupiter. When the Aventine was neither enclosed nor inhabited, and abounded with fresh springs and shady groves haunted by satyrs and fauns, Numa mixed the fountain where they drank with honey and wine, and thus intoxi- cated and caught them. They in their rage quitted their natural forms and assumed many dreadful and fearful shapes, but finding that their arts could not prevail to frighten Numa and induce him to break their bonds, they consented to reveal to him the secrets of futurity, and ended by bringing down Jupiter from heaven to discourse with him. “But,” says the story quaintly, “it was Egeria who taught Numa to manage the matter, and to send away even Jupiter himself propitious.” Standing musing under the shade of the sacred grotto, I had well-nigh forgot another ruin near at hand, also furnishing a world of recollec- tions. I wandered along the valley in search of it, and came upon the ruins of a brick temple on the border of the river — small, indeed, but well proportioned — said to be dedicated to the god Rediculus, who prompted Hannibal, when lying there encamped, to retreat from Rome. But this An Idle Woman in Italy . II, 6 82 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. tradition yields to another yet more interesting, which declares it to be the identical fane erected in honour of Fortuna Muliebris on the spot where Coriolanus met his wife and mother, and was prevailed on by their entreaties to draw off his army from Rome. What reader of Shakespeare does not recall that sublime scene where Corio- lanus, surrounded by the tents of the assembled Volscians, advances to greet Yolumnia and Vir- gilia in these words? — “ My wife comes foremost ; then the honour’d mould Wherein this trunk was framed , and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But, out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature , break ! . . . . I melt, and am not Of stronger earth than others.” I reascended the steep hill to the temple of Bacchus, feeling that I had pondered over a de- licious page in the annals of the magic past. There are cliques and sets at Rome, more varied and antagonistic in character than are often to be found in much larger and more populous cities. I have belonged a little to all, entirely to none. There is the ecclesiastical set composed of cardinals, monsignori, and high dignitaries of the Church — very slow, pompous, and humdrum indeed, dreaming away their lives in the discharge of various pious duties, and hun- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 83 dreds of years behind the busy, bustling life of the North, where climate and habits perpetually drive people onwards as if the very furies pursued them. They lazily drive about to each other’s palazzi in big red coaches drawn by black horses, with a retinue of antiquated retainers in the most singular liveries, coats hanging down to their heels, and cocked-hats on their heads. Within sit the starch, solemn old gentlemen in purple and red, their pale parchment countenances never relaxing into a smile. Once past the city gates, it is “ their custom of an afternoon” to descend and walk slowly along the dusty roads between high walls which entirely obscure the prospect, attended by their extraordinary retainers, who look antique enough to have handed Mrs. Noah into the ark. Most courteously do these princes of the Church salute all who pass them; and there were two or three whom I well know by sight, from my admiration of their holy and benevolent countenances. Now and then these “ grave and reverend signiors” give a reception, when some female relation of high degree receives the guests and does the honours. The Holy Father himself leaves the Vatican occasionally by one of the gates for his trottata , generally dressed in white, and wearing 6 * 84 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. a broad hat of red silk. Then it is etiquette for every passer-by to go on his knees in the dust and receive the Papal blessing, rendered doubly valuable by the benignant grace with which it is bestowed. But since “the evil days” of his flight and the siege, no welcome or applause ever greets his presence. It is a ridiculous and idle prejudice for people to talk and write about the immorality of the Roman clergy; such nonsense can only proceed from the pens of ignorant, prejudiced, and evil- minded persons. The higher ranks of the Romish clergy are remarkable for their moral conduct, serious de- meanour, and blameless lives. It is most rare indeed to hear in any direction of the slightest legbete , and when it is detected it is remorse- lessly and unhesitatingly punished. A certain monsignore gave scandal this winter by a too mundane and vain conduct and deportment, with- out, I believe, much, if any, criminality. He was at once degraded in the face of all Rome, The cardinals are occasionally present in general so- ciety — in rooms where there is no dancing, but their manners are so reserved and distant (except to particular male friends) that they can scarcely be reckoned among the company. The parish DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 85 priests of Rome are generally a most active and excellent body of men, irreproachable in conduct, and, but for the unhappy political dissensions which divide from them the sympathies of the people, would be justly and sincerely beloved. It is extremely rare to hear a whisper of any mis- conduct among the religious houses of either sex. When discovered, it is uncompromisingly punished. But to return to my immediate topic — Society. There is the set of Roman princesses, grand? haughty dames, proud of their descent from the Cornelias, the Lucretias, and the Portias of the republic. They are, as a body, remarkable for correct conduct, extreme devotion, and a lamen- table want of intellectual cultivation. I believe many a raw English school-girl is better acquainted with Roman history than these princesses, born and reared amid the imposing ruins of the city of the Caesars. They dislike strangers unless especially introduced — particularly Protestants, who are not considered Christians — and clan and club together in a noli me tangere spirit very unusual among the Italians, who are in general an easy, hospitable, polite, and facile people. But the Romans generally, and especially the princes and princesses, are remarkable for their senseless pride. 86 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. They are unceasingly haunted by the notion of their descent from the Fabiuses, the Maximuses, and Caesars of old, and endeavour, very unsuccess- fully, to ape the dignified and solemn bearing of those ancient pillars of the state — a proceeding absolutely ridiculous in the degenerate state of Rome in the nineteenth century. As to the ladies — my special province — one must forgive them their foolish arrogance when one sees the superb palaces, the magnificent and glittering saloons they inhabit; the trains of re- tainers and servants that crowd their halls, and wait on their slightest caprice. From infancy they are nurtured with a luxury, and looked on by their inferiors with a devoted respect and veneration, quite sufficient to turn wiser brains, and confuse more expanded intellects. Each lady has her own entourage and circle — clients like the followers of the ancient senators; and although her palace may occasionally be opened for a grand ball to the profanum vulgus , the magnifi- cent mistress, her debt to popularity once paid, speedily closes her doors and retires to enjoy her morgue and her nineteen bosom friends, washing her princely hands from all further contamination with the common or unclean. Then there is the diplomatic set, of necessity DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 87 more hospitable and affable outwardly , but in reality excessively exclusive. Each ambassadress forms a little court of her own, composed principally of her compatriots, the etat-major of his excellency, and some distinguished hangers-on. Among these ladies are some women of intellect, wit, and beauty. Then there is the American set, a numerous body, extremely sociable, and remarkable for general intelligence, bustle, and go-ahead pro- pensities, and for the fragile and delicate beauty of the younger ladies — those pale daughters of the New World, whose alabaster skins, melting- blue eyes, and flaxen hair are nowhere more con- spicuous than among the olive-complexioned, black-eyed, luscious beauties of the South. There is also a learned set at Rome, neces- sarily cosmopolitan, but decidedly Catholic; and there is a rabidly Protestant set, which considers the Pope the abomination of desolation, and have been heard to stigmatise his blessing as a curse. It is wonderful they ever trust themselves within the walls of Babylon, for the spirit of the place can never visit them. Then there is that awful amalgamation of dissipation, riches, scandal, and exclusiveness, the English set, who have appro- priated to themselves an entire quarter of the city, 88 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. comprising the beautiful Pincian, where they have their English shops, English prices, books, papers, servants, and cuisine . They live much together, sharing only in the grand festivities of the Roman nobles and the diplomatic corps. They are a powerful faction, and are constantly endeavouring to Anglicise Rome by dint of money and over- bearing arrogance. They picnic in solemn temples, and underground in dim and dreary baths; drink champagne among moss-grown tombs; ride don- keys to Hannibal's camp ; get up horse and hurdle races over the consecrated soil of the clas- sic Campagna; light up the Coliseum with blue and red lights; sit on camp-stools in St. Peter’s; and invade every gallery, palace, or monument with the Saxon tongue and Saxon ill-breeding. Those who wish fairly to judge of Rome proper should “stay over the season,” and see the Eng- lish all out, in order to understand how much they have spoilt it. They give no end of balls and suppers, dance in Lent when they dare, turn their backs on the Pope, ridicule the Catholics, talk shocking scandal — which the Italians never do — and spend oceans of money, causing Rome, at this moment, to be the dearest residence on the Continent. Last of all, there is the artist world at Rome — DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 89 a merry, genial, cosmopolitan throng, compounded of French, Italians, Germans, Swiss, English, and Americans — a jovial, many-hued company, boast- ing names that make one’s soul thrill at the re- membrance of the immortal works they are handing down to posterity. Yes, I love the artist world at Rome, and am proud to reckon some of its world- wide names among my friends: — Gibson, now, alas! gone — who, in his life, so identified himself with Greek art and Greek sculpture that he seemed to have acquired the calm repose, the dignity, and the wisdom of an ancient philosopher. Who that ever really knew Gibson did not admire his simple, amiable nature and high-minded rectitude of character? He was at once the most modest and the most unflinching of men; pleased with the simplest meed of sincere praise, yet regardless of the opinion of the whole world if to obtain its applause he was obliged to compromise his ar- tistic creed, the religion of his soul. A mind of this temper would have been great in any walk of life. Then there was Crawford, the American sculp- tor, whose gallery still remains; whilst among the living are Story and Dessoulavy, Rogers and Tilten, and Miss Hosmer, the loved pupil of Gibson, and Page, and Shakespeare Wood — Americans all but 90 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the last named. Nor must I forget Penry Williams, the greatest of English painters at Rome — com- bining the dewy softness of Constable, the clear, brilliant tone of Callcott, with a purity of style and absolute perfection of colouring all his own. A great name, too, is that of Tenerani, the head of the modern Italian school, to be judged of in his noble works — uniting the force and grandeur of Thorwaldsen to the grace of Canova. There are life and vitality yet in the modern Italian school, spite of much feebleness and affec- tation, as must be allowed when contemplating Tenerani's immortal work, “The Angel of the Re- surrection ” — perhaps the most sublime effort of modern sculpture. Then there was Overbeck, a monkish old man, who lived shut up in the grim old Cenci Palace in the filthy Ghetto — a man so silent, of aspect so uninviting, and with manners so austere, that one never could believe him ca- pable of creating those virgins, angels, and glori- fied spirits of ideal purity, breathing the very airs of Paradise. Cornelius also, that great father of modern German painting, long lived on the sum- mit of the Pincian in the very house where, thirty years ago, he, in conjunction with Schadow and Overbeck, determined to break the bonds of custom, and first dreamt of, and then achieved, the revival DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 9 1 of fresco-painting, now, by their works at Diissel- dorf and Munich, spread over all Europe. The walls of this house are still decorated by their first efforts, which, with some crudeness and inex- perience in the use of a novel material, indicate uncommon and unusual power. Riedel too, that wonderful master of the German school who still lives, and who lights up his nymphs with beams as it were snatched from the living sunshine; and Mayer, and Coleman, the Paul Potter of our cen- tury; and many other rising geniuses among the younger artists; for I have but named the dictators in the republic of art of the present century. But I must stop, for in these recollections of the artist world of Rome my pen runs riot with pleasant memories. 9 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. CHAPTER IV. A Classical Excursion to Albano and Nemi, intended for those fond of the History of the Past. We started four in number — a delightful party — on a fine, fresh, sunshiny morning in ‘‘the merrie month of May,” for Albano. We were all well acquainted — and the gay jest and the piquant rejoinder went gaily round. We laughed at each other, at ourselves, at all the world, going forth into the Campagna through the heavy portal of San Giovanni Laterano, jealousy guarded by cara- binieri. Our party consisted of very various elements. There was an elderly friend acting duenna to our wilder spirits; calm, pleased, silent herself, but ready to share in the mirth of others. There was one highly gifted, my friend H ns, the son of a poetess, a poet himself, and antiquarian, an historian, a theologian — nothing came amiss to his well-stored mind; each stone had for him its suggestive interest, every monument its eloquent DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 93 history, every lovely phase of Nature its idyl. Art and antiquity through his mouth became simul- taneously articulate. I always said, if the dry bones of “ Murray’s Guide” could be vivified, animated, and clothed in less “dry-as-dust” gar- ments, the result would be H ns, the most instructive compendium and agreeable companion that ever turned over the moss-grown remains of antiquity. Our third was S. W , a sculptor, looking for form in all things, and disdaining colour and gradations of shade as things of nought, full of his art and of the antique, and withal emi- nently good-natured and obliging. As for the fourth, so delicate a subject as a description of myself cannot be expected. I cannot take my own portrait, as the painters did in the Florence gallery of celebrated artists, looking into a glass; for where can I find a mental mirror, “ showing the inmost part,” by which to draw myself? I must leave my readers to make their own sketch of me, first imploring their good offices not to paint me too black. Well, on we rattled along the paved road, tra- versing the Campagna dans tous les sens , as the French have it. Nowhere, I believe, in the world does one drive out into a perfect wilderness, de- void of houses or inhabitants, on a paved road, 94 diary of an IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. rough and jolting as the high street of a country town, except in this singular and exceptional place. A few miles and we were sailing along on the waving expanse of that grassy ocean, the turf bright as unset emeralds, its uniform colour broken by unenclosed fields of corn, with here and there tufts of luxuriant poppies, broad tracts of yellow buttercups, great staring daisies, and sweet violets. To the left lay the solemn lines of the Augustan aqueducts, linking the Alban Hills, and the pure springs that rise in their deep bosoms, to the ser- vice of that queen of cities reposing yonder on her seven-hilled throne. Each arch forms as it were a separate picture, presenting new scenes of beauty — a gallery as unique as it is singular. Beyond the fair face of nature nothing ar- rested our attention for some miles. To the right was the distant outline of the Street of Tombs, mound after mound of dark ruins marking the successive monuments. A mass of ruins, void and without form, close on the Appian Way, was pointed out by H ns as Roma Vecchia, so named because the contadini firmly believe this to have been the site of the ancient city, the why or the wherefore being utterly obscure. It was probably a temple or a villa bordering the “ Viarum Regina,” along whose pavement the chariots and DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 95 the horsemen went and came, thick as the falling leaves in an autumnal gale. We came at length to the foot of the Alban Hills, which rise abruptly from the plain. Before ascending, the modern road is joined by the old Appian Way, which shoots forth out of the city through the Porta San Sebastiano, straight as an arrow launched from a bow. If we had had eyes sufficiently long-sighted, we might have seen the sentinel keeping guard over the crumbling arch of Drusus. Where the ancient and the modern roads unite is a wretched tumble-down wayside osteria , called Frattocchie — a cut-throat-looking place enough — redolent of fleas, sour wine, dirt, and bad smells, especially by reason of its cucina cucinante, in which garlic would decidedly pre- dominate. H ns here stopped the carriage, not from any uncharitable purpose of condemning us to eat in such a hole, but to call our attention to the spot as being the supposed site of Clodius’s murder by Milo, the friend of Cicero, whom he chose for his advocate on his trial for the murder. But Cicero arriving at the Forum in a litter, and seeing the space filled with soldiers under arms, and Pompey himself seated on high as president, was so confounded and terrified that he could Q6 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. scarcely give audible utterance to that celebrated discourse, “Pro Milone,” which would alone have immortalised his eloquence. H ns recalled our early recollections of that most fascinating of books next to the Arabian Nights, Plutarch’s Lives. “It chanced,” said he, “unfortunately, that Milo, going to Lanuvium to consecrate a priest, met Clodius, surrounded by his clients and retainers, on this spot, where then stood a temple to the Bona Dea. Milo was quietly reposing in his coach, like a luxurious Roman gentleman, in company with his wife Fausta, the daughter of Sylla; but, as in the later mediaeval days of Montagues and Capulets, the servants of either party took up the well-known feud of their masters, and commenced fighting. One of the servants of Milo pierced Clodius’s shoulder, and Milo, considering that if Clodius survived he would eternally devote him and his house to the furies of revenge, ordered his at- tendants to finish him. And so fell Clodius.” We drove on, rejoicing in the knowledge we were thus pleasantly picking up like flowers along the hedge-rows, and began to mount the hill at a slow pace. The road was bordered on the left by low rocky banks, with here and there a mass of ruins DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. Q7 or a group of great spreading pine trees, whose sharp lines cut against the radiant sky with the full force of Italian contrast. Flowers wreathed many-coloured garlands over the reddish rock; little green lizards rushed to and fro amid per- fumed blossoms; gay butterflies fluttered; and spring birds sang an audible chorus of jocund spring. A little shrine to the Madonna was cut out of the tufa rock, and decorated with flowers; a lamp burned before her image, which was en- closed in a glass case; in front kneeled a con- tadina in the pretty costume of the country, with rich red folds falling from her head over a shawl of white muslin. To the right lay vineyards and gardens, look- ing like gigantic patches of basket-work from the yellow canne , or reeds, to which the young vines and just opening plants were trained; olives waved their pale, shadowless boughs among the vine- yards, spreading their fresh, whitish leaves to- wards the sun. Here and there a valley sank deep down, and a stream rushed away in the direction of the Campagna, trembling over great masses of rock, and cooling the air around. This was the near view. Behind lay the Queen of Capitals — her domes, towers, spires, and walls thickening on the low An Idle Woman in Italy. II. 7 98 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. hills far away — vast, shadowy, dreamy — melting into the azure haze of distance. The rich and many- tinted wilderness, on whose soil uprose the cities of Latium, spread around in its vast length and breadth; while to the far right a long monotonous line marked the shore towards Ostia and Antium (Porto d’Anzio), with the Tyrrhene Sea visible beyond all, a sheet of burnished gold. There was immensity in that view, suggestive of chaos and eternity. The land ran into the glistening sea undefined, and the mountains melted into the clouds, knitting the elements together in one great mystic whole around the Eternal City throned on those blue hills! What takes me a certain time to write I drank in with a few delicious glances. However, it was soon over, and we had now approached within sight of Albano, scarcely to be perceived until one is under its gateway. As to the lake, so utterly invisible is it from this side, that one would be ready to venture one’s life that no lake nearer than Thrasymene existed. To the left, close on a cluster of villas stand- ing in rich orange and lemon groves, at the en- trance to Albano, stand the massive ruins of a tomb, second only in size to that of Cecilia Metella, once encased with white marble, now but DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 99 a mere round of crumbling brickwork, crowned with a perfect diadem of plants, shrubs, and grasses. That tomb, H ns informed us (and so do the guide-books, only they want his plea- sant, well-turned sentences and interesting details, giving as ? twere the day and hour), was now ad-- mitted on all hands to be the resting-place of Pompey’s ashes, borne by the hands of his second wife, Cornelia, from Egypt, she never resting until she had deposited the monumental urn within sight of the city over which he had ruled, and where men had surnamed him “the Great.” Pompey, defeated in the final struggle at Phar- salia, fled to his fond and faithful Cornelia, who fainted as she heard of his mischance. Together in one Seleucian galley they sought the hospitality of Ptolemy, King of Egypt, at Pelusium; for Pompey, Roman though he was, could not bring himself to ask safety and mercy at the hands of conquering Caesar. A council was called among the Egyptians, and it was resolved that Pompey must perish, on the mean principle of subser- viency to Caesar. He was brought from the ship where he had left Cornelia, whose eye followed his every motion, suspicious of the event. She saw him seat himself in the little craft — a fishing- boat — and take out to read a speech he had pre- 7 * IOO DIARY OP AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. pared to address to Ptolemy. As the boat ap- proached the shore, hope shot into her sinking heart. A crowd of persons advanced (as she thought to do him honour), but at the moment when, stepping from the boat, he placed his foot on shore, a base assassin came from behind and stabbed him in the back. She saw him fall, like an ancient Roman, covering his face in his mantle, and she saw no more. She too fell, and a shriek so piercing rent the air, that it reached the cruel group gathered about the dying hero. “That shriek,” said H ns, “chronicled by Plutarch, has come down to us sharp and clear through accumulated centuries. I never pass that grey ruin without picturing to myself the stately Roman matron landing at Antium, followed by a long train of mourners and retainers — pale and worn, yet dignified, shrouded in her mourning robes — bearing the urn containing the ashes of her husband to this very spot, on his broad lands near ancient Alba.” The modern town of Albano is as ugly a place as I would not wish to see, consisting of one long street, where everybody can see every- body else, a great deal of dust, some tawdry shops, and two tolerable hotels — which to me, however, would be unbearable, because standing DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. IOI in the centre of the town. I had pictured to my- self an elegant, classic Locanda on the borders of the lake, overshadowed by evergreen woods. To be sure there are the very pretty gardens of the Villa Doria, always deliciously cool and shady, and at all hours hospitably thrown open to the public — a favour the more to be esteemed as the family spend there a portion of every autumn. The site of Alba Longa, however, must not be sought for in the modern town, but in a quite different situation. We drove through the long street out on the further side of Albano: still no signs of lake, not even a soupgon of where a lake might he. As we descended a steep hill through rocky banks overshadowed by trees, the country looked wild and pretty, tossed about in a pic- turesque manner. Close on the gates of Albano, towards Ariccia, on the brow of a descent, H ns called our attention to a most remarkable tomb — a square mass of majestic proportions surmounted by four low obelisks at the corners, with a pedestal in the centre. Two of the obelisks have disappeared, and the summit has become quite a little grove of low shrubs and young trees and creepers. H ns laughed at the idea of this tomb being the burying-place of the Horatii and Curiatii, as 102 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. has been affirmed. Their celebrated conflict took place much nearer Rome. “ There is no doubt,” he said, “that it was Etruscan workmanship, and erected to Aruns, son ofPorsenna;” that same king we all know so well, from Macaulay’s spirited lines beginning — “Lars Porsenna of Clusium by the nine gods he swore. That the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no more.” On a precipitous hill opposite, and about a mile distant from Albano, the small town, or almost village, of Ariccia crowns the height. Be- tween lies a deep valley, but the twin hills of Ariccia and Albano are linked together by a stupendous viaduct, at least one hundred and fifty feet high, with four or five rows of open arches; a most striking achievement of the late Papal Government, by which, at an immense cost, it was erected. It is wonderful to see Ariccia such a vulgar, dirty, modern little place, and to think that it has been sung by Horace and Virgil, and chronicled by Livy and Plutarch, none of whose writings will certainly gain in pleasing associations by a near knowledge of it as it is. There is a miser- able inn, to which strangers resort during the malaria season in Rome. We left the carriage and walked along the road, crossing the viaduct, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. IO3 and admiring the fine views over the Campagna, the sea, and the vast unfathomable woods; but we could still not discern a trace of the cosy Alban Lake, whose waters are so deeply buried under the overshadowing hills. On leaving Ariccia, another valley intervenes between it and an adjacent height half a mile off, on which Genzano, whither we were bound, is situated. We had now penetrated into the deep primeval woods of aged oaks, chestnuts, gnarled ash, and elm, that clothe the lower portion of the Alban Mountains as with a great mantle, the entire range ending in the elevated summit of Monte Cavo, now conspicuous to our left, and crowned by a white-walled convent. This convent occupies the site of what was once the temple of Jupiter Latialis built by Tarquin the proud as the solemn gathering-place of the forty-seven cities of the Latin Confederation— a splendid position, commanding the entire land from Soracte to An- tium. “No profane hand,” said H ns (who had become more and more eloquent and inter- esting as we advanced further and further into the classic scenes of Rome’s early history), “dared to desecrate or injure that sacred shrine, the re- nowned scene of the Feriae Latinae, endeared to the superstitious remembrance of all Latium, 104 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. where Julius Caesar had celebrated his triumph as dictator, and thousands of less illustrious generals enjoyed the honours of the Ovation. Even in the beginning of the last century ruins remained, stupendous enough to mark the temple’s original size and magnitude; but they were all destroyed and appropriated by Cardinal York, the last of the Stuarts, for the purpose of erecting that hideous Passionist convent now visible like a white spot on the summit. Ruins, marbles, co- lumns, statues, all were ruthlessly swept away, leaving the consecrated site of Rome’s early tri- umphs without a vestige of the past — an act of destruction the more extraordinary, as the reigning pontiff, Pius VI., both understood and admired art and antiquity. All that now remains is the old Via Sacra, vestiges of which are to be still traced through the chestnut woods on the face of the mountain opposite Rome, in the direction of Rocca di Papa.” The venerable primeval forests that surround Genzano and Ariccia are exquisite. Fine single trees stand forth in grassy openings, where early spring flowers of those bright hues peculiar to the South spring out of the moss-grown rocks that break the surface of the ground in picturesque confusion. Here and there the wood deepens DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 105 under a lower growth of ilex, laurel, box, and ar- butus, their dark boughs lending a mystic charac- ter to a sylvan region. Here Numa wandered in retired and secret places, haunted by the nymphs whose soft voices he loved. Here of old dwelt Zephyr and Echo, and here murmured many a trickling stream. We had no time to dwell on these bewitching memo- ries, but proceeded along a magnificent terrace — once the Appian Way, now the high road from Rome to Naples — and thundered through a splendid avenue of fine old trees, called the Olmata, leading into the small town or paese of Genzano, the last of those attractive outskirts of Rome to which its inhabitants escape during the dangerous summer heats. “Look,” said H ns, “at that round hill just in advance of the town and nearer the plain, covered by vineyards, and crowned by a mediaeval tower. That is said to be the site of ancient Corioli, whither Coriolanus fled when exiled from Rome. From thence he issued, leading the Volscian forces against his native city; and there he returned when, overcome by the entreaties of his mother and wife, he withdrew from the siege. No ruins remain of the ancient city where the Roman general ended his days. Some say that 106 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN iN ITALY. he was murdered by the Volscians out of resent- ment at his conduct — others that he lived to be an old man, and was heard often to complain ‘that the evils of exile bore much heavier on the aged/ Pliny says that even in his day no traces of Corioli were visible. The hill is now called Monte Giove.” Genzano consists of one broad street on the declivity of a hill. Below are hills crowned with feudal castles, remnants of the middle-age domi- nion of the stout Roman barons, now ruined and romantic adjuncts to a landscape both grand and beautiful. The valleys lead down into the vast expanse of the outlying Campagna, encircled by a shining fringe of gold — the suggestive Mediter- ranean, along whose unruffled and tideless shores many a white-sailed ship was visible. By the time we had reached Genzano we were just in that state of mind and body proper to the appreciation of a good dinner. Even our poet so far descended from his Parnassian heights as to express the pleasure he felt that our long fast was to be broken. We were received by a most kind and hospi- table host, whose casa is the only decent residence within the precincts of Genzano, by name Jacobini, nephew to the late minister of finance. When DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. IO7 the Italians are hospitable and cordial, the Red Indians themselves cannot exceed the heartiness of their welcome, the boundlessness of their house hold generosity. Jacobini’s face beamed with genuine delight as he conducted us up long flights of stairs to the piano-nobile of his house, near where the swallows build their nests- — the modern Italians and the birds having a decided simpatia for an elevated situation just under the eaves. The Queen of Sheba was not received by King Solomon, in all his glory, with more empressement than we were: the best chambers were opened — the hospitable board spread by an old contadina, wearing a red petticoat edged with green, a green bodice laced with red, bows of the same colour as shoulder knots, a lace apron and tucker, and yards of snow-white dimity stowed away in mysterious folds about her almost hairless head. Great gold earrings and a large brooch completed her attire. Round the room in which our refection was served hung four portraits of lovely girls — one too many for the Graces. “Ah!” said Jacobini, “those are the pictures of my sisters — mie care sorelline. When they were all unmarried we had a happy home. I loved them well; but they are all married now. She with the red rose in her hair, the best, the pret- 108 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. tiest, went last — e adesso son solo l” and he sighed. H ns whispered to me he should like to write a sonnet on that sweet beauty-sister, who never would grow old or faded, either she or the rose in her hair, under their glass frame, what- ever the original might do. S. W remarked, what a lovely bust she would make. But Jacobini looked pained, and changed the conversation, saying — “ Oh Dio , quanto e combi at a adesso , p over a mia Rosa tanto amata !” But there was no time for sadness; for the soup, or minestra , now appeared under the bene- ficent auspices of the donna di face enda, who, in her red petticoat, skipped about with the agility of a young ballarina . Then came a huge bowl of such macaroni, with savoury sauce — such ma- caroni as only Italians know how to prepare; and three dishes of roast and boiled meat, and delicious frittura , light and airy as crisp snow on the highest mountains, and piles of savoury salami, and ham and salad, and sweets and fruit — such a dinner, which, truth to say, we required not the hospitable pressing of Jacobini largely to DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. log enjoy! Bottle after bottle of wine was produced, the corks flying pell-mell around. This was the vino sincero of Genzano, famous for its vineyards — a wine to be drunk in tumblers (like strong sweet cider in taste). Then came sherry and claret, and Heaven knows what other beverages. I began to tremble at last for the heads of Poetry and Sculpture, who were obliged perforce to par- take of all, no refusal being permitted by Signor Jacobini, whose broad face grew redder and fuller with every bottle. By the time dinner was over, we were all the most warm and cordial friends that ever sacrificed to Bacchus under the classic shadow of Monte Cavo. We were to remain for a week? — No, we couldn’t. For the night? — No, a thousand thanks, it was impossible; the strong walls of Rome would not contain our agonised and expectant families did we not return that night. “Ma supplico loro , mi facciano la compia - cenza , il gran favor e ,” &c., &c. Well, we came then to a compromise; we would return and spend another day, and eat another dinner — (small blame to us for the same); so the worthy Jacobini, who had eaten, drunk, and talked like ten ordinary men, was appeased; and we broke up, to view under his chaperonage the classic beauties of the Lake of Nemi, which, like its sister of Albano, I I O DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. lies so hidden that not a glimpse had we of its existence, although positively on its shores. At the top of its straggling street an imposing old palace obtrudes its gloomy heavy front between us and the green woods around, belonging to the Duca Cesarini, an Italian magnifico married to an English lady. Passing along another of those grand leafy avenues, or galleries surrounding Gen- zano , whose overarching branches formed a long- drawn aisle of that mighty cathedral whose roof is heaven, we reached a gate leading into the re- cesses of the duchessa’s garden. Elysium itself, I do not believe could be more wondrously fair than were those scented groves encircling the Lake of Nemi. The lake itself opens before us as a secluded, unruffled expanse, five miles in circumference. Its waters are of a peculiarly deep green, reflected from the over- shadowing woods, now bursting into the brilliant colours of spring. A more romantic, lonely little tarn, embosomed in silent hills which dimple around it like the leaves of a gigantic lily — the waters its cup-like petal — never opened to human eye. The spirit and worship of the old gods of Greece seem still to cling to these once con- secrated groves, and to recall dim visions of those days when the gods loved to descend from high DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I I I Olympus to drink the new wines of the vintage, and dally with the fair daughters of earth. Jacobini — dear , good-natured creature ! — neither caring for nor remembering the classi- calities, dragged us about to admire fountains flinging waters into marble basins, which flashed back in stars and irises; swans reposing under willows in little emerald islands; and countless camellia trees, whose waxen flowers of red and white blushed forth from thickets of shining leaves. He then led us by long galleries of verdure, formed of laurel, ilex, and other dark and fragrant trees, down towards the lake, through a woody labyrinth of paths. All at once I missed H ns, and as I wanted to hear all his lore, I anxiously hunted him out. He was at last discovered seated, book in hand, in a delicious arbour of flowering olean- ders. To our question, “What he was reading?” he replied, “Byron, of course;” and then and there repeated these lines, which we heard on the very spot with renewed and particular pleasure: — * “ Lo, Nemi! .navelled in the wooded hills So far, that the uprooting wind which tears The oak from its foundation , and which spills The ocean o’er its boundary, and bears Its foam against the skies , reluctant spares The oval mirror of thy glassy lake.” I I 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. Poor Jacobini looked terribly bored at our enthusiasm, to him utterly incomprehensible, and begged some of the party to descend through the winding paths to the edge of the lake. I preferred remaining to hear H ns discourse upon the many graceful mythological legends which lend such a charm to these now desolate shores. Opposite to where we sat, sheltered from the heat by an overhanging berceau , , appeared the very picturesque village of Nemi, half-way up on the hillside. H ns said that there were near it some vestiges of a temple, supposed to have been dedicated to the Ephesian Diana, to whose wor- ship all the woods bordering the lake were de- dicated. Here Diana was worshipped, together with Hippolytus, the unhappy son of Theseus by his first queen. Racine has immortalised his story in noble verse, and Rachel, as Ph£dre, has in her turn immortalised Racine by her magnificent acting. To this temple Iphigenia, with her brother Orestes and his friend Pylades, escaped from Tauris, carrying with them the statue of Diana, which the Delphian Oracle had commanded the wretched Orestes to transport there, so that under the shade of these sacred woods his wearied spirit might find repose. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 1 3 In these groves the nymph Egeria wandered when death separated her from Numa, her human lover. Inconsolable for his loss, she woke the echoes by her lamentations, and fed the flowers with her tears, until all-merciful Diana, pitying her grief, changed her into a fountain, which still trickles down into the lake near by the village, on the site of “Glorious Diana’s fane.” Within such groves, and beside such a tranquil lake, Actaeon perhaps might have gazed — with that fatal curiosity which cost him so dear — on the fair form of the chaste goddess while she bathed in these placid waters. Here, on clear summer nights, when the amorous breath of Zephyr alone fanned the breeze, and Boreas and his band were deep buried in Ocean’s caves, Diana may have awakened Endymion sleeping on the mountain-tops. ***** Our party being once more assembled, we wandered awhile through shady walks and over- hanging woods carpeted with purple violets, and abounding in a peculiar kind of bright blue aster, which contrasted charmingly with the moss-grown ground. It was difficult to tear oneself away from this Arcadian paradise, but on my remarking to Jacobini what a charming place it would be during the summer heats, he quite astonished me by say- An Idle Woman in Italy. II. 8 1 14 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. ing it is more than suspected of malaria, and therefore little frequented. It was with much regret that I left Genzano and the pellucid lake, but the good Jacobini’s feelings amounted almost to despair. Again he entreated us to sleep the night, but finding that impossible, contented himself by mounting into the carriage with us, and escorting us on our way. We returned by the same road as far as Ariccia, when he departed, bidding us many times addiOy buon viaggio , and rivederle , and bearing from us solemn promises of a speedy return. Leaving Ariccia, we mounted by an ascending road into the recesses of those great woods which clothe the Lakes of Albano and Nemi and the lower spurs of Monte Cavo. The slanting rays of the sun cast a chequered shade on the ground, covered with every blossom of the spring: violets, yellow daffodils, blue hyacinths dedicated to melancholy and the dead; that anemone, with its dark petals, sprung from the blood of Adonis; and snowdrops, called here “the tears of the Madonna.” A gentle wind rustled among the lower shrubs and saplings, and mingled with the murmur of bees busy among gay patches of yellow broom. The singing of birds, particularly that of the nightingale, is never heard to such ad- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I I 5 vantage as in Italian woods, where, like the cicale , they seem literally to warble away their little throats, and kill themselves with sweet songs. The living rock here and there protruded bare, or covered with emerald mosses and many delicate varieties of fern plants; while overhead waved ancient trees of chestnut, elm, and ilex, twisted into strange shapes, like spirits writhing in the torments of Hades. For about an hour we wound among the mazes of this enchanting wood, and then emerged on the summit of a hill to another phase of all-beauteous Nature. Below opened the Lake of Albano, unruffled, waveless, its precipitous and wooded banks mirrored in the calm waters. Light broke into my soul at the sight of that beautiful lake which I had so long looked for in vain: it came before me like the image of a beloved and long-sought friend. Be- fore us Monte Cavo rose in one long line from its shores; to the left lay Castel Gondolfo, roman- tically crowning a precipitous cliff embowered in dark woods. The character of the scenery greatly resembles that of the Lake of Nemi, but on a larger scale: the same untroubled waters enclosed in a deep cup-like basin — the same soft harmonious beauty — the same richly- wooded mountains, rising steeply around — the same brilliant colouring, pe- 8 * 1 1 6 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. culiar to this “land of many hues” — the same solitude, and mystic repose — the same absence of any living being, house, or sign of life. Beautiful as it is, there is a melancholy, plaintive look about it, eloquently suggestive of happier times. The shores seem heavy with sad memories of other days. Had I not already known the Lake of Albano to be rich in classical traditions — the fabled land whence came the first germ of Rome — I should have guessed from its aspect that the past had there left its indelible imprint, and that the history of those fair, sad shores, which even under the joyous sun look ominous and forebod- ing, was to be sought in bygone centuries. This lake lies deep in the crater of an extinct volcano, and its waters bear that dark look pe- culiar to fluid spontaneously emitted by a con- vulsion of Nature. Few valleys or ravines break its green sides, which descend in precipitous lines to the margin. There is the monotony of perfect and exquisite beauty, such as one remarks in the classical works of Grecian sculpture, where a slight defect or shortcoming would be almost a relief to the over-taxed eye. An indication of rocks on the opposite shore, slightly basaltic, marks, as H ns informed us, the site of Alba Longa; for the researches of Sir William Gell have finally DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I 1 7 settled that much-disputed question. There, as goes the legend, once stood the palace of a mighty king, who, in punishment for his pride, was destroyed by fire sent from heaven by the gods — a catastrophe supposed to have some ob- scure connection with the volcanic explosion to which the lake owes its origin. The ruins of his palace are yet pointed out in the dark bosom of the waters, when from long drought they sink be- low their usual level; and the contadini tell many fearful tales of immense grottoes, arches, and columns; of a whirlpool in the centre, which renders the lake dangerous for boats; and of the spirits of the dead, which still float over the sub- merged walls which they once inhabited. Alba Longa, or the “White Long City,” was founded by Ascanius, the son of ^neas, who himself was excluded, like Moses, from the “pleasant land” promised to his followers, ^neas dwelt on the Latin plains, near the shore on which he had landed, on the sandy, barren spot where the white sow had farrowed her thirty young. After Ascanius, surnamed “lulus,” or the “Soft-haired,” who founded the city by the calm lake which yet nurses in its bosom the ruins of his proud palace, came Numitor and Amulius, who divided the throne; but after a time Amulius I 1 8 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. wickedly prevailed over his brother, and com- manded his niece Sylvia, who had been born and reared within the new city, to become a priestess of Vesta; but Sylvia forgot her vows, and bore the twins Romulus and Remus, who, to conceal her shame, were borne away into the plain, and consigned to the great river “ Father Tiber,” which divides the level land of the Campagna. The current bore them to a wild fig tree which grew near the site on which the Forum was after- wards built; and thus Rome came to be founded by the twins, and Alba Longa fell into decay, and was forgotten, until all that now remains is that faint line of dark rock rending the green sward. But the Romans remembered always the old cradle of their race, and therefore they founded the great temple of Jupiter Latialis, whose majestic portico once crowned the summit of Monte Cavo, the highest point on these Alban Hills; and there all the tribes worshipped, looking over the broad lands of ancient Latium. As we sat among the ilex trees many recol- lections inspired by the place arose. H ns reminded us that these wooded heights had after- wards been appropriated to the villas of Pompey and Domitian, traces of whose summer palaces are still distinguishable. We followed a magni- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 1 9 ficent avenue of ilex trees leading along the upper margin of the lake into the small town of Castel Gondolfo, where the Pope has a villa to which he retires during the summer heats. We walked hurriedly through the small town — a poor and poverty-stricken place, spite of the occasional presence of “the Holy Father” — and descended by a winding, tortuous path to the shore; for H ns was determined that we should see the Emissary, one of the best preserved and most striking monuments of republican Rome. In vain our “quiet friend” expostulated, for she by no means fancied the climbing. Her voice was lost in the majority; I was for it, and so was Sculp- ture — three to one — so we carried the day, and down we rapidly descended along a difficult path, escorted by a ragged boy, who amused his leisure time by whooping and screaming in an unintel- ligible patois to his comrades on the opposite shore. After a long and winding descent we rested on the shores of the motionless lake, on an unbroken fringe of the finest turf. I could have wished to wander for hours on that peaceful shore, populated by thick-coming fancies and poetic memories; but H ns, now become practical as I had grown fanciful, hurried us on, and we were fain to follow. Vineyards 120 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. and fruit-gardens skirted the lake, the latter loaded with the delicate pink and white blossoms of the peach, the almond, and the apricot. The water’s edge was strewn with stones, among which we picked up specimens of rare marbles and fragments of terra-cotta, evidences of the palaces once inhabited by Pompey and Domitian. Masses, too, of solid foundations and half-sunken walls ran into the lake terrace-wise, showing that these imperial villas, like the modern water-palaces of Como, stood literally on the water. A large rock juts into the lake; a great tree bends down over the rock, dipping its dark branches into the waters; and a small door ap- pears in an old wall — a suggestive door, that might lead to Hades, or Lethe, or Purgatory, or any other terrible and unreal place. The custode, a rough shepherd clothed in goats’ skins, was there before us, and had opened it. We passed into an enclosed space, walled in with massive- looking Etruscan blocks of stone matted with ivy, and piled above each other as if the Titans had placed them there, and poised them without cement or mortar. This mysterious nymphcBum , dark and cool even in the hottest day, filled with the sound of rushing waters, must have been the very trysting-place of the nymphs and sylvan DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I 2 I deities. The spirits of the woods and the spirits of the waters, in bygone times, must have met here, and danced many a jocund measure to the sound of reedy pipes. A low arch opposite the entrance, similar in construction to that of the Cloaca Maxima, but infinitely grander and better preserved, spans a rushing, rapid current, clear as crystal, but soon lost under the dark arching recesses beyond. This was the famous Emissary of the Lake of Albano, and dates back to Rome’s early history and the siege of Veii, that obstinate neighbour who for ten years disputed her sway. After the many episodes in which my subject has tempted me to indulge, I will not particularise that well-known siege but only recall the pro- phecy of the old soothsayer, who during the siege, standing on the walls of the rebellious city, declared in derision to the Romans encamped beneath, as he laughed and mocked at them, ‘‘that they might think they would take Veii, but that they never should succeed until the waters of the Lake of Alba were all spent, and flowed out into the sea no more.” And when the old man was afterwards captured by stratagem, and con- ducted to the Roman generals, he repeated the same words; because, he said, it was the Fates 122 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. who prompted him to declare what he spoke, and that, “if the waters ran out into the sea, ‘woe is Rome! , but that if they be drawn off, and reach the sea no more, then it is ‘woe to Ven!’” So, the Romans, unable to comprehend his import sent to consult the Oracle of Delphi, which agreed in all things with the old man’s words. The Romans, therefore, who had been much molested at various times by the capricious rising of the waters within the lake, sent workmen, and bored a passage underground through the hills to the other side, where it emerged, and thus made the waters obedient for watering the lands. So the Emissary was built, and Veii fell; and this far misty legend, and ourselves, and the nineteenth century, are linked together by that low arch under which runs the rapid current into which, standing on a few rough logs of wood, we gazed! There is a popular belief prevailing in this locality, similar to that of the Indians on the sacred Ganges, that little barks made of leaves or sticks, balanced with a lighted taper, bring the fulfilment of any special wish breathed over them in a believing spirit by those who confide them to this subterranean current — provided always that the tapers are not extinguished so long as the barks remain in sight. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 23 I could not conceive why H ns had so tormented the custode about bringing lights, seeing that the sun shone brightly, and had ac- tually insisted on sending back a messager into the town for a bundle of moccoletti. Now his pur- pose was revealed to me, as also the motive of his active and anxious desire to conduct us to the Emissary, spite of the expostulations of our chaperon, who declared that the passage down “naturally suggested,” as Box says to Cox, “how we ever should get up!” The little barks were soon laden — one for S. W , another for me, and one for H ns, — and sent sailing down the gloomy waters which flowed there centuries before Christianity descended on benighted pagans. The deep low vault and the rapid current received and bore them; and we watched their passage, and saw that the voyage promised fair, for the lights illumined the dark sides of the water-paved cavern for a long, long while, then dwindled, and at length disappeared. I wonder on what strange shore those little barks have stranded, and if the good spirits that came down to meet them will hear our prayer. H ns was immensely anxi- ous about his; but we each kept our own secret, and none knew the other's wish. We left this place — the high road, as it were, 124 diary OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. into a visionary world — and, as “Pilgrim’s Pro- gress,” says, “addressed ourselves to the ascent” — a labour not easy to accomplish, seeing that the hills are as straight as a house-side, and that, by way of hastening, we chose a path where there was little or no footing. Over stones, and briers, and holes, and rocks we scrambled, sitting down now and then to rest and laugh. At length we reached the summit, breathless and hot, but merry as in the morning when we traversed the Cam- pagna. We gave a look at the Pope’s villa — an ugly, staring place, with a grand view over the lake on one hand, and the broad level expanse of sea and Campagna on the other; then seated our- selves in the carriage and wound down a rapid hill, effectually shutting out the lake and all its charms. A delightful drive through the cool even- ing air brought us to Rome. We saw the sun set in sheets of gold and saffron over the Mediter- ranean, the Campagna, and the ruins, in long streaks of glorious light. For a space the very heavens were on fire; then settled down in bars of crimson and deep blood-red. These gradually melted too, and then came pinks, and blues, and purples, reflected on the Sabine Hills, Mount Al- gidus, ancient Tusculum, and the ruined villas of Cicero, Adrian, and Domitian. Then night — DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I 25 dark, leaden night — gradually spread her sable mantle around, and the stars came out one by one, and the moon rose, and, lighted by her pale crescent, we passed the overarching ruins by the Lateran. What a pleasant day it had been! 126 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. CHAPTER V. Something about Nuns and Convents — The Quirinale and Pius IX. I had seen a saint made at St. Peter’s when I came first to Rome. I have now seen a nun made, and the second ceremony edified me more than the first, because, having deeply studied ec- clesiastical Rome, I understood it better. There is a small church on the left hand, descending the hill from the Quattro Fontane towards Santa Maria Maggiore, before whose door we found ourselves at nine o’clock last Sunday morning. Who the tutelary saint of that small church is, no bigger than an “upper chamber,” I do not know. Our kind monk, Padre S , who was waiting to receive us, ushered us in, and placed us close to the altar, which was garlanded, wreathed, and draped with red and white and gold, mixed with flowers and boughs. The floor of the church was also strewed with box and bay leaves, which ex- haled an aromatic perfume as the heavy feet of the crowd went and came. We were early: the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 27 altar was untenanted, a crimson desk and cushion being placed in front for the officiating cardinal. There was a great deal of running to and fro; for it seemed a simple, primitive sort of place, unused to such grand and solemn ceremonial. The custode (Anglic^, “pew-opener”), a little humpty-dumpty woman, looked all cap and rib- bons, bustle and confusion. She, and the Swiss guards in their party-coloured uniforms, standing right and left of the altar, were incessantly at cross-purposes, causing the poor little soul to blush deeper and deeper at each fresh mistake. Then there was a naughty little shred of the gar- ment of Aaron, dressed in a surplice, who dodged about in company with another little priestikin, and caused great scandal by the faces they made from behind the altar at each other — an incon - venance instantly and sternly checked by a tall and solemn priest, who, laying violent hands on both, drove them ignominiously forth among the crowd. It was a festa — a great festa — and they wanted to enjoy it their own way: the poor things knew no better. After the pew-opener had rushed about in and out of the crowd many times, putting chairs in impossible places, where they wouldn't stand, and displaying various evidences of a temporary aber- 128 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. ration of intellect, a bell sounded lustily — a buzz and hush went round the crowd — the guards opened a passage — and Cardinal M , a vener- able man entirely clothed in red, advanced and knelt on the cushion prepared for him. He was followed by a suite of gentlemen habited in black, somewhat in the Sir Walter Raleigh style, wear- ing swords and chains, who, during his orisons, stood around him. After he had risen and taken his place in front of the altar opposite the con- gregation, two ladies, the Countess M and Mrs. S , wearing veils, advanced, accompanied by priests, and leading by the hand two little children. They took their places on chairs facing the altar. After a pause, and some singing of female voices from behind the altar, four sisters advanced, who, having previously taken the lesser vows, were now to make what is called their pro- fession. They were habited as Sisters of Mercy, wearing black robes, and white linen cloths folded over and about their heads in those indescribable coifs peculiar to nuns. Each bore a lighted candle in her hand. Their eyes were bent on the ground, and they were accompanied by two other elderly sisters, similarly habited, who had already taken the full vows. This solemn procession passed into the enclosure around the altar, each sister DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I2Q making her reverence to the benevolent-looking cardinal seated on his fald- stool, the rear being brought up by two lovely children, fair and pure as alabaster, habited as little angels, with drape- ries of blue over tunics of pale pink, sandals on their feet, and wings covered with feathers on their shoulders. These little creatures bore each a salver; one containing wreaths of the brightest and freshest flowers, the other crowns of green thorns, their great dagger-points standing out several inches — thorns that recall those encircling the head of the divine “Man of Sorrow,” so pathetically rendered by Guido and Carlo Dolce. By the time these various groups had ranged themselves around the altar, the sacred space was quite full. It was a rich and varied tableau; the calm, venerable cardinal in the centre; on one side the six nuns, in their dark habits, bearing, as the wise virgins of old, “their lights burning;” on the other, the group of attendant gentlemen and priests; the little angels in their gay drape- ries; the veiled ladies and their little charges; with the great crimson velvet curtains framing all in heavy folds. Music now burst forth from a hidden choir in joyous strains befitting the happy celebration of the celestial espousals. The car- dinal was invested with splendid robes of white An Idle Woman in Italy . II, 9 130 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. and gold, and a jewelled mitre was placed on his head. The ladies (secular) then advanced, and, kneeling at his feet, presented the two children, who received at his hands the consecrated oil on their foreheads — a renewal of the baptismal vows, answering to our own ceremony of confirmation. Oil that has been solemnly blessed can only be used in the most solemn rites, such as the coro- nation of sovereigns, the administration of ex- treme unction, and other exceptional occasions; and is only to be touched by the hands of a priest. A fillet of white silk was then fastened round the heads of the children, which gave them the appearance of early Christian catechumens. At the conclusion of this graceful preface to the other ceremony, the children, and the two ladies who acted as their sponsors, retired to their seats, and were seen no more. Music broke the pauses, joyous Hallelujahs and Te Deums and Jubilates; amid which songs of praise, the nuns, advancing, kissed the hand of the cardinal. Their confessor, a tall ill-favoured man, who had entered with them and taken his place by the altar, now rose, and in Italian be- sought the cardinal to permit him to address a few words of exhortation to his spiritual daughters. Such an occasion would furnish an admirable DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I3I opportunity for a man of eloquence and intellect to make a splendid discourse, but the padre here present was a common, coarse creature, who brawled in a high-pitched voice, like a Presby- terian minister, for about twenty minutes, in praise of virginity and of the sacrifice these coraggiose giovani , as he styled them, were about to make, and then sat down. The nuns again advanced opposite to the cardinal, and knelt; the little angels, who already looked very faint and weary, drew near; and the ceremony proceeded. I cannot attempt to give all the particulars of this long and complicated service. I notice the salient points only. One nun, representing her fellows — all of whom bore lighted candles of a size much resembling a torch — made a speech in Italian to the cardinal, to the effect that she and her fellows desired to lay aside all worldly pomp, desires, and vanities, and to attach themselves wholly to that Divine Bridegroom who will one day descend to claim his own. They desired to suffer, to obey, to renounce all and everything, for his sake — father and mother and friends — so as to be found of Him. This was all pronounced in a clear, cheerful voice, without any apparent emotion whatever; in fact, it wanted modulation to make it interesting; and great and noble as was 9 * 1 3 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the sacrifice they were making, it lacked that poetic charm of melancholy and regret with which the imagination invests a nun’s vows, separating her from all she loves in the visible world, for the sake and love of that invisible country — “that bourne from which no traveller returns” — beyond the skies. At the close of the nun’s oration the cardinal addressed certain questions to them all, and I heard them promise “to go wherever they were sent.” What a world lay in these simple words — the renunciation of what we love next to life, our liberty — “to go whither they were sent.” Poor souls! what a vow, and what fortitude would be required to fulfil it, when we remember that these, being Sisters of Mercy, would be employed in nursing the sick! “To go whither they are sent,” into contagion, filth, sorrow, and death — to minister to the wants of the suffering wretch that the world disowns — to receive his last sigh — to close his starting eyes! Oh, holy and sacred vocation, when sincerely fulfilled! The cardinal then took a large pair of scissors from off the altar, and cut from the head of each a handful of hair, which he presented to them. Receiving the hair from him, they cast it from them with these words, pronounced in clear, round, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 33 unhesitating accents: “ Rinunzio al mondo e a tutte le sue vanitti” There was almost hate and de- fiance in the tone and the action, as though the thought of this world was sin, and pain, and sorrow; but no one present could for a moment question its entire sincerity — it was the free, spon- taneous expression of the internal essence. The cardinal then addressed them in Italian. “Mie sorelle ,” said he, “you have chosen, like Mary, the 'better part;’ you will be the brides of that unseen and eternal Bridegroom whose coming the Church militant earnestly awaits. Will you, like Him, choose the crown of thorns, or will you prefer the chaplet of flowers? Here are both. I desire that you make your choice.” The little angels now advanced, bearing each their salver. “ Eminentissimofi replied the nun who had all along acted as spokeswoman, “we only wish in all things to follow the example of our Divine Lord; we beseech the blessed Virgin, Maria San- tissima , and all the saints to help us in this our resolve. Like Jesus, we desire to wear the crown of thorns, which we now take.” Each advanced, and taking a crown of thorns from off the salver, two elder sisters fixed it on the top of their white coifs. Bearing these marks 134 DIARY of an IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. of our Saviours agony, they had accomplished the symbolic rites of the Church, and had become eternally dedicated to Him in time as in eternity. They kissed the hand of the cardinal, then tenderly saluted each other; and, after listening to some more joyous music from the invisible choir in celebration of the mystic espousals, they withdrew as they had come. I could see them well as they passed out. Some were strikingly handsome, young, with grand massive features, and deep, dark, glancing eyes, only to be seen in the South — profound, fathomless, glorious, as the depths of their own blue heavens! Peace go with the holy maids, and joy in the great vineyard of the Lord, whither they were bound; and may they never repent those solemn oaths, chronicled by the Church in our hearing! “Aki, poverine!” exclaimed that excellent crea- ture, Padre S , when all was over. “Dio li protegge! What a life — what sacrifices! Ah, chi lo sal” And his honest eyes ran over with tears, for he — a monk of Valombrosa — knew what it was to take up that Cross here below, and wreathe it with flowers of humility and resignation, when it is most heavy and most bitter. The church of San Antonio, on the Esquiline, is known to every one as the place where the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 35 animals are blessed. It is also well known to Romans as the convent where are manufactured the palms used by the Pope and cardinals in the high mass at St. Peter’s on Palm Sunday. This year no less than twelve hundred were woven out of the canne, or reeds (growing in waving forests on the banks of rivers and in marshy places), by the industrious nuns, who, living under what is called clausura , can never leave their monastery like the free, but certainly more heroic, “ Sisters of Mercy.” Padre S— — took us to see the great palm made for the Pope, and sent to him every year from San Antonio. He, poor man, was in ecstasy over its elegance and fancy. If it had been a rare cinque-cento toy worked by the hand of the im- mortal Cellini, he could not have more extolled it. It certainly was wonderful how the conceits and fancies of grapes, and wheat-ears, and leaves, and flowers, could all be cut out of hard round reeds; but the design was poor and confused, and the introduction of artificial flowers into the fes- toons gave the whole a tawdry appearance. It was a huge thing, nearly six feet high. But what engaged me much more than the palm was a sight we saw in the interior of the cloister, whither, thanks to our tonsured friend 136 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. (who is the confessor of these good sisters), we had penetrated. There was a small table imme- diately below a heavy double-iron grating, shaped like a window in the wall. At this table sat an elderly man of the working class and a boy. Behind the grating, and distinctly visible, was a real “cloistered nun,” conversing with these her relatives, and all the while busily plying her fingers in weaving, and cutting, and twisting a palm for the coming festa. Her figure and head were wrapped in a mantle of black serge; her face was enclosed in a dose-setting coif. She was young and positively beautiful. Fresh roses mantled in her cheeks, and her eyes quite pierced the envious bars. She looked gay, smiling, and happy, and was conversing on evidently cheerful and animating subjects in a low voice with her relatives. I could scarcely take my eyes from her — she seemed positively to irradiate the gloomy prednets around her. Padre S informed me that nuns arc at all times permitted thus to meet and freely converse with friends and rela- tives. “But,” said I, “should they abuse the indul- gence, what then?” “Oh!” said he, “that rarely occurs; but in such a case the abbess would interfere and ad- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 37 monish the sister. Would you like to see the mother-superior? ” “Oh, extremely!” “Well, you shall see her; for she is una bnonis- sima creatura e molto mia arnica” So we passed into an inner room, and sat down before precisely such another little table, under just such a double grating. As Padre S passed the lovely nun, she respectfully rose and saluted him. This attention was shown by virtue of his office of confessor to the community. After waiting some time, a little old wrinkled woman, bent nearly double by age, emerged from the dark recesses beyond, like some fairy of the good old days. Her countenance, though ex- tremely aged, expressed mildness and amiability. She saluted us kindly, and seemed quite delighted at our praises of the Pope's great palm. “Si” replied she, “ u?i lei lavoro molto bravo” We had not many subjects in common, especially as the good old lady declined to con- sider us Christians; but we got on very tolerably notwithstanding. She looked at our children and asked their ages, and admired them — until, quite ashamed of martyrising her any longer, I begged to levarle Vincomodo (as the Romans say), and I38 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. withdrew. Certainly my impression of the nuns of San Antonio is that they are cheerful, happy, and in the enjoyment of all becoming freedom. Many of the boasted hills of Rome exist but in name, or in the excited imaginations of anti- quarians; but the Quirinale is really a respectable and visible eminence, conspicuous from all quarters of the city. Baths and temples decorated its base. A temple to the Fidius Dius (or of good faith) is particularly mentioned — a deity with a horn — with whom, assuredly, the Romans had very small dealings. On the summit, near the site of the very magnificent but small church of St. Andrew, belonging to the Jesuits, rose the stately temple of Quirinus, dedicated to Romulus. When that unprincipled, though fortunate, founder of young Rome had established his brigand dominion over a motley collection of exiles, refugees, thieves, and murderers, gathered by promises of refuge, and certainty of warlike spoils from all parts of Italy, he suddenly, after a long and prosperous reign, disappeared from the presence of the mul- titude during an assembly of the people without the city. The heavens darkened, clouds gathered over his throne, a blackness as of night obscured the day, and thunder and loud winds burst forth, as if announcing some tremendous convulsion of DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 39 Nature. When the tempest passed and the light reappeared, Romulus was gone. The people declared that he had been mur- dered, but the priests and patricians maintained that he was caught up to heaven, and that it be- hoved the quirites and plebs to worship him as a god. The question was satisfactorily settled by the credulity or ingenuity of a certain Alban, Julius Proculus by name, descended from Ascanius, the founder of the “Long White City,” who affirmed that on his way to the Forum, Romulus had met him, ennobled and dazzling in countenance, and arrayed in radiant armour. Julius astonished at the apparition, thus addressed it: “For what mis- behaviour of ours, O king! or by what accident have you so untimely left us in utter calamity, and sunk the whole city in inexpressible sorrow?” To which the shade graciously replied, “It pleased the gods, my good Proculus, that for awhile I should dwell with men and found a great and glorious city, and afterwards return to the heavens from whence I came. Farewell. Go tell the Ro- mans that by the exercise of temperance and for- titude they shall attain the highest pitch of human greatness, and I, the god Quirinus, will ever be propitious to them.” Thus spoke the unrighteous murderer of his 140 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. brother, and disappeared. So a temple was built, and the royal impostor Romulus was deified and honoured under the name of Quirites , as a martial or warrior god; and the hill was called Quirinus on which his temple stood, and is so named even to this day. On the summit of the height appears the magnificent fountain of Monte Cavallb, so named from the horses and their god-like leaders, Castor and Pollux. The names of Phidias and Praxiteles are engraven on the pedestals, and antiquarians agree that they are of Grecian workmanship. Their exquisite classical beauty is, at all events, beyond dispute. Between them rises an obelisk of red granite, brought from the mausoleum of Augustus, where it had been placed to com- memorate some Egyptian triumph of Rome’s first emperor. That obelisk, bathed in the sunlight, carries back one’s mind to the burning sand- deserts bordering the Nile, and to gigantic temples and mysterious rites of which Herodotus himself could not write without trembling. Now its base is bathed by a pure and delicious fountain. Beyond are churches and edifices bordering the ample piazza. In one corner we catch a glimpse of the Rospigliosi Palace, embowered in trees; opposite rise the walls of the Colonna Gardens, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I4I overmantling with verdure and loading the air with the perfume of roses and orange groves, under whose shade the Papal cavalry are wont to meet, groom their horses, sing martial songs, and swear “in very choice Italian” as unconcernedly as if the ground they stood on was not con- secrated by world -wide legends of the classic past. On the opposite side, facing the fountain, extends the vast palace of the Quirinale,* crown- ing the hill like a diadem, and descending through whole streets in its interminable length. It im- presses the imagination from the very simplicity of its architecture, so essentially different from the florid magnificence prevailing at the Vatican. It was at the Quirinale, built by Paul III. and Gregory XIII., that the conclaves of the Sacred College always assembled; and at that window which one sees conspicuous over the grand en- trance the new Pope was presented to the Roman people. A place renowned as the scene where the ancient Romans worshipped the temporal power of their deified king, and the Catholic world for ages received its chief, must demand from me some few details. When the Pope is dead, the cardinal-chamber- * Now the palace of the King of United Italy. 142 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. lain knocks three times at the door of his chamber, calling on him by his Christian and family name, and his title as Pope. After a pause he turns to the attendant clergy and notaries, saying, “ Dunque l morto” The fisherman’s ring is taken from his finger and broken in pieces; the great bell of the Capitol tolls, and the bells of every one of the in- numerable churches in Rome respond to its deep and solemn note. The Sacred College of Cardi- nals meanwhile assembles, whilst the body of the deceased pontiff is exposed to the sight of the people who come and kiss his feet. On the ninth day the cardinals meet in the Quirinale chapel, where the psalm, “Veni, Crea- tor,” is sung. The immense extent of the palace on this side, running down the Via Pia to the Quattro Fontane, is entirely divided into little suites of chambers, inhabited only on these solemn occasions, when, in order to prevent any possibility of communication from without during the sitting of the conclave, the cardinals are con 7 fined there until after the election of a new pope. Each room contains a bed, a few chairs, and a table. The cardinal princes once installed in these dismal little cells, which are hung with green serge, the doors of the palace are walled up, as are also the windows, except one pane, just suf- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 43 ficient to admit a gloomy light into the con- clave. The Prince of Savelli, by virtue of an here- ditary privilege, keeps the gates, and provisions are conveyed to the cardinals and their attendants by means of revolving circular cupboards, such as one sees used in convents. There are confessors, doctors, surgeons, two barbers, and a carpenter, also shut up. The cardinals rise at six o’clock, when a bell rings, and a voice is heard in the long corridors calling out, “Ad capellam Do- mini.” The election, which takes place in the chapel, is by ballot; the great powers of Catholic Europe having each the power of a single veto against any single cardinal, but no more. When the number of votes makes it evident who will be elected, a bell sounds, and the name of the chosen cardinal is pronounced aloud. He is then asked if he accepts the election, on responding to which demand in the affirmative (for history in- forms us of no pontiff who ever refused the proffered honour), the cardinals fall back respect- fully, leaving him alone. He then announces by what appellation he intends to reign, it having been the custom for the popes to change their names at their election ever since the time of 144 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY* Sergius IV., who, being christened Peter , declined to bear the name given by Christ to the first among the Apostles. The new Pope is then arrayed in white and crimson, red embroidered shoes bearing the cross are put on his feet, the cardinals kiss the cross, and he is invested with the fisherman’s ring. The “Ecce Sacerdos Magnus” is then sung by the fine Papal choir, unaccompanied by in- strumental music, and the cardinal-deacon, pre- ceded by a mason, a carpenter, and the master of the ceremonies, proceeds to the window in the Loggia over the grand entrance to announce to the people the election of the Pope. An immense multitude fills the piazza. The windows, the roofs are one moving mass of human beings, ebbing and flowing like the stormy waves of an angry sea. All Rome is there, the plebeian and the patrician, brought together by one com- mon sentiment of intense curiosity. Cries and screams announce the excitable nature of the fiery Italians. They can brook no delay — the cardinal is too long in coming — the carpenter is a birbante , and they curse the mason, and send him to the infernal gods of both ancient and modern Erebus for his laziness. “ Ci voul il nostro Papa . Facci vedere il nostro Papa!” “We must see him! Give DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 45 us our Pope!” thunders on all sides. The smaller canaille mount sacrilegiously on the beauteous statues of Castor and Pollux, bestride the Grecian steeds without ceremony, and fling around the water from the basin on the crowd who cannot escape, crying out to be shown their Pope. The guards, in this moment of interregnum, are of no avail; they are mocked at and disregarded. They, too, end by joining in the cry of “ II Papa — il nuovo Papa! v It is a moment of thrilling interest, of dramatic suspense. Suddenly there is a great pause. A silence, a stillness as of death, falls on that assembled multitude. The wall of brick that built up the window totters, falls with a crash, the cardinal- deacon stands forth on the Loggia, and the soft music of the choir is heard in the distance. At the sight of the cardinal there is a hush. The crowd trembles, rushes forward, and then again is still. A religious silence reigns. “I announce to you,” says his Eminence, “ joyful tidings; the Most Eminent and Reverend Cardinal N , having taken the name of , is elected Pope.” The piazza resounds with enthusiastic roars, shouts, and cries of delight and triumph; the silver trumpets sound clear and pure above the riot; the great guns of Castel San Angelo bang An Idle Woman in Italy . II. 10 146 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. forth their iron bolts; and every fort in Rome unites in chorus with the deep harmonious sound of the great bell of St. Peter's, and the bells of every other church in the city. In the midst of this exulting jubilee, when earth calls on the mighty echoes of the moun- tains and the high vault of heaven to respond to and participate in its joy, the father of the Catho- lic world himself appears on the balcony, and in- dulges the enthusiasm of a delirious people by his presence. When Pius IX. was elected, his tender heart was so overcome by these overwhelming greetings, that he actually burst into a flood of tears, and was removed fainting from the Loggia But the people have not yet done. After the Pope withdraws, they rush forward, and, by virtue of an ancient privilege, proceed to the interior of the palace where the conclave sat, seize on every- thing they can find as their lawful booty, until the illumination of the city calls off the uproarious rabble to a wider arena wherein to sfogare their boiling passions. It was from this historic window that Pius IX. was in the habit of showing himself to the enthu- siastic Romans at the period of his wild po- pularity, when they called him forth to heap blessings on his head, to applaud and cheer him DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 47 for the boon of liberty his government insured them. Here he received all the ovations which an excited and grateful nation are capable of rendering. Sometimes he was called forth in rain and wind, and came, obedient to their wishes, to gratify them by his presence, and dispense bless- ings around — blessings of price, coming from a good and a Christian man who lives near his God. Those two short years saw many thrilling scenes of love, devotion, and enthusiasm, many gorgeous pageants, many soul-inspiring services, when the temporal and spiritual powers invested in the beloved Pope seemed to render him more than mortal in the eyes of his people. But the dark days came; the chord was too tightly drawn — it needs must slacken. The excellent and saintly man, in his simple-hearted goodness, granted weighty reforms too rapidly and readily. The excited people, finding they had but to ask, grew senseless and unreasonable, and desired that Pius should head a red republic — a moral chaos. The fickle population, accustomed to action and excitement, could brook no repose — pageants and sights must amuse them, laws be destroyed, and new concessions keep their minds on fire. The Pope, unconscious of the gulf opening beneath him, confident in his people's affection and his io 148 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. own justice and rectitude, for a time headed the course of events, flung himself in the rushing tide of the changing time, and endeavoured to please every party by his compliance. But it would not do; he could not conscientiously, and he would not wrongfully, answer the expectations of a licentious and now brutalised populace. He would have secured their freedom, but they yelled for anarchy. The wild flames of revolution of the tremendous ’48 were abroad, and soon reached the walls of the ancient queen of cities. The people, finding that, reformer though he was, Pius would never become a revolutionist, came to hate their idol, and sought to tear him down from the household altars which they had reared to him. Then came the senseless and cruel murder of Count Rossi at the Palazzo della Cancelleria— that patriotic and enlightened minister who was the temporal support of the Papal throne. Then came rumours of war and danger and re- bellion. The same people who had once so loved him, now gazed at the Pope in stern and ominous silence. Then came the attack on the Quirinale, where he lived — the brutal attack on the sovereign who would have spent himself for the people God had placed him to rule over. Then he was no longer safe in once happy Rome ; DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY, 1 49 for a republic was to be established, and, save the Swiss guard — faithful as steel — he was alone and undefended. Then came the flight. Then he passed out of the great portal (where first he had been saluted by the unstable Romans) dis- guised as a priest, and accompanied by the Ba- varian ambassador — Count Spaur — and fled over the frontiers to Mola di Gaeta, where he was received by the King of Naples, and lived many long months in a kind of splendid captivity. Another pope, years ago, was dragged from the Quirinale, which would seem fatal to the Papal power, by a different, though not less brutal, act of violence, when General Radet, the envoy of Napoleon, scaled the garden walls at the head of a band of soldiers, and at three o’clock in the morning forced his way into the sleeping-room of the venerable Pius VII. They obliged him to rise, dress, and accompany them, with his faith- ful minister, Cardinal Pacca, to a carriage in waiting, and thus in the silence of the night bore off the Pope a prisoner. After driving some time towards Florence, the Pope asked Cardinal Pacca if he had brought with him any money. Your Holiness knows,” said he, “I was dragged out of my apartment as you were from yours, and had no opportunity of taking anything.” On search- I 50 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. in g their purses they found nothing but a few bajocchi (pence). “See,” exclaimed Pius VII., “all that remains to me of my kingdom!” I have been led to greater length than I had intended in recounting the vicissitudes recalled by the Quirinale; and I must now relate my own im- pressions when I yesterday visited that interesting palace. I entered by the portal under that same historic window in the front of the palace. An enormous cortile occupies the centre of the build- ing, surrounded by a fine arcade, from which grand marble staircases ascend. This cortile was as public as the streets when the Pope inhabited the palace; and although the party-coloured Swiss guard used ostentatiously to parade up and down, bearing their halberds, all the dirty little boys of the quarter found a convenient play-ground in the cool shade of the pillared corridors. The hoc chi balls rolled; and that everlasting game with their fingers, “Uno, dub, trl” which the Italians do really seem to understand from the very hour of their birth, proceeded unmolested. Now and then, when a cardinal or a monsignore appeared, they would stare, stand aside, and then begin again, nothing abashed. On mounting a fine staircase, we entered a nobly-proportioned hall richly decorated with DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I5I frescoes, from whence opens the chapel where the conclave for the election of the popes is held, and where the dove is said to descend on the head of the elected cardinal. These mysterious precincts, however, are not visible to strangers. Three ante-rooms lined with beauti- ful marbles are next passed, ending in a kind of corridor lighted by a spacious window looking out to the front of the palace. This is the window so celebrated in Papal history as the scene of such varied events, and which, during the sitting of the conclave, is walled up. Beyond is a splendid apartment lined with fine Gobelin tapestry representing subjects from our Saviour’s life, and opening into a still grander hall, furn- ished in a similar manner, but more resplendent with gold and coloured marbles, where, under a canopy of crimson velvet, the popes gave audience to crowned heads and magnates of the highest rank. The chairs are of wood, and without cushions, as no one, of whatever rank, is per- mitted a more comfortable seat while in the pre- sence of his Holiness, who is, however, himself accommodated with a most luxurious poltrona (literally an idle-chair). Conspicuous in every room are placed one if not two superbly-carved crucifixes of gold, ebony, ivory, and precious 152 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. gems — striking mementoes in these gilded saloons. Next in order comes another audience-room of smaller dimensions, but still superb; and so on and on to a snug little boudoir, or writing-room, where the Pope's arm-chair is still prepared under a velvet canopy, before a table on which stands a large crucifix. Shelves surround the room cur- tained with crimson silk; that colour also prevail- ing in the Pope’s bedroom — a nice quiet little room, where the Vicar of Christ upon earth lays him down to rest on a small brass bedstead, screened with curtains of red silk. Two or three diminutive chests of drawers, a sofa, and a few chairs constitute all the furniture. A benitier for holy water hangs against the wall. A prie-dieu desk for private devotion, and some crucifixes and religious ornaments, complete the arrangements of the room. It may not be generally known that Pius began life as a soldier, and belonged for many years to the Guardia Nobile, whose especial province it is to guard the person of the pontiff, whom they never quit day or night, but sleep outside the door of his chamber. The late Pope, Gregory, perceiving his vocation for a religious life, advised Pius to renounce the military career, which he accordingly did, and was ordained a priest, taking part soon after in a missionary ex- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 53 pedition to South America. Perhaps few modern popes have known so much of real practical work as Pius. I have before mentioned the charming and benignant expression of his countenance. His features are good, and although beaming with unmistakable kindness, convey nothing vulgar or trivial. It is a fine, solid-looking head, with grey hair cut a la Titus. In his busts, otherwise re- markably like him, one misses the placid and affectionate expression of his black eyes, which diffuse a calm peacefulness that must be felt even by those most inclined to dispute his influence. In manner he is kind, though quiet and reserved. He rises at half-past six in the morning, and, which is extraordinary in an Italian, shaves him- self; for he dislikes unnecessary attendance. His toilet over, he says mass alone in his private chapel, and hears another in public afterwards. This is to Pius the most solemn and important act of his life. At half-past eight he has fulfilled his pontifical duties and fortified his soul by prayer and communion. His mind is now free and disengaged for the labours of the day. A light breakfast of coffee and a few biscuits follows, according to the Italian fashion, and then begin his various avocations — Maestri di Camera, Came- rieri Segreti, ministers of state, cardinals, prefects, 154 diary of an idle woman in Italy. and ambassadors now crowd the ante-chambers, and are received by him without distinction. In many of the saloons there are good pic- tures, principally of the Decadence; but I was particularly struck by the principal chapel, painted entirely in fresco by Guido and Albano. It is quite a little bijou — so fresh and glowing, one might fancy the colours but of yesterday. A large altar-piece of the Annunciation is, to my thinking, one of the most perfect and exquisite works of Guido, although Rome boasts such matchless and numerous specimens of his skill. After passing these suites of rooms we reached the Pope’s dining-room — a quiet, unadorned apart- ment, where he eats alone under the eternal bal - dacchino , with a crucifix placed opposite. Ever since the too worldly repasts of Leo X. it has been etiquette for the popes to dine alone, in the most simple and frugal manner. It is the highest honour for reigning sovereigns to be admitted to the Papal table, and one rarely accorded. At Castello, or elsewhere, during the villeggiatura , when etiquette is somewhat relaxed, a few car- dinals and prelates are sometimes, but rarely, in- vited. Pius’s dinner is said to cost only one scudo (about five shillings), and to be discussed in twenty minutes, during which short time he con- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 55 verses with the secretary of state. After dinner, like a true Italian, he retires to his room and takes a short siesta. Then he drives out, and when without the walls alights to walk on the public road. The windows of the Quirinale overlook deli cious gardens which slope down the steep sides of Monte Cavello, and are divided into stately terraces by high clipped hedges of yew and ever- green oak, bordered by statues and Termini. Bright fountains, jets d'eau , and parterres of flowers enliven the centre of each division. Under these dark cypress groves and ilex trees a per- petual coolness reigns; massive sculptured balus- trades edge the hill, and long flights of marble steps descend to sequestered shrubberies below, whence winding paths conduct to cascades gushing from rocky banks — an elegant, though somewhat gloomy, plaisance, well adapted to the tonsured grandees for whose enjoyment it was designed. 156 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. CHAPTER VI. The Holy Week — The “Miserere” — The Lavandaia — The Cena — The Sepulchre— Cas tel Fusano — Ostia — Modern Readings of Virgil. The ceremonies of the Holy Week occupy every day, and every night too, I verily believe, during the entire week. How the priests live through it all, working and fasting, is an enigma; but they manage to survive, and come out at Easter as rosy and plump as ever. The Sistine Chapel, where the “Tenebrae” and “Miserere” are performed on the two days preceding Good Friday, is besieged by thousands of infatuated females for hours before the services begin, all struggling to obtain a front position on the forms placed behind the screen in the lower half of the chapel, which (as this, the private oratory of the Pope, is supposed to be inaccessible to women) are pushed back as far as possible. I, for my part, took the whole affair with great composure, and walked quietly up the Sala Regia about four o’clock. The ascent was beset with DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 57 Swiss guards, their brilliant uniforms and glancing steel accoutrements looking exceedingly picturesque and mediaeval; hundreds of ladies in black, gen- tlemen in evening dress, and militia and military heroes in full uniform trooped up this truly mag- nificent and regal entrance to the countless splen- dours of the Vatican, all laughing, talking, and joking with quite praiseworthy forgetfulness of the solemn nature of the anniversary. Some ladies tried to smuggle in camp-stools under their petti- coats — a ruse instantly detected and ruthlessly exposed by the all-seeing officials; while others coming in greater numbers than their tickets al- lowed, were remorselessly sent back, spite of lamentations and reproaches in unmistakably Anglican-Italian. It was a scene of confusion, irreverence, and frivolity; men pushing onwards, and recklessly separating groups of terrified ladies; guards pouncing on delinquents; and bold mammas dragging their staring daughters past quiet for- eigners — Catholics, of course — who looked round all aghast at their irreverent haste and thoroughly English rudeness. Arrived at the Sala Regia — at the summit of the stairs from whence both the Sistine and Pau- line Chapels open— the scene grew ten time^ I58 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. wilder. That lofty hall, so nobly proportioned, the walls glittering with frescoes and gilding, and adorned with clustered branches of magnificent candelabra — where on ordinary occasions unbroken silence reigns, and the very odour of sanctity floats around — a spot of reverent waiting and aw- ful expectation, whether to the Catholic about to visit the shrine sanctified by the constant presence of Christ’s vicar, or to the artistic devotee viewing for the first time the immortal works of Michel Angelo and his predecessors — that majestic and suggestive hall which, as I write, rises before me in all its pomp, shaded by a chastened light, half concealing, half displaying the great frescoes and the mysterious doors, some veiled by falling curtains, others opening into endless corridors and galleries, is now, alas! desecrated into a street thoroughfare! Thousands of men and women, gathered from the four quarters of the globe, are rushing about, crowding every space, treading on each other’s heels, talking, wondering, pushing; every face turned towards the open door, with its ample drapery of crimson, leading into the Sistine Chapel, which they are all firmly resolved to enter at all risks. And though that door is guarded by military — obstinate Swiss guards, who, if Venus DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I5Q herself fresh from Olympus, or all the Circes and Armidas that ever existed in fact or fable, tried to cajole, would not budge one single inch — still, so vast is the crowd, its own weight carrying it irresistibly onward, that all slowly disappear under the overhanging curtain. Every one knows that the Sistine Chapel is not large. Imagine, then, what it must be when, in the space assigned to the public— in which five hundred might commodiously sit — ten thousand persons are, by some miracle of crushing, col- lected. Imagine the heat, the squeezing, the elbows poked into one’s sides, the furious glances, the hatred, malice, and uncharitableness of all those living beings, each wanting to see and to hear; and all, save a few in the front, effectually prevented from doing either, and furiously incensed in consequence. I doubt if the pagan audience collected in the Flavian Amphitheatre to see men torn by wild beasts could be more savage. For myself, I, symbolically speaking, gave up the ghost in terror and dismay, but by good luck getting pushed against the side of the ladies’ box, I carefully kept my place, and tried to collect my senses. This box, or enclosure, was as full as stuffing could make it, and the heat excessive. At the entrance, one of the Papal camerieri, dressed 160 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. in doublet, hose, and high Elizabethan ruff, kept up a show of order. Still more ladies would keep crowding in, despite his remonstrances. “ Le prego, le supplico , signora; di non mon- tare , non c y £ posto , l pienoP “Mais” says some English mamma with two lean daughters, “vous pouvez faire un po di place je suis sure pour questa signora” pushing forward first one, then the other daughter. “No, madama,” replies the cameriere angrily; “ impossible P “Mais, moussu,” says a fat old lady, who has been perseveringly elbowing her way upwards, and has, spite of all opposition, firmly planted her foot on the prohibited steps, “je vois une place — un posto, lit, l& — let me go!” And she makes a dash forwards. “No, signora” again replies the cameriere, placing his arm across the opening, which the belligerent lady disregarding, pushes madly aside; and a struggle — yes, actually a struggle begins, ending in the signal defeat and consequent retreat of the fat lady, who is violently landed on the ground, looking extremely red and furious; the cameriere, excited and scarlet also, exclaiming in a low voice, “ Ma, corpo di Bacco! must I then call in the carabinieri against these Inglesi?” DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. l6l Neither the Pope nor the cardinals were visible. The Gregorian chant, in which the Psalms are sung, had begun, and the lights, fixed on a triangular stand near the altar, were burning. This stand, typical of the Trinity, holds fifteen lights, one of which is extinguished at the con- clusion of each psalm. This usage is explained by some as symbolising the prophets, who were persecuted and successively put to death before the coming of the Saviour; others represent it as signifying the abandonment and desertion He suf- fered from all his disciples in his last hours. The last light is not extinguished, but withdrawn be- hind the altar, in allusion to the Saviour’s entomb- ment and subsequent resurrection; the “Tenebrae” being an office of mourning commemorating the death of the Redeemer, while its triple celebration is in allusion to the three days during which his body remained in the tomb. The music is entirely vocal, and intensely monotonous; for, by some unexplained etiquette, the organ is never heard in the presence of the Holy Father. No pomp, no gorgeous spectacle can compensate for the absence of that thrilling, overwhelming burst that carries the soul upwards in a rushing torrent of delicious harmony. St. Cecilia is said to have invented the An Idle Woman in Italy. II, II I 6 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY, organ in a moment of ecstatic inspiration. It is a pretty legend, and fitly symbolises the heavenly influence of that noble instrument. But to return. Suffocated, cramped, and confused, it seemed to me the Psalms would never end. Impatience be- came general, and everybody around was per- petually popping up and down to see how many lights remained. “Now there’s only two left,” I heard. “Now there is only one!” As the mo- ment approached for the commencement of the “Miserere,” the excitement increased tenfold. Fresh crowds pushed in through the door, deter- mined, coute que coute , to storm the barriers of half-fainting women. Some retreated; some were borne out insensible, the guards coming to their rescue; others firmly stood their ground. Again the fight began with the old ladies and the cham- berlain, and again he victoriously repulsed their assault. All the lights had disappeared; evening was darkening into night; the chapel lay wrapped in a dim, subdued twilight, the audience massed into grey and black shadows: the glorious roof, painted by Michel Angelo, became indistinct and misty It was an hour of solemn communing and awful contemplation, met, as we seemed, on the threshold of the tomb to celebrate the cruel abandonment of the Divine One, surrounded DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 63 by typical darkness and lamentations, prefiguring the agony of his soul, when the bitter cry was wrung from Him, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me!” After a brief pause the first long-drawn notes of the “Miserere” echoed through the gloom- soft, unearthly, spiritual — sounds as of celestial souls suffering the torments of the damned, and calling on heaven and earth to listen while they breathed forth their agony. Now a high note struck on the ear, thrilling in its acuteness — a note suggestive of corporeal suffering from an in- corporeal being. As it died away, other voices took up the wailing strain, breaking off like the first in vague, melancholy sighs. Then came a convulsive thrill, a quivering shake in the sad minor key in which the whole is sung, followed by a few notes of delicious cadence, rich and flowing, as if a glimpse of heaven — an angel visit — had for a moment broken the spell of torture. Brief respite! Again sounds the same piercing cry, and again it floats away into unutterable voice- less chaos. As the sad strains swelled in tearful modulations, the shadows deepened, and night came to shroud, as it were, and bear them in her sable bosom to the realms above, where angels wept as they listened, and all the glory of heaven 1 1 164 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. grew dim at the remembrance of the Saviour’s agonies. Still, spite of the touching and profoundly devotional character of the “ Miserere,” the un- accompanied music becomes after a while tedious and monotonous. On the whole, I was disap- pointed; and I decidedly consider the effect more singular than beautiful. When all was over came the dreadful crush to get out — the cruel, irreverent crush — as dangerous as it was intolerable. I, for my part, was completely lifted off my feet, and found myself flung violently down into the centre of the Sala Regia, where by good luck, I landed safely. The hall was exactly like the crush-room of an opera, for the Protestant mob, as eager to get out as they had been to get in, forgot all de- cency in their haste. Shame on their irreverent curiosity and stolid indifference! To-day, Thursday, although occurring in the midst of the profoundest mourning, is considered by Catholics a devotional festa of joyous solemnity, as being the day on which our Lord instituted the Eucharist. Mass is celebrated in the Sistine Chapel. The Pope afterwards passing in grand procession through the Sala Regia, bears the host to the Pauline Chapel, and places it on what is called “the Sepulchre” — namely, the altar, which DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 65 on this occasion symbolises the sacred tomb. In the afternoon all the world throngs to St. Peter’s to see the Lavandaia, which is arranged in this wise. Along one side of the transept, terminating in the chapel of SS. Processio e Martino (the gaolers of SS. Peter and Paul, who were con- verted by the Apostles during their imprisonment in the Mamertine prisons), on a high platform, were placed thirteen men — pilgrims, I believe — dressed in the most curiously antique costume imaginable, looking in the far distance exactly like a group of Giovanni Bellini or Francia, or some other of the early masters. They were all in white, with high conical caps, and at their back was suspended a magnificent piece of tapes- try representing the “Last Supper” of Leonardo de Vinci. Why there should be thirteen apostles I cannot explain, but I can certify to the number. After being pushed about for some time in the crowd, a general buzz, turning of heads, clash- ing of arms, and echoing of heavy steps along the marble floor announced the arrival of his Holi- ness. His throne was erected upon the altar of the adjacent chapel; and here Pius, after a short delay, appeared on a level with the mysterious apostles, who really outdid “patience on a monu- ment” in rigid immovability. Vocal music burst l66 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. forth from a hidden choir, his Holiness the while laying aside his outer vestments, and being girded by an attendant cardinal with a linen apron. He then moved towards the apostles, fol- lowed by the dignitaries of his court, while one of the cardinals chanted from the Gospel of St. John the passage describing the act of our Saviour’s humility now to be commemorated. The cere- mony of washing the apostles’ feet occupies but a very short time. The Pope lightly touches them with a towel (after the attendant deacon had poured water on them), then stoops and kisses them; after which each apostle is presented with a nosegay. As soon as the English ladies have seen one foot washed, they rush off like demoniacs towards the Sala Regia in the Vatican, to secure places for the Cena, which immediately follows; those who witness both being considered to have achieved a real feat of generalship. When the Lavandaia was over, the Pope disappeared, and I made my way along with the vast crowd into the mighty vestibule and up the Sala Regia. A more quiet, polite crowd I never beheld — all being anxious to proceed, yet none doing so at the expense of his neighbour; a silent seriousness was expressed in every face; they remembered they DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 67 were in a church, and that we had all met there to celebrate the symbolical representation of a Christian mystery. All honour to the Catholic crowd after the painful exhibition of the Sistine Chapel! When I reached the Sala Regia and rejoined the foreigners, the Babel-like confusion recommenced. Here thousands were struggling and disputing, and rushing to and fro like mad. The immense hall where the Cena is laid out was crammed to suffocation. There were the black- veiled ladies in enclosed seats; and in their train the same noise, folly, and irreverence as on the preceding day; Swiss guards trying to keep the peace, and signally failing in the endeavour; dis- tressed camerieri and bumptious old ladies. I found favour in the eyes of an old sergeant of the Swiss guard by addressing him in German: he forthwith took me under his wing, and led me on until I was placed close to the bar separating the audience from the space appropriated to the Cena. Here I saw capitally. A long table was spread with fruit and sweets, and elegantly de- corated with high vases of. flowers, superb pieces of plate, and thirteen statuettes of the apostles. Around sat the mediaeval gentlemen, who by some miracle seemed to have been removed from the basilica below and placed here. The Pope, simply 1 68 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. dressed in white, his benignant face beaming with that placid smile peculiar to him, moved quietly about the table, without fuss or effort. I remembered Abraham and the angels as I looked on the heavenly expression of his countenance,, and thought that he too might be worthy to en- tertain “an unbidden guest” unawares. “The servant of the servants” of God was the distin- guishing title of one of the greatest popes who ever sat on the throne of St. Peter, and Pius is really worthy of that touching appellation. The ceremonial of the Cena was very simple. He first bore water to the apostles in a silver basin; then, after the “Benedicite,” bishops and prelates, ad- vancing from the end of the hall, presented to him various dishes, which he handed to the apostles, pouring out water and wine at intervals. The gentle anxiety with which he anticipated their wants was inexpressibly touching. He was evidently wrapped in mental devotion, and was only alive to the outward scene as far as it assi- milated with and assisted his thoughts. Never when encircled by all .the gorgeous pomp of his splendid court, crowned with the triple diadem and glittering with jewels, had the Pope so much impressed me. The office of the “Tenebrae” again takes DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 69 place this evening in the Sistine Chapel, when the altar is divested of every ornament; the very carpets and hangings are removed; the Pope’s chair is left without a back or a morsel of cloth on which to place his feet; the altar is hung with black; the crucifix is covered; and six candles are alone left to light up the doleful scene. Not wishing to encounter the crowd, I did not enter the Sala Regia until so late that I found it almost empty, every one having pressed into the portal or on the steps of the Sistine Chapel, from whence the soft wailing of the voices floated dreamily in the air above the hum of the pent-up thousands standing between me and the choir. At the op- posite extremity of the hall a waving drapery un- dulated before the door of the Pauline Chapel, and a twilight of half-discerned stars, faintly lit up the surrounding darkness. Drawing aside the curtain, I entered. All was in the deepest, the most solemn gloom, save the altar or sepulchre as it is called, around which knelt a dark circle of almost invisible worshippers. But that illumi- nated sepulchre, how can I find words to describe its dazzling splendour? Never did the hand of man more bravely symbolise the immortal glories of the divine tomb than in this stupendous moun- tain of glittering light. Mounting to the lofty 170 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. ceiling, extending on either side in circles and clusters, and festoons of countless lights, there it rose, a glimmering, quivering, overwhelming moun- tain of brightness. The effect was thrilling. Tears rushed into my eyes, and Protestant though I am, I too knelt in the dark circle beside the glittering sepulchre, and remembered with awe the sacred symbol that rested within! Afterwards I descended into St. Peter's. The portals were thrown wide open, and a few pale torches planted up the central aisle made dark- ness visible. The grand skeleton of the building alone emerged from the gloom, vast and bound- less as the firmament, but a firmament unlit by moon or stars, and wrapped in everlasting night. The clustered pilasters, the colossal statues, loomed out in dim masses — gigantic forms, dreamy, fabu- lous, vague, fading away in fathomless distance. Here and there a momentary ray of light glim- mered from the torches, was visible for a moment, and then melted away and was gone. There was something quite terrific in the scene, linking the mind to the wildest visions of chaotic gloom. Yet, even in this utter darkness, one bright symbol cheered the Christian; for, concealed behind the massive pilasters supporting the cupola, a flood of light burst from the illuminated sepulchre, shining DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 171 like a beacon, and beckoning the soul onwards through the dark valley with the bright hope of immortality. At midnight we went to the convent of the Sacred Heart on the Pincian Hill. The door was cautiously opened by one of the French religieuses by whom the convent — an educational and chari- table institution — is conducted. She scanned us long and inquiringly as we stood on the thres- hold, but knowing my voice, at length admitted us. We crept softly into the church by a side chapel, not to disturb the solemn service which had already commenced. The church, a large and well-proportioned building, was dimly lighted. Many worshippers knelt on the marble floor; some were almost prostrate before the altar; others, with clasped hands and streaming eyes, lost in prayer. I never beheld a scene where such an abandon of religious enthusiasm prevailed. The midnight hour, the darkened church, the affecting recollection of the awful event which they had met to commemorate, seemed present with all. Service was going on; but no word was spoken, either by the priest or by the congregation — not a sound, save a stifled sigh, broke the silence. Behind the high and solid iron bars, forming a screen between the body of the church and the 172 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. sanctum sanctorum of the high-altar, seats were placed. Presently a dark-robed, white veiled figure glided noiselessly in; another and another rapidly followed, each taking her place opposite the altar. Now a group would emerge from the recess be- hind the altar, then a single figure, and again a whole cluster of black forms, passing on like a vision of shadowy ghosts. It was all so dreamy and unearthly I more than once passed my hands across my eyes to make sure that I was awake. Such was the number of white-veiled nuns that went floating by, that an hour had elapsed before they were all assembled. The front of the altar and the steps had then become filled, the richly-robed priest, his face turned towards the altar, standing in the midst. The awful still- ness grew at last positively oppressive. One by one this sombre throng received the eucharist, bowed to the altar, and retired as noiselessly as she had entered. When all were gone, the priest turned towards the kneeling congregation, who advanced to the screen and received the sacra- ment. I never shall forget that night; it rests on my memory like a peep into the very courts of heaven. Although launched in the midst of the Holy Week, I must delay no longer to chronicle a DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I 73 « happy day we spent last Monday, for fear the glowing impression should diminish. I had heard much of the beauty of the Pineta, or pine woods of Castel Fusano, and I wished also to see Ostia, out of reverence for its clas- sical associations. I do not care what antiquarians say. I throw down my glove to all of them. I can read Virgil as well as they, and I never will believe that ^Eneas landed at Porto d'Anzio, or anywhere else than at Ostia, where the localities so exactly tally with Virgil's description. So an excursion to Castel Fusano was arranged, which was to combine the delights of luxuriant Nature and classic memories — food for the head and the heart, not forgetting the poor body, which was cared for in a large basket, stowed away under the seat of the carriage: for the ethereal essences of our immortal being would have cut but a poor figure during a long spring day without the as- sistance and support of those much-abused but necessary accessories. We left Rome by the Porta San Paolo, other- wise Ostiensis — one of the most picturesque en- trances into the dear old city, rebuilt by Beli- sarius — flanked by the pyramid of Caius Cestius and the high turreted walls and towers beyond. And now we are driving along Tiber's banks into 174 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. a pathless wilderness of green, with nothing but the white mass of the Pauline Basilica to break the monotonous lines. We were a quartet, S. W again standing for Sculpture in a very pleasant form, and K s for Architecture; and C , fresh from England, and myself; all enthusiastic, full of fancies and wild theories; so well crammed, indeed, with Virgil and the graceful legends of old Greece, that we were little better than pagans for the time being. We first began by talking ourselves hoarse about architecture; then we as rapidly discussed sculpture; and at last tired of chattering, settled down quietly to look at the Campagna. The soft morning air came balmily breathing across the aromatic turf, bearing rich odours of sweet herbs. Oh, those everlasting long lines! there they are again — the never-ending battle-fields I had so often traced, and of which the Campagna is literally a perpetual repetition. Below is the broad open valley where one host lies encamped; above, the steeply-rising, un- dulating hills where the enemy waits entrenched, to be scaled and taken ere the day is won, and the audacious Carthaginian or the savage Gaul driven back to whence he came. Over and over DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I 75 again the same scene occurs, especially in the lower parts of the Campagna, where the early conquests of the infant state were most fiercely contested. The sun shone brilliantly on that gracefully undulating plain leading down to the Hesperian strand; the birds skimmed rapidly over the verdant ground; and the classic Tiber, along whose banks we drove, curved and circled in many windings, now forming an island, now skirting a low wood, the reedy sedges rustling under overhanging trees. No snake ever lay more unquietly in the sun than does that broad river writhing across the plain. Sometimes we could discern three separate curves, the alternate strips of land and water lying terracewise before us, the broad belt of the Tyrrhene Sea circling all like an azure zone. “How beautiful!” exclaimed K s, as the sea first came in sight. “It would be worth com- ing from England only to see this view.” On the grassy green expanse, in the valleys and up the rifts of the hills, grew thousands of snow-white lilies, shooting up from masses of waxy leaves. They were unlike any other lilies I had ever seen — so grandly beautiful, with a cer- tain weird look, as if the fairies met under their shadow on moonlight nights to dance fantastic 176 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. measures, and hold trysts with their sisters the butterflies and bright- winged beetles. These stately flowers could tell, I am sure, many a tale of Oberon and Titania and their tiny court when they hold high revel under the moonlight in still summer nights. Beside the lilies grew the purple Judas-trees, shedding thousands of ruddy leaves to the breeze. We were such children that we jumped out and filled the carriage with flowers, assisted by an old beggar who implored us, “by the tears of the Madonna,” to give him a bajocco , in return for which he wished us all in paradise — a wish in which we, sinners as we were, being very happy on earth, profanely did not join. Sixteen long miles lay between Rome and Ostia — the very voyage “the goddess-born” AEneas undertook when, warned by the god Tiberi- nus of impending danger, he committed himself and his companions to the “azure current.” After we had accomplished the first half of the distance, we lost sight of “the noble river that rolls by the walls of Rome,” and entered a woody copse. Straight as an arrow the road cleaves the low trees, until, gradually descending, we at last emerge, after many miles, on a lonely desolate region, neither sea nor land — sandy, uncultivated barren, indicative of sea, but with no sea visible DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 77 — a repulsive, melancholy scene, rank with weeds and reeds. K s, who had just arrived from London, was wild at having his romantic ideas so rudely scattered. “What!” cried he, “is this Ostia — the cradle of Rome — the harbour where the ‘Dar- danian chief’ landed — where he won and wedded the daughter of the Latin king? What a sin! — what a shame that it should be allowed to sink into such undignified ruin! One can neither see the river nor the sea — abominable!” I was, by experience, somewhat accustomed to these disappointments, Italy being a country in which I had often philosophised on Juliet’s theme of “What’s in a name?” This, then, was the once beautiful Ausonian shore, girt by the Tyrrhene Sea, “where ^Eneas descried a spacious grove, through which Tiberinus, god of the pleasant river Tiber, with rapid whirls and quantities of sand discoloured, bursts forward into the sea. All around and overhead various birds, accustomed to the banks and channel of the river, charmed the skies with their songs, and fluttered up and down the grove. Thither he commands his mates to bend their course and turn their prow towards land.” An Idle Woman in Italy, II. 12 178 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. “And now,” said K- s, who had read to us this passage from Virgil, “‘the Lydian river’ that skirted Etruria’s frontiers has disappeared, the groves are cut down, the birds have turned into croaking frogs, as noisy as if just trans- formed by Latona, and only the discoloured salt and all-choking sand remain. I wish I had not come.” But I, for my part, rejoiced to see the spot identified with Virgil’s fabled hero, however changed by the accumulated sand of so many centuries, and notwithstanding the undeniable fact that the present paese of Ostia was rebuilt by Gregory XIV. at a distance of more than a mile from the ancient city. One therefore looks in vain for any fragments of King Latinus’s old town, where he ruled in everlasting peace; the stately palace of Picus, raised on a hundred columns, and containing the statues of the ancient kings, Italus, and Sabinus, and old Saturn, “planter of the vine,” and double-faced Janus. Gone, too, is the temple where the virgin Lavinia kindled the holy altars, and gone the ancient elms on the banks of the Sacred Stream, where the milk-white sow farrowed her litter of thirty young. Really, allowing for “poetical license,” and with all possible respect for Virgil, I do think DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I 79 it was a very impertinent thing for the newly- arrived .Eneas to begin building a city without even asking leave; and so good old King Latinus seemed to think also, when he saw them marking out the walls and trenches. The once “Hesperian strand” is now inhabited by swarms of the most unpleasant beggars draped in filthy rags, with pale, fever-stricken faces. These squalid inhabitants of modern Ostia gathered round us as we halted by the side of the gate, under the shadow of a fine old mediaeval tower. A barefooted Franciscan friar, bearing a wallet, came and begged too; and troops of old women, as hideous as “baleful Alecto” when she rose from hell to torment the soul of Amata, clustered round our carriage, the classic distaff in their hands. The road from Ostia to the famous pine forest is such a mere track, so rough and rugged and sandy, bordered by such ditches and holes, that it would be impracticable for a carriage anywhere but in Italy. The horses contrived, however, after immense efforts, to drag us through. At one moment we were hoisted on high, then we rolled down into the depths of a mighty rut, jolted and shaken to death. On either side of 12 * t8o DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. this primitive road extended luxuriant, unenclosed corn-fields, stretching away towards the woody distance we had traversed — a rich and fertile prospect, extending to the foot of the Alban Hills, where many towns and villages dot their purple sides, while above tower the loftier moun- tains of the Abruzzi. The pine wood was bounded by a stagnant canal, whose unwhole- some waters had become an aquatic garden. Gigantic reeds overmantled tangled masses of white and yellow water-lilies, meadow-sweet, and other sweetly-scented flowers. A moment more and we were within the deep shade of the solemn pine wood. No underwood or shrub broke the smooth level of delicate turf, or impeded our view of the lofty knotted trunks which so bravely supported their superincumbent masses of sombre foliage. Mysterious trees these, with murmuring branches that whispered, as it seemed to me, of far-off ages, when Feronia ruled the woods. An aromatic perfume scented the air, the natural in- cense Nature flings around her altars. Yes, this pine wilderness was beautiful. Not far from the entrance to the forest stands in a spacious opening a castellated villa belong- ing to the Chigi family, interesting as the former site of Pliny’s Laurentine villa. It is a residence DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I Si and a fortress, the solid square pile flanked by turreted towers and loopholes, while above rises a central campanile, at once a citadel and a bel- videre, for enjoyment and for defence. In our civilised age, and in a season of profound peace, such precautions may appear excessive, but situated as this villa is in a forest so near the sea, ex- posed alike to the attacks of banditti and pirates, they are far from being unwise or ridiculous. Before the casino or villa, on a grassy plateau, stands an altar surrounded by woods, a fit shrine to Picus or Faunus, or the nymphs and dryads who rove within these sacred shades. Here on the velvet turf the priests about to sacrifice to the sylvan deities might have lain on outspread sheep- skins, and slumbered through the sable night, waiting to commence their rites when the Aurora’s shining feet first trod the threshold of the morn. We turned into a lofty avenue of ilex, leading by a broad straight way paved with lava blocks towards the sea. Not a single shrub or tree of living green varied the peculiar colouring of these sacred woods, which stretched far away, dark, solemn, and mysterious; the distant waves softly murmuring beyond. It was a scene as of another I 82 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. world — calling forth other centuries and other races, and invoking an old poetic faith to people its recesses. We did not talk together, so unreal and strange was the solemn enchantment around. The ground was thickly overrun with rosemary, as in the time of Pliny (the delicate blue blossoms loading the slender stalk), flowering daphne, wild myrtle, Venus's plant, and other aromatic herbs and shrubs, perfuming this temple of the sylvan gods, whose roof was the unclouded heavens, up- held by countless pillars of the rusty pine, lead- ing away into colonnades and naves, shrines and sanctuaries of unspeakable beauty. I can scarcely describe the strange fancies that haunt me among the evergreen pine and ilex woods of Italy, where a funereal veil, beautiful as night, descends over the radiant face of verdant Nature; for as night is to day, so are the dark shades of those solemn trees to the bright garish colouring of other forests. It has been said that there is a philosophy in the trunks of trees. The strange contortions of the olive, gnarled and knotted by the growth of centuries, have been instanced as displaying every phase and develop- ment of human passion — the grim, morose old man in hoary trees bowed with age; triumphant youth in the stalwart sapling, strong, and fresh, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 83 and vigorous, amorously wooing the soft breezes; the growing p wrinkles and coming anxieties of middle life marked in the aspect of another still vigorous tree that yet waves aloft its ample boughs of bluish green, loaded with black fruit. But, for my part, I see nothing so characteristic among Southern trees as the ilex and the pine, which are formed by Nature as if to express human passions. Dante himself must have been sensible of these picturesque associations when he represents the Harpies as wailing among the branches of dark pines, and ever and anon dis- playing their horrid faces from amid the foliage. To-day there was a heavy sighing sound in the wind as it passed over the pine-tops that recalled to me this poetic image. A mysterious fear came over me. I would not for worlds have plucked one of the branches that lay across our path. I am sure blood would have flowed, and that I should have heard the melancholy groan of some imprisoned spirit crying out, as did Piero delle Vigne in the “Inferno” “Whypluckest thou me?” (“ Per chi mi schianate ?”) Lovely as it was to wander through the woods and weave unnumbered fancies under their classic shade, the hour warned us to proceed, and we returned into the majestic avenue leading to the 184 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. shore. Beyond the forest lay a sandy belt over- grown with low fir trees. We mounted a little sand-hill, and behold, there was the glorious ocean, its azure waves breaking on the yellow strand at our feet! Magnificent beyond imagina- tion, beyond expression, was that burst. The boundless sea came before us like a newly-created element, glittering with beams of golden light, its deep blue waters putting the very heavens to shame. Not a ripple furrowed the surface of the deep, the water just broke in a creamy fringe against the tawny shore, and the dark lines of the Laurentine forest stretched far away towards Ardea, along the Circinian strand. Old Neptune held his court to-day, and all Nature combines to do him honour, as in the by- gone time, when Dolphin, radiant in gold and azure scales, bore his amorous message to Am- phitrite, dwelling deep in ocean’s caves, where corals and pearls and sparkling shells strew the ground, and many-hued seaweeds wave in the blue depths. Oh, Italy! dazzling daughter of the South, lying like a gorgeous flower on the ocean’s shore, what visions dost thou invoke by land and sea! But the happiest dreams must end. Our clas- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 85 sical rhapsodies were rudely broken by discover- ing the lateness of the hour, and — shame to say, spite of the goddesses and the nymphs, and the winds and the waves — by the humiliating fact that we were very hungry . Even K s, who had sat spellbound in a sort of enchantment, was fain to confess “that the poor body called loudly on the merciless spirit to have pity on its wants.” So we took refuge in the dreary hut of a charcoal- burner, and discussed our Italian meal of wine and fruit and cake in an upper chamber — a most musty, uncomfortable place after our Arcadian seat in the woods. As we again approached the fine old tower at Ostia rising so grandly out of the surrounding de- solation, other recollections occurred to me very antagonistic to the visionary worship I had been paying to the false gods of paganism. St. Augustine, the prop and pillar of the mediaeval Church, has, in his affecting “Confessions,” irrevocably con- nected his name with Ostia. It was here that he landed on first arriving from Africa, to be in- structed and perfected in the Christian faith, ac- companied by his mother Monica, of whom he has left so interesting a description. It was at Ostia that St. Ignatius, the friend I 86 DIARY OR AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. of Polycarp and disciple of St. John, landed when he came from his bishopric at Antioch to be mas- sacred in the great Flavian Amphitheatre. It was to Ostia that Marius fled when overcome by the troops of his rival, Sylla. Stained with the blood of the noblest Romans, he fled alone; for all had abandoned the now aged tyrant. A single friend, Numerius, awaited him in a small vessel, which after many mishaps and chances bore him to Carthage. Ostia was to the emperors a suburban watering- place. They loved to sail up and down the Tiber in regal magnificence, the whole surrounding country decked out to do them honour. Old Claudius, the stupidest of hoodwinked husbands, built the port, and amused himself by loitering here while Messalina dragged the imperial purple in the filth of Rome. Hither her accusers came, and imparted to him the astounding fact that she had publicly married another man; to which he replied, like the fool that he was, “Am I an em- peror?” And in the old times, too, there were brave pageants at Ostia, such as when Paulus ^Emilius, after his conquest of Macedon and the capture of King Perseus, landed there with his royal pri- DIARY OF AS IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. l&~ soner. But I have done. I feel I am off again on my Pegasus on quite another tack, one that would carry me as far as did the gods and god- desses in the Laurentian forest 1 88 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN ift ITALY. CHAPTER VII. The Adoration— The Lateran — Mass of the Resurrection — Trinitk dei Pellegrini — An Anecdote — The Environs of Rome — Rocca di Papa — Maria— Home Scenes. I now resume my account of the Eastern cere- monies. All Rome mourns to-day, as mourned the Virgin before the cross of Calvary. It is Good Friday, and an awful gloom hangs over the city. Every one looks sad and melancholy; an inces- sant tolling of bells strikes the ear; the churches are filled with worshippers, who kneel before the denuded altars and darkened shrines with every outward semblance of sorrow and repentance. “Assume a virtue if you have it not,” says Hamlet. At least the very sight is edifying, as bringing for- cibly to one’s mind the solemn anniversary in which all Christians join. During the mass in the Sistine Chapel, the Pope, discarding his crimson slippers and divesting himself of his cope and mitre, descends from his throne, and advances towards the crucifix on the altar, which is veiled in black. Three times he DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 89 bows in adoration before the symbolic image of the Redeemer’s passion; then, prostrating himself, he reverently kisses the pierced feet, which are partially uncovered, whilst the whole choir intone the beautiful chant, “Venite, adoremus.” Three times is this ceremony repeated, the harmony ascending each time in a higher key, until at the conclusion the entire figure on the cross is ex- posed. There is a dramatic yet deeply touching pathos in this rite, calculated to conquer the in- difference of the most callous Protestant, and to make even a careless Catholic tremble. In the afternoon the “Tenebrae” are repeated for the third and last time, to the same vain and irre- verent auditory. At its conclusion I went into St. Peter’s, whither the Pope soon after repairs to adore the relics. An immense crowd was assem- bled. After a while some guards, in handsome uniforms of blue, marched up the nave, forming a passage for the court, the Swiss Guard, and the Guardia Nobile. Last of all appeared Pius, always calm and benignant, but looking excessively heated and fatigued. When he had reached the Confes- sional (the subterranean tomb of the Apostles be- fore the altar), he knelt at a desk prepared for him; then, taking in his hand a printed form of prayer, the relics were exposed from the gallery I go DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. over the statue of Santa Veronica, illuminated for the occasion. When the ceremony was concluded, the Holy Father rose, drew off his spectacles, put them in the pocket of his superb vestment, and retired, followed by his sumptuous court all glit- tering with crimson and gold. This ceremony did not impress me at all. Saturday. — To-day I went with H ns to the Lateran. He was, as usual, instructive and entertaining, and eager to explain the devout significance of all we saw. He explained to me that the services of this day, commemorating the resurrection, are anticipated, so as not to be celebrated at midnight, as was the custom in the primitive Church. “The whole service, ; ” said he, “still supposes the time to be night. A source of the highest antiquarian interest,” added he, “is to be found in the Catholic system of symbolism, which has appropriated from every source most pregnant and beautiful imagery and many typical forms. In the mystic significance of our cere- monies we are carried back to ages of which his- tory only preserves imperfect records — to the wild mythology of the North, the profound mysticism of the East, to intellectual Greece and victorious Rome — each and all recalled by many of the ex- ternal ceremonies of the Catholic ritual; for the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I g I Church — like the sun, which absorbs all other light — in appropriating those forms, has sanctified them to the loftiest and holiest purposes.” I need not add that H ns is a devout Catholic. In the meantime we arrived at the Lateran, where an immense number of white-robed young priests were assembled round the high-altar, this being the day when all the clergy are expected to communicate. The relics of St. Paul are ex- hibited. H ns, however, hurried me away to the old Baptistery near the basilica, in order to obtain a place for witnessing the christening. The circular building, with is not large, was densely thronged, the spectators being arranged on raised seats round the centre, where the large alabaster vase stands, used as a font by Constan- tine, and in which Rienzi is said to have bathed before assuming knighthood. The heat was so intense that it required some resolution to keep our seats. At last the procession appeared, pre- ceded by incense-bearers and deacons. First came the officiating cardinal, in splendid vest- ments, and, following him, the two candidates for baptism — one a Jew, from the Ghetto, a sullen, morose sinner, who looked capable of committing murder or sacrilege for the value of a scudo; the other a young negro girl, as black as ebony, her 1Q2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. bare woolly head of cropped hair giving her, but for her white drapery, much the appearance of a boy. There was something gentle and devout in her countenance and bearing, singularly contrast- ing with the stolid insensibility of her companion, who stared round at the company with audacious eyes in a most unedifying manner. Much interest was felt for this negro girl. She had been brought as a slave from Africa to Leghorn, where she be- came a Christian, escaped from her proprietors, and was redeemed by that excellent fraternity the Trinitarians, which is ever on the watch at these seaports to help and protect the wanderer, the orphan, and the slave. The cardinal and deacons grouped themselves very picturesquely round the baptismal vase, and the ceremony began. Water was thrown on the head of the two neophytes. By one it was received with sullen indifference, by the other with devotional fervour. The negro girl's head was reverently bowed in earnest prayer, and she looked so deeply affected that I feared every moment she would faint. As soon as the rite at the Baptistery was con- cluded, H ns, who had been quite touched by the earnest piety of the poor negro girl, hur- ried me off without the loss of a moment to St. Peter's. Service was proceeding in the choir when DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. IQ3 we entered; the altar was concealed by a black veil; a low, lugubrious chant told of mourning and desolation. But at a given signal a magic change took place; the Gloria in Ex crisis, ac- companied by the organ, burst forth in a rapturous paean of triumphant harmony; the veil before the altar was rent with a loud crash, displaying a magnificent tapestry of the resurrection of our Lord; the paschal candle (an enormous torch placed beside the altar) blazed forth; the deep- toned bells of St. Peter’s rang out a joyous peal, responded to by every belfry in the vast city; and the cannon of the Castle of San Angelo boomed solemnly over all. What a rapturous burst it was when the. Old World rose, as it were, to new life to greet her Saviour emerged from the tomb! A thrill, an electric shock, passed over the whole congregation. Happiness and devout joyfulness beamed in every face; loving, earnest eyes were turned towards heaven; every knee was bowed in solemn thanksgiving ; while the exulting strains of the loudly-pealing organ seemed to carry up the soul in a bright stream of harmonious ecstasy. The Gloria was followed by a grand Hallelujah , chanted by the full strength of the beautiful choir; while the sculptured walls of the chapel, vaults, arches, and painted cupolas seemed actually to An Idle Woman in Italy. II. 1 3 194 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. quiver and shake with the triumphant chorus of earth rejoicing over her risen Saviour! The mass ended, every one turned to his neighbour, wishing him a buona pas qua; the canons advanced towards the officiating cardinal with the same salutation; the priests repeated it again to the canons and to each other; beautiful flowers made their appearance, and were handed among the clergy from friend to friend with the same soul-stirring salutation. We passed out into the mighty aisles of the vast basilica, where thousands were saluting each other with a like holy greeting, and again bright flowers passed from hand to hand. An air of jubilee was on every face. Altars and shrines were now uncovered; the golden lamps before the Confessional were again lighted; cannon roared in the distance; musketry sounded; military music came floating through the entrance; the bells rang joyous peals — for the new year had begun, the sacred year when Jesus rose, and it was meet and fit that earth and all her children should rejoice! In the evening we went to the Trinita dei Pellegrini, a confraternita founded by that most holy man, San Filippo Neri, for those pilgrims who desire to avail themselves of the indulgences con- ceded by the Church during the Holy Week, ad DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 95 limina apostolorum. Each day during the Holy Week hundreds of men and women arrive, and are entertained for three days free of charge; and every evening lay members of the association, in- cluding all the illustrious of either sex in Rome, assemble here, wash the pilgrims’ feet, and after- wards attend on them at supper. We ascended an interminable staircase on the women’s side of the building, situated in a close network of narrow streets in the neighbourhood of the Tiber, near the Farnese Palace. On enter- ing the suite of apartments devoted to the female pilgrims, we found ourselves in the midst of light and life, bustle and activity. Many poor way- farers, pale, dusty, and fatigued, were seated round the walls, staring inquiringly at the novel scene. They were generally of the very poorest class, but looked neat and clean, and were habited in the romantic mediaeval dress with which ballads and legends invest all pilgrims — namely, the dark grey or black robe, the large cape sprinkled with cockle-shells, the broad-brimmed hat of straw or felt, sandalled shoes, a gourd, and a long staff. There is something very poetical about a dress that awakens so many romantic associations. Many visitors were present, passing from room to room; while the sisterhood of the convent, in ig6 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. dresses of grey serge and with white cowls, glided about, contrasting well with the noble ladies, members of the institution, who wore curious costumes of red and black, quite as strange and mediaeval-looking as the dresses of the pilgrims themselves. What lovely faces I saw! what aristo- cratic features, brilliant eyes, and classical heads! After a time the great crowd of visitors had collected in a long gallery, where, behind a railed- in space on either side, the tables were spread for supper. Here we waited until the press would allow of our descending to the apartment where the feet were washed. An old lady, the Countess M , emerged from the crowd, leading forward her niece, a lovely girl, affianced to the wealthy Marquis D . “My niece,” said the countess to my friend Madame L , who, habited in the lay costume, stood near, “z mol far qualche opera di misericordia: may she assist?” Whereupon Madame L assented, and the beautiful girl, smiling and blushing, was arrayed in the prescribed dress of black, with great red sleeves and apron, and led away below to wash dirty feet, happy as a queen. After a due proportion of scuffling, crushing, and pushing (for many English were present), we also descended. In the lower room sat between fifty or sixty DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 1 97 most miserable-looking pilgrims, their feet and legs begrimed with travel-stains. To my thinking, these appeared ten times more wretched than those I had seen above, but it might be that the strong light thrown on them from the lamps brought out all their soils in high relief. Their feet — but I will spare your feelings by not further mentioning them — rested on the edges of wooden tubs of hot water; their stockings, shoes, or sandals were laid beside them; the noble ladies knelt by the tubs on the bare brick floor, their white arms uncovered, their beauteous heads bowed down, waiting the signal to begin. When all was ready, a cardinal in full dress appeared, and, standing in the centre of the room, read a Latin prayer. While he read, the washing began, and sure such rubbing and scrubbing and eager anxiety were never seen. I passed round and saw them work- ing with right good-will, their white hands and arms dabbling in the dirty water, and contrasting very strangely with the sunburnt skin of the poor women, who seemed, on the whole, quite shocked. Others, however, looking on it in its proper light as an act of devotion, repeated Aves and coronas . Some endeavoured to assist, and were not per- mitted by the pretty ladies, who would do all themselves; and some sat staring stolidly, over- 1 98 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. come with astonishment. There was the R ■, the haughtiest princess in Rome, hard at work, a little coronet of gold just visible in her coal-black hair; and the Marchesa C , the most zealous of English converts; and the sweet bride-elect whom I had seen above so anxious to assist. No one can describe the grace and gentleness with which the latter performed her Revolting duty. When she had satisfied her conscience by a most vigorous washing, she stooped down, kissed the pilgrim's feet, drew on the coarse stockings and the clumsy, dirty shoes, and then rose. The poor contadina, evidently quite touched by her great beauty and kindness, invoked an audible blessing on her. “ E un vero angelo di belta , una santa di Dio ,” added the woman, loud enough for the whole room to hear; whereupon all the bystanders turned and looked, making the gracious bride blush redder than roses. Oh, well be it with thee, thou fair bride, in coming years, and may the blessing invoked on thy young head by the poor pilgrim be chronicled in the courts of heaven! I can give no account of the service on Easter Sunday, for I was too unwell to attend the high mass at St. Peter's. Truth to tell, I am glad of the excuse, for I hate to describe what everybody has seen. Instead, I will note down an anecdote. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. I QQ Lady C (who, as Mrs. Grundy said, had enjoyed herself in her day), when she was old and frail, set up her tent in the Eternal City, where she lived like a real princess. By some chance she rented the magnificent Barberini Palace, the place where the lovely Cenci lives enshrined in the picture-gallery. How, or why, or wherefore, those haughty magnates condescended to let their vast ancestral palace I cannot tell; but certain it is they did so, and that for many years her ladyship lived there like a fairy queen, for she was of extremely diminutive stature. She gave dinners to artists, who condescended to patronise her in consideration of the grand banquets they enjoyed in the old feudal halls; she had many gentlemen friends, but no female ones; she had a suite of attendants, servants, maestro di casa, pages, women, men, and boys — like an Eastern Begum; and she had also a scopatore — a humble sweeper of those gilded saloons, a common Italian canaglia , who seemed to have as much connection with his be-satined and be-jewelled little mistress as I with Hercules. Nevertheless, strange things do happen, and it is on the countess and the scopatore that my tale hangs. She was given to purchasing ornaments, 200 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. bronzes, cameos, antiquities, and other beautiful things for the adornment of her sumptuous apart- ments. Well, all at once, one thing was lost, and then another, and, what was worse, the things never turned up again. My lady threatened the maestro di casa that if the articles were not reproduced she would sweep her palace of all her domestics as clean as the tramontana sweeps off the falling leaves in autumn. “ Sua eccellenza ,” said the man, “you are not the only sufferer; we also have been robbed of clothes and of various things.” “Whom do you suspect?” asks the lady. “Why, to tell the truth, signora, we all suspect Rocco.” Who was Rocco? The great little lady had never even heard the name of this obscure atten- dant. Rocco was the humble sweeper of the marble floors of miladi’s palace. Of course he was instantly to be dismissed. Rocco was to go, and he went: miladi, in her satin boudoir, never wasted a thought on that obscure lump of clay. One night, not long after, Lady C lay in bed — pillowed, as such dames are, in dainty lace and fine linen — between waking and sleeping, in a half-dreamy state of conscious unconsciousness, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 201 when she heard the handle of her door turn. In a moment she was sitting up in bed. A figure entered, bearing a light — bearing, too, something that gleamed in his hand. “Who's there?" screamed my lady. “Rocco,” replied a hollow voice. In an instant the truth flashed across her mind: Rocco, the scopatore, was there, come to have his vendetta . He had penetrated into the interior of the palace he knew so well, and was going to murder her! Now, the little lady was not wanting in spirit — she was no coward; so, when she heard this ominous name, she first seized the bell-rope beside her, and then darted out of bed towards a door opening into a cor- ridor opposite. As she rushed out, Rocco bounded after her, and, with murderous haste, clutched her by her night-clothes in the passage. Finding her- self within his gripe, she flung herself against him like a cat, and clung to him with the agonised hold of terrified despair. A death-struggle ensued between the wiry little countess and the strong scopatore. The light which he held was ex- tinguished, but, ere it fell, she saw the upraised dagger — a moment more, and she felt it plough- ing the skin in the back of her neck, blow after blow, quick as they could fall. The more he 20 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. stabbed (and many were the wounds he in- flicted), the tighter she clung to him. As they struggled she fell against a table, and he lost his hold; at the same moment the steward — who had heard the bell ring, but had stopped to put on his clothes — appeared with a light. Rocco rushed back by the way he had come, too quickly to be caught; and the poor little countess was picked up deluged in blood, and with two of her teeth (perhaps they were false, chi lo sa ?) knocked out. By earliest dawn information was given to the police. An immense sensation was excited. A peeress to be stabbed in her own palace — in her bedroom — to be dead, or dying — the assassin to have escaped! All this was tremendous. Every engine was set to work to discover Rocco; every hole of the Eternal City:— and the holes where the wretched and criminal congregate in squalid poverty are many and horrible- — was ransacked. At last Rocco was unearthed and put in prison; further, he was tried and condemned to the gal- leys for life. The man had the presumption to send to the countess for money while she lay in her bed recovering from the wounds he had in- flicted. And she actually gave him money. Yes, the naughty little countess, ^whom ladies were too DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 20 3 virtuous to visit, sent the assassin money to cheer his weary hours in that loathsome prison. Bless- ings on her kind heart! Poor Rocco never went to the galleys. He died in prison, and with his last breath begged the pardon of his generous mistress. She soon got the better of her wounds, which were but flesh-cuts, and lived to tell the story of “ her own murder ” as she called it, as she sat heading her amply-furnished board. She told it well, and it was esteemed a good anecdote. Now she is dead, the little countess, and all that re- mains of her is a pair of tiny feet sculptured in marble, a monument of vanity, in the corner of a certain studio under the shadow of the palace where she flourished. But there is a register in the good angels’ book that shall not be forgotten in that solemn day of reckoning when the humble scopatore and the dainty countess shall stand to- gether before the Great Judge. * * * * * Delightful as is the climate of Rome, its very mildness renders it so exceedingly enervating and exhausting, that after a residence of six or seven months the debilitated constitution requires a change. But the question is where to go — a query 204 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. not so easily answered. Perhaps no large city in the world was ever more in want of suburban re- sources — a want arising from the vast extent of the desolate Campagna, which clasps the city on all sides with an arid girdle. Here not a house is to be seen, neither man nor beast thriving on that unwholesome soil, which, with its deadly night exhalations, is so pernicious in summer as to drive the very cattle from their pastures. One must journey sixteen long miles by rail or road to Albano, or L’Aricia, or Frascati, before any- thing in the shape of summer quarters appears. What weary pilgrimages I made! What horrible dens (all the property of princes) did I behold! It was positively sickening to walk through them. Each time I returned home more and more dis- gusted. At last we heard of unexceptionable apartments at Rocca di Papa, which we fixed upon at once. The Rocca, seen distinctly from Rome to the right of Frascati, is a regular eagle’s nest perched on the outskirts of the Alban Hills. At a distance the place looks unattainable except by an aerial railway or a balloon; but we shall see. The air is the purest in the neighbourhood of Rome, and the sea breezes come sweeping over its woods with a delicious coolness. We have reached our villeggiatura , and DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 205 are But I must tell things in order. At four o'clock we ordered the carriage, our luggage having preceded us in a most primitive cart drawn by two great oxen. As I descended the steep stairs leading from our rooms, al secondo — those regular Roman stairs, filthy and abominable in spite of remonstrances — and looked into the re- cesses of the interior cor tile (a place which, in London, would infallibly be pounced on by the sanitary commissioners by reason of its varied and most potent smells), I really felt quite sen- timental, and could not bear the idea of turning my back on wonderful Rome even for a temporary absence. But this weakness yielded to anti- cipations of the rural beauty and historic recol- lections in store for me on the Alban Hills; so, wafting an adieu to the stately Pincian Hill, and giving a salute to the dome of St. Peter's and the Coliseum, we drove out by the Lateran Gate. The Campagna traversed, we mount the lower spurs of the Alban Hills, towards Grotta Ferrata. A fair and pleasant scene opens before us; culti- vation reappears; there are olive-grounds bearing rich promise of fruit, and great vineyards sloping down on the sunny side of the valleys towards gushing streamlets. There is an old ruined tower high on a rugged mound, above which the hills 206 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. whither we are journeying rise almost perpen- dicularly into the blue sky, mildly mellowed by the approach of evening. Now we are at Grotta Ferrata, a small village clustering filially round a castellated monastery — a feudal pile that frowns down over a turfy meadow, and is approached by several noble avenues of ancient elms. Within that monastery are Domenichino's glorious frescoes; but — pazienza! not a word of description — we must reach the Rocca. The poor horses, hot and weary, rest for a moment before the osteria , a locality where fleas abound, and salame would be dressed swimming in oil — ideas which alarm us so much that we do not descend. So an old man comes hobbling out with a wicker bottle in his hand, and asks if “the eccellenze will not drink.” “No, they won't.” So off he limps, wishing us a u buon viaggio” with as much earnest unction as if we were bound for the moon on Astolfo’s hippogriff. The horses having recovered their wind, we plunge into cavernous lanes, and along roads scattered over with huge boulders that must have lain there since the days when Ascanius founded Alba. But if the roads are rough, how lovely is the matted tangle of flowers and moss clothing the high banks on either side — the clematis, the vine, and the fair convolvulus DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 07 wreathing every stone and branch with exquisite garlands ! This road is interminable. It becomes worse and worse, and we seem to sink deeper and deeper between the rocky banks. “If we should meet anything — only fancy!” No sooner are the words spoken than, turn- ing a sharp angle, a file of loaded carts appears, bearing down on us. Now what is to be done? “Have the grace to stop,” cries our Jehu. The drivers respond, “Si, si; all is well. You shall pass.” (The Italians, when not provoked, are so polite!) Then, after unheard-of exertions in the way of talking and screaming (for nothing can be done here without an immoderate amount of palaver), the oxen and the carts are dragged to one side, and Jehu, smacking his whip, proceeds. When we at last emerged from those deep lanes we found ourselves in a boundless forest of splendid chestnuts — a rare old wood, shut in by lofty mountains veiled with the same leafy cover- ing. Evening shed around soft tints, deepening the shadows and dimming the vistas through these ancient trees, whose silvery trunks caught the last rays of the departing sun. But most beautiful of 208 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. all was the broom, which formed a golden under- wood glorious to behold. On the rising hills, in the wooded chasms, deep in the valleys, waved the gilded shrubs, forming masses of colour that, blending with the bright green, were perfectly dazzling. A steep ascent now lay before us, and a little opening in the overarching boughs disclosed the Rocca, high on the topmost mountain-peak — a grey mysterious pile, looking spitefully down, as if mocking our efforts to reach it. It positively looks as distant as it did from the Campagna! How the poor horses strive to pull the carriage up that endless hill! And so they must, for already the stars are appearing, and the dark wood glooms and closes around us like a vision. In a grotto beside the road a little shrine has been raised to the Madonna. It contains a picture of her bear- ing the Jesus-child; a lamp burns dimly before it, and sheds its flickering gleam across the road; flowers are placed near in broken cups; and a bright carpet of yellow broom-flowers has been spread in honour of the Virgin-mother. As we proceed (slowly enough now, for it is almost dark) some one suggests brigands , which makes us all uncomfortable; but as no one likes to own it, a dead silence ensues. At last we stop; we are come as DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 20g far as the carriage can take us, and must walk up to the house — E cost buona nottel Early this morning I threw open the green persiani and looked out. Never shall I forget the thrill of rapturous delight with which I beheld that glorious view. The very universe seemed lying at my feet. Description can do but scant justice to that majestic union of woods, green and golden, that melt lovingly into plains, which in their turn melt into a city backed by pale blue mountains. The mountains blend in the dim aerial distance with the ocean; and the ocean in its turn dissolves into the heavens. Beneath me lies the boundless measureless Campagna — a soft desert, waving, un- dulating, billowy, reflecting every change of the passing clouds, now darkened with vast masses of shade, now dancing, dazzling, in the burning sun- shine — an earthly main, changeful and fitful as its prototype the sea. There were the yellow corn-fields, the emerald pastures, the wildernesses of barren grass, burnt up and calcined; while here and there rose a sombre tomb, a ruined tower, or a columned villa. Beyond, raised on a stately mountain- terrace, lay Rome — that great and unutterable Sphinx- word which the last judg- ment only shall unfold — throned on her seven legendary hills; here and there a bright light or An Idle Woman in Italy. II. 1 4 210 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. glistening point revealing some stately portico, or dome, or obelisk — yet all vague and undefined as that Eternity to which her existence is so mysteri- ously linked. To the right, where the mighty prairie fades into the cloudy distance, abruptly rises Monte Soracte — Apollo's ancient home — lone and soli- tary, its rugged sides and the connecting moun- tains darkened by the Cimmerian forest, which leads the eye on to the graceful chain of the Sabine Hills. To the left, a line of silver struggles through the plain, twisting and twining like a glittering cord — the sacred Tiber flowing on to- wards Ostia and the sea. Oh, the heavenly breezes that came fresh and cool as the breath of morning! Well was it with me in this beauteous solitude, where all Nature — land, and sea, and air — danced and rejoiced, as if sympathising with my delight. Nearer at hand lay Grotta Ferrata, Marino, and Castel Gondolfo domed and Oriental-looking, cresting the topmost headland of the Alban Lake. Behind me uprose the conical height of Monte Cavo, a diadem of ancient trees waving before the white convent on its summit; while lower down, on the opposite side, a broad defile, once the Latin Valley, cleft asunder the heights of DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 I I ancient Tusculum, now fertile and verdant with the gardens of modern Frascati. As I gazed, images of fabulous and historic Rome floated be- fore my eyes — Virgil, Horace, quaint old Livy, courtly Tacitus, and bitter Suetonius were here — no shadows of antiquity, but real living men. On this land they had lived, on these mountains they had sung, on those plains the heroes whose deeds they immortalised had fought and con- quered. Classic history lay like a book before me — page after page to be read in these fair lines, these desolate valleys, and. yon boundless expanse! ***** We are becoming settled in our new home, which English readers would think passing strange. A great gaping door opens from the street (big enough to accommodate a carriage and six) into a huge passage or hall, a cross between a dungeon and a cellar, where the horses stand, and the boys enjoy a game of mora — un , due, trl, sempre Pistesso. Stone stairs, very rarely swept, mount up various stories to a kind of Babel altitude, each story being considered as a separate house, having its door and bell. On the first piano some Italians are enjoying the villeggiatura, dividing their time between sleeping and eating, the latter 14* 212 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. operation being announced by a most potent smell of garlic. Their windows are always closed, and they scarcely ever go out; so they must have a lively time of it. But I forget, there is something going on at Rocca di Papa, which affords matter for gossip and entertainment to the languid natives. A Contessa, brown and dried as a walnut-shell, after having passed a life of divertimento and made much scandal in her day, has become a widow, and now receives the tender addresses of a cer- tain young marquis of the Guardia Nobile, who is as poor as Job, and as extravagant as the Prodigal. When his purse is light, he mounts and rides to visit his ancient Phyllis, who, with rapturous wel- come, gives him no end of money and love. Both favours received, the gallant knight rides back again to Rome, leaving the venerable Contessa inconsolable until the next time his pockets want relining. “ Telle est la vie , meme au fond des forets! ft We rusticate above in rooms unconscious of carpets, but laid down with fine scagliola floors. Sometimes we have meat for dinner; sometimes we get only brown bread and eggs; at other times, thanks to our Mercuries, the carbonari from Albano and Frascati, we revel in the Egyp- tian flesh-pots. I)IARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 I 3 Besides our own servitu there is a mixed and heterogeneous crowd always loitering about. First and foremost comes Maria, a stalwart contadina, with the fresh ruddy look of a rustic Hebe. She carries all the water used in the house in a great brass vessel on her head, and carries it nobly, with the air and step of a water-nymph, up those long, long flights of stairs. Maria flaunts about with a red handkerchief floating from her head, her hair pierced by a silver arrow — long, and sharp, and dangerous — a weapon she can use, too, should occasion require; for a dark devil lurks in Maria's flashing eyes. Round her neck are suspended long strings of coral, giving her, as connected with the brass vessel and the water generally, a mermaid character. On Sundays and festa days Maria puts on a smart red petticoat, with green ribbons, and a gorgeous pair of purple stays, trimmed with a profusion of white lace. She has gold earrings and a cross, which may be taken off; but the coral I believe she sleeps in. There are dark stories about Maria, otherwise a kind, genial soul, ever ready with her sparkling smile and hearty u St ia bene , signora ” She is married to a brute, a species of cacciatore, who divides his time between wandering in the forest and drinking in the Spaccio di Vino , from whence 214 DIARY of an IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. it was “his custom of an afternoon” to return home dead drunk, and to beat Maria dread- fully. Maria, who was a comely girl, and might have married better, but for an unhappy hankering after this unworthy Nimrod, bore it meekly for some time. She bore his blows in silence, shedding sad and bitter tears over her blighted love — her true and honest love. But she was an Italian. Hot fever-blood flowed in her veins; and by-and- by desire for the vendetta tugged like a gloomy spirit at her heart-strings. She would have ven- geance — vengeance on the man who had so basely ill-used her. The opportunity was not long wanting. Fer- dinando soon staggered into their wretched hovel, royally drunk, and flung himself upon the nuptial couch (Anglic^, the only bed they possessed). Maria, in ominous silence, was awaiting his return. She rose, and taking her needles and scissors, the weapons of our sex, sat down beside the bed on which her debased husband lay wrapped in a bestial sleep, and began to sew. Yes, to sew — stit chin g the two sheets firmly and securely to- gether! Her hand did not tremble, but there was a deadly look in her black eyes all the while, pregnant of evil. She sewed until Ferdinando DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 215 was entirely enclosed as in a net; then she rose — her eyes flashing a still darker fire — and pro- ceeded to a certain corner where he kept his guns ? and sticks, and knives. Her hand fell intuitively on a big stiletto knife; but it trembled a little, and was withdrawn. She paused, then firmly clutched the largest and heaviest bludgeon there. A Satanic smile came over her face as she raised the heavy stick and dealt him a portentous blow; then another and another, until the drunken man, suddenly sobered by the pain, writhed and swayed in agony, as he lay weltering in his blood. His piteous cries aroused the neighbours, who came bursting in. They shrank back appalled at the ghastly sight; for Maria, wild with evil passions, stood like an avenging Fury over her husband, remorseless, unsexed, maddened. She was seized from behind, and the weapon forced from her grasp. Recalled to herself, she swooned away. Her husband, when extricated from the sheets, was all but dead. Months passed ere he recovered, a cowed and humbled man, who shrank away from Maria like a beaten cur. Poverty forced them still to live under the same roof, but they never spoke. When we came there, a year had passed, and Maria looked jovial and happy. She had conquered; and but for a certain dark flash- 2l6 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. in g of the eye, I could not have believed so dire a tale. We have a farm-yard behind the villa — more like an English farm-yard than any I have seen in Italy; and I love it for the sake of my far-off fatherland. There are great stacks of firewood; and tribes of poultry; and three melancholy geese wandering about in search of water, which they never find; and horses that come from the woods for their evening feed; and dogs that lie all day asleep in the shade. But, after all, it is not English; for down comes quiet Michele, the serving-man, at the Ave Maria in the pleasant evening time, followed by a troop of grey oxen with mighty horns, and strings of mules laden with wood, and horses carrying on their backs piled-up sheaves of sweet-scented hay from the upper pastures on Hannibars Camp. Here, too, is the hillside garden terraced with vines; and the long pergola (arbour) draped with young grapes, under which my children play at bocci in the shade; and there is a sound of low chanting from the monastery, in the wood below, when the monks meet for evening prayer. But I have not yet introduced you to half the humours of our rock-home, the houses of which are, as it were, chained to the rock, something •# DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 21 7 after the manner of Prometheus. There are Maria’s children, who gather about the doors, and roll in the dust, or sleep on the bare stones — hardy little wretches, as ignorant of soap as of algebra. Luigi, the youngest, has his mother’s eyes, and is a real little beauty, fat, and round, and grace- ful as a young Cupid, if he were only cleaned from the dirt contracted during his two year’s life. He is always to be seen flourishing a large table-knife, threatening instant felo de se when he rolls from the top of a certain flight of stairs to the bottom — a feat he contrives to perform many times every day. His great delight is to sit in the midst of the cocks and hens and the three misanthropic geese, which come crowding round him with an unwarrantable freedom, pecking at the morsel of bread he is munching — a liberty he repels by lustily screaming and brandishing his table-knife, with a look and action worthy of an infant Hercules. He would swear, that urchin, if he could speak. Besides tumbling down the steps, he has an immense predilection for water, which evil passion led him vagabondis- ing the other day into the street to the town fountain, where he was presently discovered with his head downwards, and his heels in the air, almost drowned. Great was the indignation of 218 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. Maria, who, administering a revivifying thump, held him by the heels in the air until all the water had escaped from his mouth, whereupon she brought him home crumpled up in her apron like a dead rabbit. But the next day he was valiantly fighting with the dogs, the geese, and the cocks and hens — the same devil-may-care little imp as ever! Luigi, it must be owned, has a pleasant enough life of it with his little sister, whom he beats a volonti, unless when his young aunt Filomela (a tall, well-favoured lass who counts some fifteen summers, and carries loads of bricks on her head all day to the labourers below re- pairing the wall) chances to catch him in a quiet corner, when she fails not to administer her practical opinion of his conduct and principles with such emphatic arguments in the shape of blows as cause poor Luigi to wake the deepest echoes of the Rocca. A wicked little soul is Filomela, and quite up to any mischief. But an agreeable holocaust to Luigi’s feelings is shortly offered by Maria, who, rushing down at the noise, beats her sister in return, sending her off — w ith abundant objurgations — to carry bricks on her head. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 21Q Not to be forgotten is our landlady, the Sora Nena, a huge, bulky woman of some forty years old, who amuses her leisure by drinking the good vino sincero all day. This excellent lady is dis- tinguished by a certain unsteadiness in her legs, and a misty, vague expression in her eyes, when (a gaudy handkerchief flying from her head) she descends into the yard to take the air after the sun has set. She generally grunts out a few in- articulate words, quite unintelligible to any one but the fowls and the disconsolate geese, which all flock around her in a joyous chorus, and jump on her head and shoulders — a delicate attention she rewards with some corn. She settles down finally near the hen-house door into a state of drowsy unconsciousness, and faintly calls at in- tervals for Rosa, her maid, who at length comes to fetch her home. Her husband, L -, the nouveau riche , is a study in his line. He began life as a shepherd, and either by finding a treasure on Monte Cavo, or egregiously cheating his em- ployers, has made an immense fortune, bought lands and woods, flocks and herds, and become a grand signore , without the wildest notion of how to spend or to enjoy his money, except by grinding and oppressing the poor. He has skulked about in the woods for weeks, to escape being 220 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. murdered by those he has injured, dozens of men having sworn to take his life; as in the republican days of Roman freedom the patrician youth vowed to cut off their country’s foe, the Etruscan Porsenna. Such is the home circle in our villeggiatura . Outside is a street mounting up in an almost perpendicular line towards the topmost mass of rock, where a few ancient trees — scathed and worn by the winds of centuries — wave over the remnants of a fortress, once the property of the Orsini, but now a feudo of their deadliest enemies, the Colonna. Besieged and taken by the Duke of Calabria in 1484, and by the Caraffeschi and the Duke of Alba afterwards, this now desolate and remote ruin has often resounded to the thunder of artillery. The rock on which it stood was originally formed by vast deposits of lava from what was once a great volcano. The village is now perched on the outermost lip of the ancient crater; the ground, the banks, the rocks are all lava. Under the shadow of the mediaeval citadel, the Duomo squeezes itself in on the top of the single street, its deep melodious clock giving time to the whole village, and reminding us, though we lie still and dream — pleasant dreams on distant mountain-tops — that the busy world still rushes DIARY OP AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 221 on, eager, feverish, impetuous; that death and joy, hatred and love, and every changing passion still rule the passing hour in that world stretched beneath our feet. 22 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. CHAPTER VIII. Monte Cavo— Home Life— Maria— The Geese— The Dance— Marino, and Gossip about its History— A Night at a Convent. The great sight of our savage fortress-home is Monte Cavo, which rises, as I have said, majestically behind the Rocca. Troops of visitors come daily through the chestnut forest to visit this highest summit of the Alban Mount. I was naturally all impatience until I also had addressed myself to the ascent. The road lay through the fair forests that over-mantled all around, save the grim sides of the Latin valley and the bleak heights of Tusculum. On I went by a rough track through that charmed wood, passing by clearings where those dusky squatters, the charcoal-burners, sit month after month by their smouldering fires, undermining the magnificent old trees spared by time from bygone centuries when Diana ruled the woods. On I go through parting walls of lava rock which rise like gigantic fortifications on either hand, the stone of a ruddy glowing colour, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 23 warmed as it were by internal fires, and ever palpitating with a subdued heat. How grandly these ravines open — laced and embroidered with a rich undergrowth of vines, clematis, and wild roses, and diademed with sombre trees and shrubs! Grottoes yawn in the deep sides, leading down into unfathomable depths — perhaps to Tartarus and the ghastly circle where Lucifer sits enthroned amid blue fires. The merry light is subdued and oppressed in this mysterious pass, where eternal twilight reigns. After a time the defile terminates, and I emerge into light, and life, and sunshine, on an elevation above the Rocca. The ever- glorious prospect opens far and wide. Around me a valley, or rather plateau, appears, carpeted with the finest, greenest grass — a great space, perhaps four miles in circuit, bordered by low hills, bare and unwooded, suggesting bitter, piercing winds; — a strange, lonely region. This plain, so singular in aspect, is said to have been the mouth of an ancient volcano. For that fact no one can vouch; nor does it matter. But it matters much to know that it was the camp of Hannibal, where that eccentric one-eyed hero encamped with his army during his memorable scappata from the South, when he hoped, by threatening the very gates of Rome, to create a 224 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. diversion in favour of Capua, then besieged by the Consuls. But the stern Romans budged not from Capua until the gates opened to receive them in triumph. Vainly did Hannibal sound his loud alarums in his camp on the Alban Hills — vainly did he, descending into the Campagna, entrench his forces on the Anio stream, three miles, from imperial Rome, and skirmish with his swift-riding Numidians under the very walls. The Seven Hills heeded not — the Palladium shook not — the sacred fire burnt bright and clear, though the dreadful Carthaginian and his awful host glittered before the very eyes of the Quirites. The ground on which he stood was bought and sold in the Forum by those immovable men of brass, who knew that it was written Rome should stand as long as time endured. At the same moment a great army marched out of the opposite gates to Spain — far-off Spain — in mocking de- fiance, to show the Carthaginians that Rome had stout hearts and to spare, both to conquer the Pillars of Hercules, and to drive Hannibal back in shame from whence he came. Brave old Rome! These recollections came vividly before me as I looked on the great field, formed by nature for an encampment, with its fringe of low hills, high enough for shelter, but too bare for ambuscades. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 225 I thought on the day when Hannibal, gazing down on the Campagna and the Appian and Nomentana Ways stretching away towards the towers of Rome, saw them, as I did then, glistening in the sun. The great outlines are the same: there, in the distance, are the Street of Tombs, the Latin Valley, and rocky Tusculum; but the foreground is changed — I and my pony, instead of the Car- thaginian host and the great conqueror that led them! Before me rose Monte Cavo, a conical peak said to be three thousand feet above the neigh- bouring ocean — a lovely mountain, green and luxuriant as an English plaisance. The road winds up gently through the underwood and part- ing branches, until a purer air clothes all around with sheeny light. Here are no fierce rocks, no frowning precipices, no thundering streams or crashing avalanches — all is serenely lovely, rich and harmonious, as befits the smiling land be- loved of Venus, where the Graces and the Muses still are worshipped. A turn of the road brought me suddenly face to face with a group of Pas sionist monks — pale, emaciated men — resting on some stones by the wayside. They had been down into the common world, and were now re- turning to their sky-parlour — the aerial monastery An Idle Woman in Italy , II . 15 226 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. aloft. Ascetics as they were, and weaned from all earthly things, these good monks, like true Italians, were full of courtesy. Their abbate hats were instantly raised as they perceived me, and a “ Buona passeggiata alia signora ” was uttered in dull, cold voices, wherein, though no mundane passions lingered, much that was kind and chari- table was expressed. As I wound round the mountain the panorama grew wider and grander. The sea, vast as eternity, outstretched into far-off fields of light and glory, melting dreamily into the vague clouds that float down to embrace it. There was old Tiber glit- tering across the Campagna, and the vast forest enshrouding the descending valleys, and the two sweet lakes reposing in their loveliness within um- brageous banks — that of Albano sad and solemn, ever mourning the majestic past; Nemi like a fairy-cup set in an emerald casing, so small and delicate that Titania might have borne it in the hollow of her hand, and carried it to fairy-land. Oh, the fair smiling lawns — the bonnie braes of velvet turf — the luxuriant fields of corn, like golden rivers winding amid the woods — the tufted knolls and parting rifts that opened before me! As the fleecy clouds came and went, and “waves of shadow” passed over the mighty landscape, ? ■' V DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 22 7 one might deem that some goddess was moving among the woods. Now I have reached the old Roman kerb- stones, that begin midway up the ascent, formed of great polygonal blocks, perfect and well pre- served, the marks of the chariot- wheels still visible. And this, then, is truly and veritably the Via Triumphalis , and these stones are worn by the chariots of Rome’s greatest generals, who went up to celebrate her triumphs at the Latin shrine! Here Julius Caesar triumphed when named Dicta- tor; and Marcellus, after his cruel siege of glori- ous Syracuse, when the beauty and the power of the. fair Southern capital were crushed out for ever; and many other heroes whose deeds are chronicled on the classic page,— here they passed, coming from out of the great city and its pil- lared Forum. Many of the stones bear the let- ters V. N., still plainly visible, meaning Via Numinis . So I am fairly en route for heaven — even if it be a pagan one, still heaven — and I go on rejoicing; for my Pegasus (meaning my own individual Pegasus, not the quiet pony which, poor soul! cares for none of those things) gets exceedingly rampant at the very notion of mount- ing to the classic heavens, and meeting the whole circle of Olympus, 15’ 228 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. But mortals, though favoured with visions, are ever denied fruition. Oh, ye cruel gods! why en- tice me on this, your well-trodden pathway, and then suddenly break away and leave me? It was unkindly done. Here I am actually at the summit on the broad platform, and lo ! a white, ugly, staring monastery and a church — all so matter-of-fact that I feel quite unhappy. And a dog barks, and a man comes out and looks askance, and begs for bajocchi — all on the place where Caesar, glittering in burnished armour, offered sacrifices for a thousand victories! There is not a vestige of the past, not a sign to lead the mind back to the great feasts of the Feriae Latinae, when the forty-seven cities forming the Latin confederation met in solemn conclave. Here every consul came, before departing on foreign service, to celebrate the Latin games. Fabius Maximus, before advancing against Han- nibal; and Publius Scipio, who afterwards van- quished his hosts; Marcellus, before proceeding to Syracuse; Titus Flaminius, before the conquest of Greece; Paulus AEmilius, before the Macedonian war; and Dentatus after his victory over Pyrrhus. Marcellus is especially remembered as triumphing first at Rome, and then receiving the lesser triumph DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 22 g or ovation on the Alban Mount. In this cere- mony the victorious general did not ride in a triumphal chariot — in fact, the narrow road was too steep to admit of the ascent of so ponderous a machine — nor was he crowned with laurel; neither had he trumpets sounding before him; but he mounted the Via Numinis in sandals, at- tended by musicians playing on a multitude of flutes, wearing a crown of myrtle, his aspect rather pleasing than formidable, and entirely divested of war’s alarms. For the flute is an instrument de- dicated to joyous measures in the “piping times of peace,” and the myrtle is the tree of Venus, who, of all deities, is the most averse to war and violence. Indeed, the whole ceremony of the ovation has been referred to the festivals in hon- our of Bacchus rather than to those in honour of warlike affairs. Not one stone remains of the glorious temple of Latian Jove, pillared on a thousand marble columns, which once crowned the Alban Mount. Cardinal York, Vandal as he was, has taken care of that, and removed everything tending to lead the mind of his Passionist monks back to pagan times. There is but one solitary bit of ancient wall, out of which grows a wide-spreading beech tree, old enough to have presided over the mys r 230 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. teries of Cybele, or to have looked on when Saturnian Juno descended from her starry throne to survey the battle-field where the armies of the Laurentines and Trojans stood forth in bright array. Then I turned and beheld the goodly lands of Latium, a fair and pleasant prospect, where the whole locale of the ^Eneid is visible: Civita Lavinia, once the Pelasgic Lanuvium, seated on its pleasant hill, the birthplace of Milo, and of Roscius and the three Antonines; Ostia, where the Trojan ships first touched the Ausonian strand; Antium, now Porto d’Anzio, once a Volscian city on the Tyrrhene Sea, where Coriolanus, “stand- ing in the palace of -his enemy, vowed eternal vengeance against his ungrateful country,” where Nero was bom, and from whose ruins in after ages the Belvidere Apollo emerged to astonish the artistic world; ancient Corioli, now Monte Giove, whence Coriolanus, heading the Volscian legions, marched against Rome; Pratica, once Lavinium, founded by AEneas in honour of his wife, the modest Lavinia, whose blushes, celebrated by Virgil, were “as if one had stained the Indian ivory with clouded purple, or as the white lilies mingled with copious roses;” Ardea, the Argive capital of Turnus and his Rutulians, whose walls, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 23 I once stormed by Tarquinius Superbus, were after- wards hallowed by sheltering the exiled but heroic Camillus, who departed hence bearing the proud title of Dictator, conferred on him by repentant Rome; Etruscan Caere, once a city of the Pelasgi, but named Caere by the Lydians of the Etruscan League, whither the Vestal virgins fled, bearing the sacred fire, when the Gauls conquered Rome; Tusculum, proudly seated on its rocky heights, sometimes the rival, but often the ally, of infant Rome, a place of fabulous antiquity, whose huge Pelasgic walls withstood the attack of Hannibal, but fell a sacrifice to the miserable feuds of the middle ages; near at hand Frascati, sprung from Tusculum’s ruins; and Albano, the modern re- presentative of Alba Longa, “the Long White City; and domed Castello, with its castellated palace and its azure lake; and many a pleasant city among the Sabine Hills, where also Tivoli, the ancient Tibur, the home of Horace, Catullus, and Propertius, appears embosomed and belted with olive woods. Further on, Monte Soracte towers in solitary majesty —Soracte, on whose summit once stood Apollo’s golden temple; and Monte Cimino, leading on towards ancient Etruria and the Ligurian lands. In the centre of the plain lies Rome, girded with the walls of Aure- 2 32 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. lius, no longer the luxurious capital of the Caesars, but consecrated to the service of that religion whose noblest temple here lifts its gigantic dome against the heavens. All Italy does not boast a braver view! Would that I could fitly describe and unfold the mysteries of the classical hierogly- phics spread around! But it is given to me only to come on a humble pony, not mounted on a living Pegasus, and I can but paint in dull prose what I saw, and how I saw it. The platform on which the temple stood — where were celebrated the Latin games instituted by Tarquinius Superbus every year at the beginning of May, the consuls and other chief magistrates going forth in procession from the city — is now occupied by a garden, where apples and cabbages grow and ripen on the soil once so fertile in Roman laurels. No woman can enter, for the Passionist order eschews us as the parents of evil and of sin; and where amorous Jupiter once ruled no woman may approach. Strange metamorphosis ! But there is an outside path running round the garden wall, constructed of massive blocks of stone, spoils of the ancient temple; and through the overarching branches of a sacred grove that yet fringes this path on the crest of the summit are disclosed glimpses of mountains, valleys, hills, ravines, all DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 233 solitary and uninhabited, tossed about in chaotic confusion, a green wilderness without form and void, melting into the purple masses of the Abruzzi, whose lofty peaks shut in the prospect. And then the sea peeps out again near the rock of Terracina, that beauteous portal to the land of Graecia Magna, distinctly visible in the far distance; and the small islets of Palmaria and Pandaria lie like dots on the blue ocean. One more long look towards the great city and I am gone; for see! the sun, a ball of liquid fire, is sinking beneath banks of purple clouds, the sound of the Ave Maria rises from the church of the Rocca below, and the stars are coming out one by one. * * * * * Maria told me to look out of the window this morning, and I saw that the ground before the opposite house was strewed with rose-leaves. “ Cosa significa?” said I to the jolly donna di facenda (housekeeper) who stood beside me, bridling and looking full of mystery. u Significa Vamoref replied she. “ I? amor e , il bel amore” And she sighed and looked sad for an instant, and remembered her rage and jealousy, and how she sewed up the unfortunate peccatore , her sposa , in the sheets. 234 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. “Ma” said I again, “ che cosa signified?” “Ascoltdy” said she. “ Opposite lives the baker Pietro, he that wears the red cap. Well, he has long loved the daughter of Fondi, the pretty Teresina; but her parents said she was too young, and sent her for education to a convent for a year. To-day she is seventeen, and she has re- turned, and Pietro has strewed the rose-leaves be- fore her door to declare his passion. E un certo modo nostro . He has strewed the rose-leaves: if they are removed, ’tis a sign she refuses his suit; but if they remain, why, certo , she accepts him. Ah! Teresina will not sweep away the rose-leaves, ne son sicura. They may fade, but her love for Pietro, and Pietro’s love for her, will only bloom and blossom as time goes on. Once it was so for me, and rose-leaves were strewed before my door in the grey morning light — red rose-leaves, to show the fervour of his passion. When I went out at sunrise to draw the water, I stepped on them; and when he saw I smiled, and gathered some into my bosom — for he was hid behind a portone watching me — he came forth and kissed me, and asked me to be his wife. But it is all changed now. Tempo passato non ci penso piu! But still — che bella cosa l Vamore — I could have loved long, yes, and borne much, Iddio lo sa; but* ” DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 235 She pointed to the fresh rose-leaves, and tears sprang into her bright eyes. “There will be a serenade to-night ,” continued she, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. “Two guitars will play sweetly before Teresina’s door when the moon rises, and she will come out on the balcony to show Pietro that she is pleased and accepts his suit. Oh, che bella cosa £ V amove e la gioventu ! ” I must introduce some more of the characters of our Rock perched up so high near the Via Numinis. We almost forget we have any relation at all with terra firma , and are inclined to try an excursion on the ambient air; but, although this heavenly altitude affects me with uncontrollable fits of longing to be off and away into the land of ideality, the rest living up here are of the earth earthly. The Contessa below thinks only of her knight — he of the Guardia Nobile, who dutifully comes, trotting on a donkey from Frascati, to visit the deploring fair — when he has spent all his money, bien compris! A little niece, some sixteen summers old, has arrived from a convent to visit her aunt. I wonder what she thinks of things in „ general, and how she will describe her aunt’s menage to the pious Sisters! Talk of Italian ladies’ progress in virtue— oh, miserere! the sun shall stand still in the heavens, truth shall become a 236 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. liar, the Ethiopian cast his sable skin, before Italians learn to practise virtue! Then there are the geese — ah! they are far more interesting than the marchesa and her super- annuated loves. Their fate is a real tragedy — those unhappy birds which wandered for years up and down in search of that “something unpos- sessed” (viz., a mossy pond, such as is seen in a shady English lane, under thick hedgerows), but, withal, quiet and uncomplaining as they increased and multiplied. They are all dead as ducats! It fell out in this wise. The Padrona Nena — she who sacrifices each afternoon on her domestic altars to the jolly Bacchus god — in a drunken frolic descended with her three attendant Furies, or rather Fates. They seized the devoted birds quietly reposing on the grass, and cast them head- long into a pool of water used to irrigate the garden — a high walled-up place, from which there was no escape. There they left them, laughing and yelling like evil spirits at the frolic. The geese, unaccustomed to the cold of the chill, un- wholesome tank, struggled to escape; plaintively they cackled, and beat their snowy wings with dumb and piteous pleadings; but in vain — their fate was sealed. No more the bright August sun would shine fox them: — no more, would they peck DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2^7 the moist scented grasses under the wide chestnut trees — no more rest under the pleasant vine-arbour in the garden where they were first freed from the encircling egg. Clotho had drawn their brief thread of life, Lachesis had turned the wheel, and Atropos, with her fell scissors, cut the slender thread. The poor geese all died a melancholy death in the cold tank. But they died not un- lamented, for their misfortunes caused such do- lorous sympathy among the children, that after shedding those bitter tears that any strong and sudden grief so readily calls to the eyes of infancy — after wreathing and garlanding the poor white- feathered corpses with flowers — they buried them under a solitary rose-bush in the garden. But away with melancholy— it befits not our cloud-home. Yesterday was a festa; the church bells rang a merry peal; little cannons exploded from the top of the rock; and squibs and crackers woke the classic echoes of Jove's ruined shrine. The contadine appeared in their snowy head- dresses, coral beads, and crimson bodices, and said their prayers to the Madonna del Tufo (of the Rock); and then a party of laughing maidens came to dance the tarantella in our rooms. Glee- some, jolly maidens these, their girlish forms already rounding into voluptuous womanhood. 238 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. Timidly they came at first, one by one, with a rough curtsey, and a “ Buon giorno , signora ” and sat down crimson with blushes. But when Elena, the fair-haired daughter of the speziale , struck the tambourine with a grace worthy of Terpsichore herself, and sent out the lusty whirring sounds that the excitable Italians love so well, and little Giuletta, who had brought an harmonicon, accom- panied her with some simple notes, then the bright- eyed girls came pressing through the door, all anxious to dance before the signora. They began — Carolina with Michelletta, sounding the merry castanets, and describing rapid circles round each other — now near, now distant — now accepted, now rejected — till at last Carolina kneels, and her partner dances round her in triumph. ’Twas a pity such eloquent dancing should have been wasted on a girl! After the dancing had fairly begun, the tam- bourine passed from hand to hand, and many a graceful measure was threaded. Maria danced fast and furiously for awhile, as became her pas- sionate nature, and stamped on the floor, and flew round and round with vehement energy; then, as if a vision of the past had suddenly ap- peared before her, she covered her face with her hands and rushed out. “ Povera Maria ” said DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 39 her forsaken partner, “ha molto sofferta ” The miller’s love came too — she before whose door the roses were strewn — looking conscious and happy, a trifle reserved, perhaps. She sat in a corner and arranged her head-dress, and smoothed her hair, thinking doubtless of the miller, and of all the pleasant things he said. After the dance they partook of wine — good vino sincero of Genzano, sweet and creamy, like champagne — and of salame and cakes; each com- ing to thank the signora for her gran bonta, and to wish her all kinds of felicity. And then the merry girls ran off; and then the tambourine was heard in the street; and then it sounded fainter and fainter as they ascended the hill, until dis- tance bore away the sound, and all was silent. Marino, surrounded by castellated walls and towers, picturesquely situated on a rocky height overlooking the Campagna, is a place I love to visit — a cosy, happy-looking spot, little suggestive in its aspect of the dark reputation it bears of being in its collective capacity extraordinarily addicted to the use of the stiletto. There is a mediaeval look about the town that fascinates me. Here an old wall pushes forward, forcing its way through the modern buildings; there an old gate- way, flanked by tottering “ towers of other days,” 24O DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. leads, perchance, up a lonely lane, where, if you value your skin, you would do well not to venture alone after the Ave Maria — that pathetic twilight hour the assassini love so well. Whenever you hear of a robbery or a murder, it is sure to have taken place about the Ave Maria . The sgras- s at ore offers up his hasty prayer to the Virgin, fumbles over his corona (for they are all wildly superstitious), and, thus fortified, plants himself, musket in hand, under the shadow of some high bridge, or clump of trees, or dark portone , from whence he can take a deliberate aim at your head, unless you will freely consent to make your meum his tuum .... else Heaven and all its saints have mercy on your soul! Marino can boast broad handsome streets, where the soft summer breezes have free leave to palpitate. There is a pretty piazza, with an an- tique fountain rich in gods and nymphs, some- what coated and obscured by moss, but still, even in their fallen condition, attractive. There is a fine mediaeval palazzo, looking down with dignified scorn on the surrounding houses. And there is a duomo with a handsome architectural facade; to say nothing of scores of pretty women wearing long white veils. No wonder the town looks mediaeval, for its history is a rare old chronicle of DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2^1 the feudal times. Volumes might be written of all the fights, sieges, and battles fought under its tottering walls. It was originally called Castri- msenium, and is mentioned by Pliny — whether favourably or not, in regard to its acknowledged fighting and cut-throat character, I have no means of ascertaining. Then it afterwards became a stronghold of the Orsini family — those powerful barons whose ceaseless hereditary feuds with the rival house of the Colonna so often crimsoned the streets of Rome with blood. Marino was to the Orsini a mountain stronghold and an impregnable fortress, from whence they could defy the thunders of the Vatican (then weakened by distance, for the terrified popes had fled into France), or the attacks of their hated rivals. In those days the walls were manned with stout German mercenaries belonging to the great companies of free-lances, more odious to the Italians than the devil himself, — days so black, and dreary, and heavy with crime, one wonders how the miserable old world contrived a to outlive them. When a ray of light penetrated this opaque gloom, it was in the person of Rienzi, that ec- centric but generous-hearted patriot, who so loved the great city which gave him birth that he endeavoured to revivify her wasted energies, and An Idle Woman in Italy. II. 1 6 242 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. plant about her dying trunk the fresh soil of free- dom. In this noble attempt to revive “the good estate ” Rienzi was bitterly opposed by the blood- thirsty Roman barons, who, like foul and savage beasts, battened on the general slaughter. The Orsini, most savage and remorseless of all, were his bitterest enemies. Giordano Orsini, expelled from Rome as a traitor to all law and order, retired to the fortress of Marino, where he was besieged by Rienzi, but the Bear of the Orsini prevailed, and Rienzi was driven back. In the following century, amid the chances and changes of war, Marino passed into the pos- session of the Colonna, who at last, after having sacrificed thousands of lives, and spread misery and annihilation around, conquered their ancient foes. “Revenge and the Colonna!” was now the cry. “The Bear” was forgotten, or only re- membered on some old frieze, or capital, or painted sign, which the rival house had not cared to obliterate. Many times subsequently the possession of this stronghold was disputed. Once it was be- sieged by Ricci, Archbishop of Pisa, one of those warlike prelates who loved plated armour better than sacerdotal robe, embroidered cope, or cup DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 243 and chalice. Again the stout fortress was attacked by Sixtus IV. But the Colonna, determined not to lose so valuable a retreat, fortified it anew with massive walls and strong towers whose ruins still remain, though overgrown by umbrageous trees and waving shrubs, which hang over the lovely valley below — a valley so narrow, so deep, so mysterious, so belted and darkened by woods, that before descending a very precipitous hill, and actually treading its cool recesses, one would never dream that it existed at all. Oh! the romantic, solitary dell, surrounded by hills broken into rocky ravines and dark fissures, all of the same ruddy sunburnt tint as the bare rocks on which the town is built. Great overarching trees of living oak, a bubbling stream that sparkles through the grass, and thick underwood mantling the hillsides unite to make it a place to dream of — cool, murmuring, delicious, while the surrounding lands are baked by the fervid sun. There is a gate beside a fountain that bursts splashing out of a wall, leading up through an overarched walk of willows to the deepest part of the glen. This is the Parco di Colonna, a labyrinth of loveliness, leading on under red rocks through wooded braes, and by lawns sown with pink and white cyclamens. After following 16* 2 44 BIARY of AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. this beauteous ravine for some time, a bluff face of tufa rock, overmantled with arbutus and acanthus plants, shuts in the path, out of whose sides the presiding deity of the cool valley, a sparkling stream, gushes forth, and falls into two shallow circular reservoirs or basins. I am par- ticular in describing the aspect of this spot, for the valley — which I would have you admire as much as I do — has a history — an ancient, time- worn history — chronicled by old Livy himself. The same rocks that shelter us, perhaps the an- cient oaks and sombre ilex trees under which I stand, and this brawling stream, rushing from the silent woods to career in light and sunshine be- yond, saw the Latin tribes assemble on the day that proud Alba could no longer shelter the con- federate nations within her stately palaces. The forty -seven tribes that formed the strength of infant Rome held their triumphant festivities on the Alban Mount, whose summit tops the distant prospect, and met for deliberation in this valley — beside this stream called the Acqua Ferentina — where, under the leafy canopy, they sat in com- mon conclave. On a certain day, when kings ruled the seven hills of Rome, Lucius Tarquinius issued orders that the Latin chiefs should assemble at the grove DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 245 of Ferentina, to confer on some matters of com- mon concern. They came accordingly in great numbers at the dawn of day, but Tarquinius de- layed making his appearance until sunset. Mean- while, the news of the day, and various topics of general interest, were discussed by the assembled chiefs as they sat by the banks of the stream awaiting the arrival of Tarquinius,- who, in thus disregarding his appointment, taught all men that he was with reason called “the Proud.” Turnus Herdonius, the chief of Aricia, was loud in his complaints against Tarquinius, and eloquently resented the affront put on them all by his ab- sence. “It was no wonder,” said he, “that the surname of ‘ Proud 9 had been given him at Rome. Could any greater instance of pride be given than by thus trifling with all the nations of the Latins, after their chiefs had come so great a distance in obedience to his summons? He surely must be making trial of their patience, intending, if they submitted, utterly to crush them, for it was plain by such conduct he aimed at universal sove- reignty.” This and much more was spoken by Turnus of Aricia. While he was haranguing the people, Tar quin himself appeared, and every one then turned from Turnus to salute Tarquinius, who was 246 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. surrounded by his lictors and attendants — a pom- pous train befitting so powerful a king. Standing forth in the grove, he apologised to the chiefs for his remissness, saying “that he was obliged to remain in Rome, having been chosen umpire be- tween a father and son;” which when Turnus understood, he was heard to mutter, “That there was no controversy between a father and son that ought not to be terminated in a few words, for that a rebellious son should suffer the conse- quences of his rebellion.” Indeed, Turnus con- tinued so indignant at the slight put upon the chiefs, that he retired from the assembly, leaving the rest in consultation with Tarquinius. Now this latter was highly incensed at seeing Turnus retire into the woods, where temporary lodgings had been prepared for the chiefs; so, being a bad and wicked man, and fresh from the murder of his father-in-law, he determined to have his life. In order to affect this purpose, he bribed some Aricians to convey a quantity of swords privately into Turnus’s lodgings during the course of the night; then, a little before sun- rise, he caused the other chiefs to be summoned in great haste, as if he had been alarmed by some extraordinary event, exclaiming, as they entered, “That his accidental delay of yesterday was surely DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 247 owing to the favour of the gods, since it had been the means of preserving him and them from de- struction, for that he had been assured thatTurnus of Aricia had formed a conspiracy to murder them all, that he alone might rule over Latium. He was told, indeed,” he artfully continued, “that a vast number of swords had been privately con- veyed to his lodging: therefore he requested all the chiefs to accompany him at once, and see if the report were true.” There was a great commo- tion among the chiefs as they listened to what Tarquin said, and they ultimately followed him to that part of the wood where Turnus lay asleep, surrounded by his guards. His servants, observing the menacing aspect of the chiefs, prepared, out of affection to their master, to oppose their ap- proach: but, being few in number, they were soon secured, and the swords which Tarquinius had caused to be concealed were drawn forth from every part of the lodging. Then Turnus was loaded with chains, and an assembly of the chiefs being called, and the swords brought down and laid in the midst, their fury became so ungovern- able that they would not even allow him to speak in his own defence, but at once commanded that he should be thrown into the reservoir of the Acqua Ferentina — Caput Aquce Ferentince — where 248 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. a hurdle was placed over him, and upon the hurdle a heap of stones; and so he was drowned. Extraordinary to say, after the lapse of so many centuries, Ferentina still remains precisely in its original state, being the bluff face of rock I have so particularly described, from whence the stream flows into a circular reservoir, much too shallow, indeed, to drown a man, unless he were pressed down by absolute force. S. W came up the other day to pay us a visit from imperial Rome. (I feel such respect and love for the dear old city, I can never men- tion it without qualifying it with a majestic ad- jective.) Well, S. W came up, and under- went quite a chapter of accidents. The horse sent to meet him, being occasionally troubled by an affection of the fore-leg, was attacked with this chronic complaint on the road, and, without the slightest intimation of his intention (which, considering the circumstances, would only have been polite), dropped poor S. W on a heap of stones. S. W , bruised, astonished, and indignant, refused to mount the treacherous qua- druped any more, and addressed himself to the journey on foot. But as the mountain road through the macchia is as difficult as the road to paradise, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 249 when he arrived, what with the fatigue, and the heat, and the bruises, he was inconsolable. The next morning it rained an Italian deluge, notwithstanding which S. W would ride (on another horse) through the forest, now damp as a sponge after the recent moisture. We told him he would have & return of the Roman fever; but our counsel was in vain. Off he went, and on again came the rain — a respectable waterspout. Hours flew by; the rain continued; but no S. W appeared — so we supposed some of the elderly English maidens abounding at L’Ariccia had taken compassion on him and housed him. Not a bit of it. Up comes a little pencil-note, saying he had taken refuge at Palazzuola, a romantic convent on the shores of the Alban Lake, and was so happy with the Franciscan monks, he didn’t intend to return till the next morning. When he came back he told us all about it. The rain driving him in, and an ominous fit of shivering supervening, the good monks were full of compassion. He was installed in the great sala looking out over the mysterious lake from a window with a balcony “ alia Giuglietta ” This room, grand and spacious as a feudal hall, was lined with pictures of founders, benefactors, popes, 25O DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. and saints — all good and holy men, whose images seemed to sanctify the solemn sala. Then they took S. W through long corri- dors lined with cells and dormitories on either hand (each bed with its little crucifix lying de- murely on the sheet) down into a beautiful gar- den, “quite,” as he said, “unreal and enchanted- looking, like fairy-land.” The cypress, “the Virgin’s tree,” that points towards heaven, grew there in thick, tangled masses: and ilex trees, and fresh oaks, and sycamores. Long broad walks stretched across the formal grass-plots, by ruined fountains where pale lilies grew, to shady groves beyond. On one side the garden was enclosed by mediaeval walls (the place is more like a for- tress than a monastery even now), castellated and turreted, and carved in quaint devices, with heavy stanchions and buttresses overhanging the track- less woods that are mirrored on the bosom of the sleeping lake. Well, on the opposite side of that antique garden, along whose front ran a lordly terrace, uprose the solemn rocks on which the building stood, moss-grown and grey with the hoary dew of centuries. There they lay, rifted and ravined, and broken into fantastic glens and crevices — here a yawning cavern, going no one could guess DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 5 I where; there a hole, as deep as Malabolge; further on, a deep, deep rift, bottomless as the everlasting pit. Such was the garden as S. W described it, with the sedate friars creeping noiselessly about, their black robes, and monkish cowls, sandalled feet and hempen girdles, harmonising, like a chord of sweet music, with the impressive aspect of that fair, sad scene. There was no end to the gentilezze of these worthy Franciscans, who, after walking him all round and about through the vine pergole and up among the leafy arbours in the rock, showed him over the establishment, the stables, the bakehouse, where a lay brother was up to the elbows knead- ing flour; the kitchen where another cowled monk was labouring among the frizzing spits, and pots, and pans; even to the savage dog that kept the gate. Then he saw the church, where they daily sang their psalms of love and praise; and, in fact, everything — ecclesiastic, mundane, domestic, ro- mantic, feudal — in this forest-home and convent- fortress. When supper was ready, the monks, twelve in number, assembled in the refectory, where stood six little tables, each table being laid for two per- sons; in the centre were bread and a bottle of 252 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. padronale wine. The superior took his station at the top of the room — an eagle-eyed, sharp-featured man in spectacles, who had an inveterate habit of putting away everything into the overhanging fplds of his right sleeve. At his little table was seated a friar from Assisi on a visit — a personage of importance; for, although the Franciscans are a begging order and ought to possess nothing, all the monks at Assisi are gentlemen and possidentis and, as such, are much regarded by their poorer brethren. When the superior had pronounced a benedicite and blessed the tables, and the monks had crossed and blessed themselves, the cena was brought in by the lay-brethren — humble, servile fellows of the “Friar Tuck” pattern, red-cheeked, jolly, cunning-looking, and withal orthodoxly smelly and dirty. These lay-brethren, never hav- ing been ordained priests like the other monks, form the ecclesiastic profanum vulgus . A priest is a gentleman, though penniless, because he is a priest, and can celebrate mass and offer the blessed sacrifice; but these — they are the oi pollio . Well — speaking after S. W , for no woman, under pain of the most horrible excommunications, can enter these doors — the cena , consisting of minestra (broth), f7'itturas or omelette, salad, roasted quails, fat and luscious, shot by Fra Felice in the wood, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 253 and fish netted by Fra Giacomo in the classic lake, was admirably washed down by wine — and such wine! Ye heathen gods! had ye then left behind a sample of Bacchus’s sparkling cup when ye fled from these your native wilds? S. W got quite enthusiastic about the wine, I assure you; and said the monks, though moderate, seemed to enjoy and value its fine flavour. One frate , enter- ing after the henedicite , kneeled on the floor before the superior, with his hands clasped; the superior hotly engaged in an argument with the possidente from Assisi, did not perceive him; so there he knelt motionless, looking like a penitent ghost come to be shriven, until at length the superior saw him, and made the sign of the cross over him, when the frate took his allotted place. After supper all the community assembled in the noble sala , the setting sun lighting up the old walls in a glowing haze. Beyond, over the sea and the Campagna, bands of gold and purple clouds shone for awhile; then the blue hills melted into grey, and the gloomy mountains darkened into black. The window was closed, the lucerna appeared, cards were brought out, and the monks played una partita with the well-thumbed packs which had afforded amusement to many a genera- tion of tonsured friars. At length, when night 254 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. was come, they made up a bed for S. W in the great sala, where he slept soundly, under the custody of those stern old images looking down from the walls — the guardian angels of the place. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 255 CHAPTER IX. A Hot Day in Rome— -Sunsets — The Tramontana— Classical Recollec- tions of Albano and Castello — The Festa of the Madonna del Tufo — Characters. People have an idea that the Italians are be- coming more civilised and eschewing the use of the stiletto; that a Bravo is a chimerical animal only existing in Cooper’s romance; that wives are virtuous, husbands faithful, and cicisbeism quite out of date and altogether ungenteel. All these charitable surmises are mistakes — I could recount various anecdotes proving the truth of what I say — but as to the murdering part, listen. There was a day last week in Rome of intense heat. I suppose this state of the atmosphere occasioned a moral delirium, for many who rose that morning blithe and gay, lay down before night on mother earth never to rise again. There was a madness abroad that day for certain. S. W and a friend were refreshing the outward and inner man by a siesta at Nazzari’s 256 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. and an ice, when their attention was attracted by much running to and fro, loud talking, swearing, and tumult — a general excitement, in fact, all tending towards the Via Babuino. They joined the crowd, and heard that an assassino had been committed in broad daylight, and that the corpse lay there. Pressing forward, they saw extended on the stones, quite dead, a lovely girl weltering in her blood, with a deadly wound in her side. They at once recognised her as a well-known model, renowned for her beauty and grace. There she lay, pale and bloody, on the cold stones, until some of the brothers of the Misericordia came (they that wear the black masks and long dark robes, and look more like mummies than men) and composed her limbs, and, laying her in a great sheet, carried her away. She had been walking with un certo amico , it seems, in the Via Babuino, when her husband passed. His ire was kindled, his jealousy aroused; he drew his stiletto and slaughtered her there on the spot where she stood; then ran away. But the certo amico , her cavalier e, ran after him, and watched and dodged him into a certain house; and when in the even- ing he came out, the said amico , having his stiletto ready hid in the sleeve of his coat, struck him down then and there, and left him lying weltering DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 257 in his blood as she had lain. Whether this valiant lover escaped or not I cannot say. That same day a man was passing in a cart through the Piazza Barberini, where Bernini's classic fountain plays in the sun. Some one crossed his path, and, being nearly run over by the carettino , gave the horse a blow with a stick. No word was spoken; but the carettiere stopped his cart, descended, deliberately drew his stiletto, and stabbed the man dead; then, remounting, drove away. So much for the effects of a hot day in Rome. We have had a series of the most magnificent sunsets imaginable. Sometimes great bands of purple and gold clasp the broad horizon in gor- geous girdles, the gold melting into the ocean in fields of glistening fire, or flaming here and there upon a distant mountain-peak, all Nature lying dark and black as a pall — a fitting foreground for this brilliant sight. Sometimes the whole heavens seem on fire — a terrible conflagration prefiguring that awful End when the earth and all that it con- tains shall be consumed with fervent heat. I have almost trembled as, standing under the pergola in our garden, I have watched the awful scene, too horribly beautiful to contemplate with aught but dread. Golden clouds, dissolving into crimson, An Idle Woman in Italy. II. 1 7 258 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. saffron, and scarlet, lay quivering and palpitating as in an atmosphere of ardent fire, save when here and there sombre masses of purple, tipped with the prevailing fire tint, bore storms and thunders in their deep bosoms. Anon the parting clouds opened into cavernous recesses of inmost glory, and the sun, an orb of liquid fire, glowed out “stern as the unlashed eye of God.” For awhile it glowed in infinite light, irradiating the sad Campagna with a wild, unearthly hue; then, dip- ping into the encircling sea, it slowly vanished, deep shadows fell fast around, and the sullen, purple, massed-up clouds turned into banks of sombre lead colour. I have seen the sky at other times completely covered with a network of purple and gold, with here and there touches and tinges as of fire, while between the parting rifts pale blue sky peeped softly out; and I have seen the vaulted firmament of a sweet heavenly blue, as it may have looked when God beheld his labour and pronounced it good. Then, after the sunsets, came a mighty wind, the Tramontana, down from the icy North, pass- ing across the snowy summits of the everlasting Alps, and bearing in its breath biting frosts from their glacier bosoms — a furious wind that tore and rent the gigantic trees, wrenched the DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 259 mantling leaves in showers from the bending boughs and thundered among the rocky caverns of our hills like a torrent of invisible avalanches. How that Tramontana wind roared and whistled about our mountain home! How it raged up at Monte Cavo ! Heaven help the poor monks ! They must have trembled in their beds, and said many an Ave in their fear. How it yelled among the tottering ruins of Tusculum, and bent and twisted the grand old pine trees that diadem its sloping woods around Cicero’s ruined portico! The mo- tionless waters of the Alban Lake swayed to and fro this wild and dreary night — those mystic waters that never listen to the enticing breath of fragrant summer. Even Nemi, too, Diana’s mirror, must have lashed its wooded sides under the in- fluence of such a hurricane. I thought of all this sitting beside the blazing wood fire on our own cheerful hearth, while the storm raged remorselessly without. It is delight- ful to sit and listen to the shrill whistling of the gale; to watch the shadows on the wall as the fire flickers. There is an exquisite sense of luxury and domestic peace and household security at such a time. There I sat; and I questioned the wind as it swept up from the far North, of many things. I asked it of a certain corner in a certain 17* 2tO DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. room which it used to love of yore, in the spring- time, when its breath came perfumed with the year's young flowers; and the answering wind, always loud and shrill, told me that strangers dwelt there .now, and that since the days of my joyous girlhood none had cared to hearken to its constant sighs in that familiar room. “Ah, wind!" cried I, “but you were false, for there you pro- phesied such pleasant things." I have endeavoured to describe the classic valley of Marino. An ascending road through a magnificent wood leads from the Acqua Ferentina towards Castello and Albano. On emerging from the wood the Alban Lake bursts on the sight, its sullen waters unruffled by a wave. In front, Monte Cavo rises majestically towards those clouds to which its Via Numinis professes to lead. To the right Castel Gondolfo stands on a grand natural platform overlooking the lake, quite embosomed in dark poetic woods. I have already said that the shores of this lake are strewn with ruins, the foundations of former nymphaeums and grottoes, while pillars, marbles, and mosaics are perpetually found among the surrounding woods. The grandest of the imperial villas was that erected by Domitian on the spot now occupied by the Villa Rospigliosi, near Castel Gondolfo. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 26 I To-day I rode all over this district, and, finding the gates of the villa invitingly open, I entered the gardens, which occupy the fall of the hill be- tween Castel Gondolfo and Albano. Long avenues of ilex trees terminate in lovely vistas over the Campagna, melting away in blue distance towards the sea, and are here and there diversified by groups of antique statues, vases, and pillars wreathed with vine and clematis. The Rospigliosi gardens boast a terrace-walk more than a mile in length, entirely formed by overarching ilex trees — a majestic avenue, fit only to be trodden by the great ones of the earth. Midway along this ilex avenue are the ruins of Domitian’s palace — indistinct masses of wall, without form and void, and wholly over- grown by ivy and other plants. Standing before those misshapen ruins, it seemed scarcely possible to call forth a vision of the palace erected by that deified monster whose reign disgraced the annals of the Flavian line; yet on this spot, and descending towards the lake, stood one of the loftiest piles that even antiquity can boast. Here were magnificent atriums; great vestibules; halls of almost fabulous extent, sup- ported by columns of the rarest coloured marbles, and adorned with Grecian statues; ceilings and walls painted in brilliant fresco that harmonised 262 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. in colour with the patterns on the mosaic floors, and were supported by cornices of silver or of gold; temples glittering with gilded plates; marble colonnades stretching through the surrounding groves; fountains of perfumed waters springing from parterres of brilliant flowers; Odeons for music and song; vast baths, where, under gilded roofs upheld by crystal columns, the cool water flowed into alabaster reservoirs; magnificent por- ticoes, leading by flights of steps down to the lake, where, beside the deep waters, grottoes and caves, decorated as tricliniums and nymphseums, were dedicated to the water-nymphs, the presiding deities of these enchanting shores. But the circus and the amphitheatre attached to the palace were most frequented by Domitian himself. Here he was constantly present, wearing a golden crown and robes of purple, and sur- rounded by the priests of Jupiter and the Flavian College. Not only men but women exhibited themselves in the gladiatorial games, and ran races at night under the glare of the torches with which the amphitheatre was illuminated. Even torrents of rain did not deter Domitian from re- maining until the conclusion; he himself frequently changed his clothes, but a positive law forbade the audience to leave their seats. The Lake of DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 263 Albano afforded an admirable locale for the naval battles in which he also delighted. Suetonius tells us that he regularly celebrated the festival of Minerva here, for which purpose he established a college of priests on the Alban Mount. Born with a mean and cowardly nature, Domi- tian, conscious of the hatred he excited, trembled at his own shadow, unless surrounded by his guards. We are told that he daily shut himself up alone in the interior of his palace, for the pur- pose of killing flies with a gold bodkin! Some- times when visiting his Alban villa, these hours of solitude were passed in wandering through the columned arcades, where, on the walls, constructed of a peculiar marble capable of bearing the highest polish, he could perceive as he walked the shadow of any one approaching from behind. Haunted throughout his life by a constant terror of assas- sination, his cowardly fears drove him to acts of horrid cruelty. One courtier was murdered be- cause he was born under a star promising imperial power; another, because he carried about with him a map of the world; another, because he had invented a lance of a new shape. Cunning and dissembling as he was cruel and remorseless, Domitian began by caressing those whom he in- tended to destroy; but his honeyed phrases soon 264 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. became sentences of death, and those who sat beside him at the same couch, and eat of the same dish, were often, after a courteous reception, ordered out to instant execution. Naturally of a robust constitution, his monstrous excesses so wasted his strength that his hair fell from his head, his legs shrunk, his body swelled, and he became so incapable of all fatigue that he was generally carried about in a litter. The only manly exercise in which he delighted was archery. It is related that when passing the summer months in these delightful solitudes, the quantity of wild beasts he shot was quite incredible. So skilful was he in the use of the bow, that taking a little slave for his mark, he would shoot arrows through every finger of his upraised hand without so much as grazing the skin. Such was the emperor who inhabited the walls under which I have been standing. Surrounded by all the splendour, riches, luxuries, and amuse- ments that the empire of the world could bestow, he lived a trembling, suspicious wretch, incapable of enjoying the present, and tormented by dreary presentiments of the future. A haunting gloom seems yet to linger around the dark trees whose branches wave over the scattered ruins; a curse, heavy and palpable, hangs about their shadows. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 265 As I looked, the spirit of the Past uprose so grim and horrible, so soiled with unutterable deeds of darkness, that I turned with horror from the fatal spot. Leaving the Rospigliosi gardens, I emerged close by the tomb of Pompey, on the regina viarum , the Appian Way, whose every stone seems alive with the history of the past. After the im- perial Caesars — those magnificent masters of the material world — perhaps no single names stand out in such strong relief as those of St. Paul and Horace, who each have left recorded in their writings the day and the hour (so to say) when they passed over its massive pavement eighteen centuries ago. The beautiful legend connecting St. Paul with the Appian Way I have already noticed. In the year 713, Mecaenas, Cocceius, and Capitonius were sent by the senate to Brundusium, in order to effect a reconciliation between Augustus and Antony, who was then besieging that city. Horace accompanied his friends, and in celebrat- ing this expedition has left a most interesting description of the journey, showing how, for the first two stages, they pursued the Appian way. (See Satire V., Book I.) I have already mentioned Albano, a propos of 266 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the delightful though hurried excursion I made there. I had now more time to view it at leisure. The modern town, a long straggling street, oc- cupies a portion of what was the imperial villa. It is, to my mind, a hot stuffy place, abounding with donkeys and vulgarity. One sees the same blase faces, the same impertinent fldneurs that haunted one on the Corso at Rome. Coming from the religious silence of our mountain retreat, it appeared to me an insufferable scene of con- fusion, dust, and tawdriness. I put up my horse at the locanda , and strolled into the grounds of the Villa Doria. An English garden, gay with flowers, slopes towards the south, while the surrounding grounds are belted with woods, where one enjoys the sea breezes wafted over the adjacent olive-gardens. A pile of ruins and subterraneous excavations in the thickest portion of the grove mark the supposed sight of Pompey’s favourite country palace, whither the devoted Cornelia bore his ashes, after he was murdered by the treacherous Ptolemy. His ruined sepulchre outside the gates of Albano I have al- ready described. Pompey, in the few peaceful intervals of his chequered life, appears to have preferred the amusements of the country to the cares and anx- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 267 ieties of the ever unquiet Forum. Plutarch, in- deed, reproaches him for leaving his friends and soldiers to rove about Italy from one villa to an- other with his first wife Julia, the daughter of Caesar, to whom he was passionately attached. Although he was considerably her senior, and not at all attractive in person, she returned his love with the utmost affection; “but,” says the shrewd old biographer, “it was the charm of his fidelity , together with his conversation, which, notwith- standing his natural gravity, was particularly agree- able.” When Julia died, Pompey came to this villa, where they' had so often resided together, to solemnise the ceremony of her interment; but the people, out of regard to him, seized on her corpse, and insisted on burying it in the Campus Martius. At Julia’s death the alliance between himself and Caesar ended, and that fatal war, destined so soon to end his brilliant career, broke out. It is related in his life that Cicero, having offended Caesar by the execution of Lentulus and Cethegus, two leaders of the Catiline conspiracy, was informed he would either be obliged to defend himself by the sword or to go into exile. In this dilemma he resolved to apply to Pompey (hitherto his friend) to act as a mediator. But Pompey, 2 68 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. then the husband of Caesar’s daughter, purposely absented himself at his Alban villa; and when in- formed by Piso, Cicero’s son-in-law, that the great orator waited without to speak to him, he, not being able to bear the sight of his former friend in such miserable circumstances (his friend who had fought such worthy battles for him, and rendered him so many important services in the course of his administration), actually escaped out of the house by a back-door. As I looked at the scattered ruins which once formed the villa, the whole scene rose vividly before me, and the idea of great Pompey escaping by a back-door particu- larly diverted me. Now I must tell you more of the vagaries of our Rocca life. We have had a grand festa — yes, indeed, a festa which has turned us all sotto sopi'a — in honour of the Madonna del Tufo. The origin of this festa is worth relating. At the top of the town a beautiful terrace-walk overshadowed by venerable trees skirts the face of the richly- wooded heights — a walk poised, as it were, in mid-air, ’twixt earth and heaven. At the end of this walk — the Corso of the Rocco — is a small church under an overhanging cliff. A stranger would stare at seeing that the altar is constructed of a great shapeless, mass of tufa-rock (which the. DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 269 people reverently kiss), and that little frescoes on the walls record the fall of this rock. Now the story goes that three travellers once passed along this road in winter. The thunder rolled through the woods; the lightning glared fiercely athwart the Campagna; all Nature was convulsed. Suddenly a portion of the rocky bank, wrenched violently from its foundation, came thundering down the cliff towards the narrow terrace-road. The tra- vellers heard the crash, and gave up all hope of life. Below was a precipice, above a mountain; no escape seemed possible. They called wildly on the Madonna — they lifted their hands in prayer — when, wonderful to relate, at the very moment that the rocky mass was suspended over their heads, the Madonna, bearing her Jesus-child, ap- peared. Ay, appeared on the very rock which in an instant more would engulf them; and lo! the huge mass was miraculously turned aside, and crashed down the fearful chasm below, leaving the travellers unhurt. In gratitude they vowed a shrine here to the Virgin Mother, where she is invoked by the name of “Our Lady of the Rock.” The rock, raised by incredible labour, now forms the altar, and is looked on, as Maria says, “come una cosa di grandissima devozione .” It is a pretty, simple church, nestling under the crags on a little 2 70 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. platform overlooking the Lake of Albano, whose waters sleep calmly below. The inhabitants all vie with each other at the Rocca who shall most honour the Virgin — their own Madonna, as they fondly call her. It is a festa known far and wide; crowds come from Rome and the environs to kneel at the shrine, and spend a joyous day in the breezy woods. When the morning came, you would have thought our little place was gone clean mad. Cannons were fired from the ruined fortress; scores of car- riages laden with gentry and holiday folks lined the roads; horsemen and donkeymen came up by hundreds; the street was all astir — such a hum of voices, such ringing laughter, such smiles and sparkling eyes on every side! Men and maidens donned their best; crimson and yellow draperies floated from the houses; the bells rang cheerily out; the band from Frascati played martial airs; garlands of evergreens festooned the walls; and torches stood ready in the streets, wreathed with flowers, to be lighted in the evening. Then came the procession winding down from the Duomo, and very pretty it looked against the dark walls of the quaint old houses. There were priests walking two and two, habited in white and red, and followed by small acolytes swinging censers; DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 7 I then came a great banner on poles painted in radiant colours; then more priests, and a huge cross made of rough wood, painfully recalling “the accursed tree;” then another great banner, which, as there was a fresh wind blowing, was very nearly ascending bodily into the ambient air, the poor standard-bearers making the drollest grimaces as they frantically called on their fel- lows to assist them. Then came more crosses and some big lanterns. The low chanting of the choir rose in solemn cadence, one group taking up the anthem , then another — a grave and melancholy music exceedingly impressive. Then clouds of incense rose in streams of rich perfume, “the sad and warning strains” falling more earnestly upon the ear; then the priests prayed with greater unction; at last, descending the hill, appeared a famous miraculous picture in a heavy, lumbering frame, raised on a kind of stand, and borne on the shoulders of a dozen men. Like most miraculous paintings, it was as dark and black as night to eyes profane. In front walked the high-priest ( archidiacono ), a grand-looking per- sonage in flowing robes, diligently reciting prayers. And then came a perfect sea of contadine, press- ing, crowding about the venerated image with eager enthusiasm; their snowy head-gear, scarlet 2J2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. bodices, golden crosses, ear-rings, and floating draperies of lace and ribbon lending life and animation to the scene. All fell prostrate on their knees as the picture passed — the pretty ladies in the balcony opposite, the ragged urchins in the streets, the handsome baker, and our fat nouveau riche landlord, who, with all his vices, professes to be a devoted knight of the Madonna. It was very impressive to watch that simple yet earnest crowd, so hushed and silent; and to listen to the echoing chants, like soft voices of guardian angels, ever and anon bursting forth in a paean of love and praise; while in front stretched the wide Campagna, trackless, boundless, like a golden sea, melting into mystic fields of loveliest blue and richest purple. After the miraculous picture came files of monks, white-robed Trinitarians, the red and blue cross embroidered on their breasts; and brown-habited Franciscans (Osservanti), with shaven crowns and hempen girdles; and two old priests leading pretty children dressed as angels, grace- ful smooth-faced things, their long, tangling hair garlanded with flowers hanging down over blue and white draperies, their small sandalled feet daintily pressing the rude stones. Such concetti as these might not be expedient elsewhere, but here in the sunny South, the land of ideality V' v DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 73 and symbolism, they are both appropriate and suggestive. After the procession had passed we sallied out to see the humours of this religious fair. Along the terrace-walk the fun waxed fast and furious. Such thousands of people, such dust, such a braying of donkeys, and such a sun! — it was altogether overwhelming. Hundreds of stal- wart young Roman peasants were there, their jackets thrown jauntily over one shoulder; and hosts of lovely girls in every variety of pic- turesque costume, rural Venuses these, village Circes, with wicked eyes and bright olive com- plexions, determined to slay no end of hearts. J Twas such a picture, with the various groups passing and repassing against the browned masses of old rock, all carpeted with graceful plants, or emerging from under the broad sweeping branches of the large chestnut trees, whose silvery trunks gleamed in the chequered shade! The noise, the laughter, the mad rushing to and fro of ponies and donkeys, regardless where they went, or whom they upset, the vendors of fruit, and pic- tures, and cakes, all screaming in inharmonious unison, were prodigious. “ Signora , tanta buona — un bajocco la libbra, frutta fresca freschissima — Ecco signora , guardi. An Idle Woman in Italy. II. 1 8 2 74 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. la Madonna , la Madonna del Tufo , il sommo miracolo, for a halfpenny — Buy the Madonna , tanta buona, for one halfpenny! — Fiori — a bouquet — sua Signoria must have a flower for the buona festa — Fiori! Ecco! Fiori ! Hi! — Ha! — Venite tutti quanti! ” The nearer we approached the church the more the Babel increased. The crowd making its way in and out was tremendous. Such kneel- ings, such kissings, such frantic mutterings of prayers around the altar, now begemmed and bespangled with gold and tinsel! Those who one instant were vociferating, and swearing, and gesticulating, as if possessed by seven devils, the next moment were prostrate on the earth, repeat- ing^^ as fast as they could gabble. Girls, who a second before had been looking such things out of their lustrous eyes, were now devoutly repeat- ing their coronas, as if such mischievous animals as men were not in existence. Naughty roaring babies, rampaging boys, were schooled into silence. The very dogs which forced themselves in with their masters behaved with orthodox propriety. Stuck up outside the church was a daub re- presenting an old woman sitting by a table piled with gold, while from beneath the table a monster, neither flesh, fowl, nor fish, glared at her with DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 75 unearthly eyes — a most hideous beast. An old blind man supported the picture, while his wife, gifted with extraordinary loquacity, repeated the story — “Di una vecchia vedovella , miserabile il suo stato, nella citta di Milano An immense crowd speedily assembled. “ Signori Cristiani, per V amor e della Madonna, give me a penny !” cried the blind man in a hol- low voice, which served as a kind of under-cur- rent, in the style of a Greek chorus, to the shouts of his wife, who repeated the wonderful adventures of Caterina and the Fantasmo. “As colt ate — eccellenze all and every one — listen while I relate the miserable story of the vedovella of Milano. One night, in a vision, she heard a voice — surely it was the voice of the diavolo him- self — and the voice said: ‘Go, Caterina, to the loteria , and choose the number 5; thou shalt win — ve lo prometto When morning was come, Caterina went, but the gold — she had no gold to buy his lottery ticket.” .... Here the woman paused. “ Cristiani , great, noble, excellent signors, for the love of our own Madonna, give me a bajocco!” groaned out her husband. A few pieces clinked in his bag. “A neighbour, sua arnica — a loving and kind 18* 276 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. neighbour, tanta Cristiana , had no gold, but lent Caterina a counterpane when she asked for it, which the wicked Caterina (ah! peccatrice!) went and pawned. Yes, pawned the counterpane her friend had lent her, because she said she was cold and povera , povera . Ahi! la poverta ! Miseri noi. Then with the money she bought the num- ber, and gained the prize — si, amici miei, Caterina gained a great prize. But her friend, quella Cristiana che non era Cristiana — having discovered by chance what had happened, possessed by the demonio (all the saints guard us from the tempta- tion of the devil!), full of envy and rage, whispered it into the ear of her cavaliere — un certo cara- biniere — who spoke and said: ‘ Maria, I know how that money is to be got.’ Then that sinner, the carabiniere , took pitch, and paint, and hair, and blood, and bones, and in an instant made him- self into a horrible Fantasmo , and at midnight, when the pale dead walk forth from their graves in winding-sheets, this scellerato ” The blind man, who had long been threaten- ing an interruption, was no longer to be ap- peased. “ Eccellenze , by the pains of purgatory, a bajocco! I will pray for you all, buoni Cristiani, seven Aves, and four Glorias. Cristiani, signori, PIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 JJ listen — I will pray — may your souls rest in peace — a bajocco — a single one. Excellent good country- men, for the sake of my wife’s fine racconto , money, per pieta /” “ Zigarri , zigarri, good zigarri!" broke in from the other side a limping beggar, thinking the moment opportune to sell his wares while the crowd was collected. But this new actor on the scene was summarily ejected by the united efforts of the crowd, now deeply interested in the orrido Fantasmo and the blind man’s wife, who fought like a cur who finds another of his species prowling on his peculiar walk. “Thanking the excellent company for the charity shown to the poor cieco my husband, and with the permesso of the society , I shall recom- mence. This wicked scellerato the carabiniere hid himself in Caterina’s room, and in the silence of the night, after making certain fearful rumor i such as the devils do in the Inferno, he spoke in these words: — “‘Caterina, Caterina, in the power of the Evil One art thou; give me the money, or I carry thee in my claws swift off to hell.’” “Ah! Cristiani , pensa ai dolori del inferno! help us, good friends — money — a bajocco /” cried the cieco . 278 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. But at this interesting moment, when all stood transfixed in horrified curiosity (especially one pretty girl sitting at a table hard by, drinking wine, who by turns flirted with a crowd of cavalieri, then, growing pale at all these images of the devil and purgatory, crossed herself devoutly), the ar- rival of a large party of American friends from Albano deprived us of the conclusion of this lamentable tragedy. By this time numerous parties had bivouacked in the woods, and were preparing to dine under the shade of the chestnut trees. The orthodox dish on this day was roast pig, that unclean animal being in some incomprehensible manner connected with the festa of the Madonna. Roast pig was selling piping hot in all directions, and very good it looked; but as we had a famous chef at home, we preferred domestic luxuries, with plates and spoons, to an Arcadian meal on the ground. In the evening fireworks were let off just under our house, and exceedingly brilliant they were — fountains of fire, lakes of sulphur emitting blue sparks, rockets for a moment mocking the mildly- twinkling stars, then Icarus-like falling back in glittering showers. We had a temple of silver, mountains of gold, and all sorts of gaudy marvels, DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 JQ concluding with a grand girandola that shot forth a world of light, popping and fizzing like an angry monster. Then calm, unsullied night closed over the moving scene; and the moon rode high, casting gigantic shadows over the vague space below. So ended the great festa day at Rocca di Papa. Our great man here is the baker, who stands all day smoking within the portone of his house, his red cap hitched on one side of his head. A jolly dog is the baker, Teresina's lover, as all the world knows, for the societa go to his house every evening to a kind of club, and drink wine and play cards until far into the night, making the little street echo to their carouse. What roars of laughter, what riotous, joyous choruses have often “murdered sleep” from over the way! Sometimes they have an accademia and really delightful music. A flute is particularly “brave” on these occasions, and sends forth the most aerial music, wafted to us by the night breezes. Then there is a guitar twanging joyous ritornelli, recalling bright Venice, with its dark, gliding gondolas, its love and its poetry. At other times a solitary song is heard. Now, could you believe that these melo- dious whispers, floating “through regions mild and calm,” are all emanations from the baker's; 28 O DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. and that when the delicious music has sighed away, there is a rude riotous chorus, and shouts of Bis and Bravo , bringing one’s poetic en- thusiasm down suddenly to zero? Such are the vivid contrasts of our mountain home — idyllic poetry and bourgeois prose. A principal character at the baker’s is the Si- cilian cavalier e, a dot of a man, made up alto- gether of a stentorian voice — a very Goliath to speak withal, who talks as fast as Figaro in a passion and thumps the table as he gives you the latest news from Rome in a quite Neapolitan shower of words. Count Dionigi, who lodges below, abominates the baker and his jovial club and looks indignant if you admire the music. Dionigi, called by the Italians Fosseficato y or the Fossil, lives at Civita Lavinia, the ancient Lanu- vium, and has never during the last fifty years, been known to change one iota — neither growing older nor younger, fatter nor thinner, but remain- ing ever the same starched little figure, with the same well-regulated grey hair. If all the world were turned into dust, not a grain would rest on his immaculate blue coat — dust and that coat are as antagonistic as the poles. Dionigi has never married. A wife would be de trop to such a male old maid; and as for children — pah! When he DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 28 1 comes to see me he makes a riverenza like a dancing-master, rises on his toes, and gracefully advancing, repeats that I am “an angel, a divinity,” with a stiff little bow at the close of each well- used phrase. Then down he sits, hat in hand, crossing his tiny knees — the funny little manikin! His exits are capital; he rises, bows, and says “he will raise the incomodo shoulders his stick, which always plays a principal part in his little drama; stands erect; bows; retreats; then bows again, repeating at each move, “/ miei rispetti — Signora bella , amabile ” — spreading his polite blessings from side to side like a priest at mass. They say Dionigi has something to do with a very romantic story, of which I am anxious to learn the particulars. Among our characters, Giuseppe della Fante, our maestro di casa f must not be forgotten; he who, according to his own account, is sprung from a decayed Roman family, has once been a soldier, and cannot accommodate himself pleasantly to his altered fortunes. There he stands at the baker’s door, cigar in mouth, with his great moustache, military cap, full French trousers, big enough to make an ordinary woman’s petticoat, and his spurs — those eternal spurs! Seeing that he never rides more than once a week, and then on 28 2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the back of a wretched pony, those spurs are a mystery to us. “Ma” as the Italians say, “fanno impressione Certainly there is some sympathetic affinity between the extinct glories of the Delle Fante line and those spurs in Giuseppe’s mind. How he chaffs with the pretty maidens skipping in to buy bread! How he gossips with the doctor and the prior e! How he patronises the carabinieri , and kicks the dirty urchins who presume to touch those sacred spurs! All this and much more you should see with your own eyes. He is a regular Italian, violent, excitable, impressionable, easily offended, yet so devoted, generous, and self-for- getting, that one really ends by admiring his very faults. Speak kindly to him, and tears spring up like dewdrops in his sparkling, brigand-looking eyes; ask him to do any wonderful thing — to ride to Rome in an hour, to scale a precipice for the sake of a flower, to hunt the woods for a favourite bird — and he rushes forth with as chivalrous a good-will as the veriest carpet-knight that ever donned a lady’s scarf. The quarrels he gets into, the imaginary battles he fights, the bloody recitals with which he regales the select audience at the baker’s — re- citals about stilettoes and pistols, encounters with banditti, gaping wounds, threats of vengeance and JDIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 283 extermination against his enemies generally — bagatelle! come vi pare! Then the adventures he has encountered (Heaven only knows whether they be romance or truth) — the grandeur of his ap- pearance on festa days, his tender care of my children, with whom, if they are merry, he romps after the fashion of an old dog lying down to be kicked — his savage ill -humour if his dignity be offended — his bursts of passion — his humble apologies — his alternate smiles and frowns, make up quite an epitome of human life. Poor Giuseppe, genuine child of the South, thou hast the vices and virtues of thy race and of thy clime, but thou hast an honest and a kindly heart! 284 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. CHAPTER X. Feast of SS. Peter and Paul — St. Peter’s Illuminated — The Girandola The Feast of SS. Peter and Paul is the birth- day of Rome. Heat and the fear of malaria have by that time driven every foreigner away — which was to me an especial recommendation. So, in the early morning, before the mid-day sun had become dangerously hot, I traversed the parched Campagna, and found myself at the Lateran Gate. Everything told of heat and a raging Italian sun. People sat pale and exhausted at the shop- doors, armed with paper whisks with which languidly to drive away the flies; little extempore fountains bubbled up on tiny tables spread with delicious pulpy lemons, and acque dolci (sweet drinks) cooled with fresh vine -leaves. Every woman and child we passed, of whatever degree, carried a fan, which she used industriously; the very beggars shook their tin boxes in one DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 285 hand, and fanned themselves with the other. All labours, trades, and occupations were carried on in the streets, which, never too wide, were now almost choked up. Shoemakers were making shoes; tailors were sitting cross-legged on tables squeezed up against their house-walls; women were cutting and stitching on low stools, sur- rounded by their gipsy-eyed progeny; girls were combing each other’s hair (often a severe test of friendship in hot weather); and men were walk- ing under the eaves with their hats in their hands, all pale, worn, exhausted. The three- legged tables outside the cafes were crowded with sleepy or sleeping men: the scarcely- awake were indulging in ices or drinks — the sleepers were lying about in the strangest attitudes; for an Italian could sleep, I believe, on one leg, if he tried. It being about noon, the street kitchens were in active operation — fish, flesh, and fowl hissing and broiling over pans of charcoal; and stands of fruit, apricots, figs, and cherries, ripe and ready to drop into one’s mouth. When we reached the English quarter, the Piazza di Spagna, great were the emptiness and the desolation. The windows in the hotels were hermetically sealed, and the doors shut. Piale’s library was a wilderness. Not a soul was to be 286 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. seen. The long flight of the Trinita steps was scorching and vacant. The little fountains at its base bubbled in an utter solitude. No groups of peasants were lounging there en tableaux . The man who does the venerable father with long beard and patriarchal garments — a special rascal; and the young man with the high-art features, who does the saints and apostles with a glory round his head; the beauty-peasant with yards of white drapery folded over her glossy braids, under which glow the impudent glancing eyes, coral beads, and gold necklace — all gone, driven out by the heat! Gone, too, was that dear little boy who sat for an angel when he was not stretching out his little dimpled hand, asking, like Oliver, for “more,” and his father, clad in sheep-skins, who, with slouched hat and ragged cloak, did the everlasting conspirator. Such is Rome in the dog-days — no life, no carriages, no sound; like the enchanted city in the Arabian Nights, all lay sunk in slumber. We descended, as the polite French say, at the Palazzo M , where apartments had been secured — a noble residence, big enough to take up one side of a square, with salons so large that people looked dim and misty at the further end. That very evening St. Peter’s was to be illuminated; DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 87 so, after fortifying ourselves with an excellent dinner, sent in piping hot in a tin box from a neighbouring trattoria , and further recruiting our- selves by draughts of refreshing Orvieto out of wicker bottles, we attained that contented and happy state of mind proper to the eve of a great festa. Evening, delicious, balmy evening, had come; the breeze swept through the streets, and the stars peeped out as we started — together with hundreds and thousands of the Pope’s undutiful subjects — for St. Peter’s. On these grand oc- casions the Ponte Sant’ Angelo is closed to the vulgar, who are obliged to pass over the Tiber into the Trastevere. Plunging into the narrow streets that lead thither, the site of the home of Raphael’s Fornarina was pointed out to me. It is now a small two-windowed house, the lower portion used as a magazine of herbs — Anglic^, the greengrocery business. While our carriage is slowly advancing through labyrinths of streets, every now and then stopped by the carabinieri (here acting as policemen), who rush upon us with drawn swords, I will tell my readers the real story of Raphael and the Fornarina. When Raphael was painting his beautiful fres- coes in the Farnesina Palace in the Trastevere, he passed daily over the bridge and through this 288 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. narrow street to his work. One day, it is said, he saw a beautiful black-haired girl, of the volup- tuous type painters love so well, bathing her white feet in the waters of the Tiber. From that hour all peace of mind forsook him, and he forgot even art in his earnest desire to be loved by her. The baker’s daughter, however, was already pro- vided with a lover, a certain fierce soldier stained with the blood of many battles, who aspired to the possession of this peerless beauty. Egidio had no refinement of soul, no “intellect of love;” but the outward charms of the girl had touched him, and he swore that if any one else presumed to approach her, he would finish him with a stoccata. Catterinella, never ^having known the delicious frenzy of love, had hitherto submitted with that grace which arises from perfect in- difference to the advances of the soldier. He often came to her father’s shop, and gossiped and smoked, until she grew used to him, and Egidio, in a manner became domesticated. But when Raphael came also, and talked, and cast loving glances out of his beautiful eyes at Catterinella, she began to detest the soldier, and to feel all the joys and pains of first love. Raphael not only rapidly insinuated himself into her heart, but with that amiability and grace which he so eminently DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 289 possessed, fascinated even the rough baker him- self. He was too much absorbed in his art to spend much time at the shop, but that very art afforded him the readiest means of advancing his suit. He asked Giuseppe to allow his daughter to sit to him for her picture; and he, though but a common vulgar tradesman, still had enough respect for the fine arts, then so generally culti- vated in Rome, to consider the request as a compliment, and to comply. But he made Ra- phael promise never to mention his compliance, both out of regard to Catterinella's fair fame, and for fear of the rough soldier, Egidio, whose blind jealousy might prompt him to commit some violence. When Catterinella first went to Raphael's studio it was secretly and cautiously, and ac- companied by her mother; but so frequent were the visits of Egidio, and so ardent his passion for Catterinella, that it was impossible for their ab- sence not to raise his suspicions. One day when they had left the shop, as they supposed un- observed, he watched them, and, seeing them enter a doorway and ascend a staircase, followed. The door was inadvertently left open. Egidio entered, and stealing noiselessly into the spacious studio, hid himself among some lumber. Unable An Idle Woman in Italy. II. 19 29O DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. to control his fierce passions at seeing Catterinella seated opposite Raphael, Egidio drew his stiletto and rushed on the painter, who, at that very instant poising his brush in the air, was intently and passionately examining the Fornarina’s features. The women, horrified at the sudden apparition of Egidio, his naked dagger and horrid looks, screamed aloud; but Raphael, unarmed as he was, rose and faced his assailant. No sooner did Egidio recognise Sanzio as the detested rival whom he was about to murder — Sanzio, whom he regarded as a deity, whom he had heard cele- brated as the very wonder of the world — than he stood transfixed, and the stiletto dropped from his hand. A few inarticulate words of excuse and prayers for pardon fell from his lips. Touched by the humane looks of Raphael, who gazed on him with a kind of pitying astonishment, Egidio endeavoured, in broken words, to explain the motives which had induced this murderous attack. He spoke of his love; he pleaded his jealousy. Then he turned towards the affrighted Catterinella, who, scared by his fierce looks, scarcely dared to raise her head, while he himself, speaking with ill-suppressed passion, implored her to be calm. He assured her he would not injure her, but he conjured her, by all she held most sacred, to tell DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2Q I him if she really loved him. Catterinella, inspired by the passionate excitement of the moment, forgot her fears of Egidio, his cruelty, his jealousy; she forgot all save Raphael — the sun under whose rays she had expanded into a new and delicious life— Raphael, the god of her idolatry, who stood pale and speechless before her. Raising her eyes to his face, she acknowledged the love she had long secretly cherished in her heart, and confessed in faltering accents that he was dear to her be- yond all other mortals. Egidio was struck dumb. Seizing his dagger, which had fallen on the floor, he rushed from the studio. Relieved from the fascination of Raphael's countenance and majestic presence, Egidio, grasping his weapon in his hand, resolved to return and murder him; but when he remembered the words of Catterinella — when he recalled those passionate words in which she had confessed her love — his resolution again changed. “Why kill him because she loves me no longer?" exclaimed he. Honour and despair strove in the breast of the savage soldier. Love, hope, life- all had passed into the possession of another, and that other a man so godlike that he could scarcely, even in the wild paroxysms of his rage, wonder at the preference. His violent nature could not endure such torture, and, in utter despair, he 19* 2g2 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. plunged into his own breast the weapon he had raised against Sanzio. As we turned into the Lungara every palace was illuminated with red lights. The immense Corsini Palace shone out brilliantly, and looked the very image of a magnificent feudal residence. Lights glittered along its immense facade, row above row to the very roof, while at intervals along the street were planted huge torches of burning pitch that blazed and flashed and cast ruddy unearthly tints on the white palace behind, while great bonfires of tar-barrels, poked up by men with long poles, flared away on the ground. Immovable in the doorway stood the porter, baton in hand — a mass of lace, badges, and cocked hat, evidently convinced that the whole dignity of the Corsini line consisted in his majestic deportment. A little crowding, some swearing, and a great amount of butting from the carabinieri , who ride full tilt at man, horse, or carriage that offends them, and we were within the colonnade of St. Peter’s, that noble colonnade now glittering with lights, whose outstretched arms seemed to clasp in one embrace all the people of the universe. Never does St. Peter’s look so beautiful as when illuminated. The magnificent building, with its encircling colonnades; its topmost cupola; its DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 293 population of saints, prophets, angels, and apostles crowding the roof; and the cross surmounting all, hangs amid the very stars, a glittering vision. It is not in the power of words to convey any ad- equate notion of St. Peter’s that night; each pillar, each arch in the mighty structure, was marked out by lines of mellowed light below, above, around, not massed in any one place, but grace- fully following the lines and undulations of the vast fabric. For awhile we contemplated what is called the silver illumination, when the lights are veiled. Exactly one hour and a quarter after the first hour of night a cannon was fired from the fort of Sant’ Angelo. The harmonious bells of St. Peter’s tolled out in response, and in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, streams of ruddy light flashed up from below into the colonnades, marking their elegant outlines, through a thousand glittering columns. What had been pale subdued light now blazed forth in flakes of ruddy fire. The great basilica was enveloped in streams of quivering brightness, its gigantic front, white as alabaster, standing out with a strange clearness on a back- ground of flames. Great vases of burning pitch, provided as if by enchantment, suddenly burst out between every column in the vast colonnade; 2 94 DIARY of an IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. every statue burned with a living light, that rose up and flared, as the wind caught the forked flames, like a universal conflagration. The cupola especially, beautifully relieved by the dark sky be- hind, flashed out in a blaze of the most dazzling splendour; while above, surmounting all, the radiant cross shone with indescribable brilliancy — a brand as it were snatched from heaven. It was beautiful to see the gushing fountains reflecting thousands of lamps in their pure water; shooting up in liquid pillars to fall back a foamy mass of molten silver; cooling the air and sending out clouds of delicious spray. Then the bells broke forth in merry chimes, deep-toned and musical; military bands struck up in the piazza; and the cannon from Sant’ Angelo boomed distinctly above all other sounds. Next morning (St. Peter’s Day) we rose very early, to attend high mass at St. Peter’s Church, the ceremonies being precisely similar to those which take place at Easter, with this notable dif- ference, that Romans, not English and Americans, form the congregation. Every one flocked to the all-embracing arms of that great piazza, and we soon fell into a long line of carriages slowly ad- vancing towards the basilica. Again we crossed the muddy Tiber, its volume much lessened by •2S1-2ZH OITHHA ONVIZII DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2 95 the rainless summer. The houses and palaces bordering the river, always of a peculiarly mellow warm tint, now looked baked with the fierce heat. Clouds of fine small dust rose in the light summer breeze. Altogether, it was a great relief to be again engulfed in the narrow, shady streets of the Trastevere. Every passage and cranny leading to St. Peter’s was choked and overflowing with an ever-increasing multitude. They came in boats; they came in grand equipages; in humble baroccini; on foot; to worship at that ^magnificent shrine. Streams of people spread over the piazza, and, mounting the steps, were engulfed by the great portals. We entered. The mellow light of morn- ing subdued the too glaring details of the florid architecture. The church was in grand gala, walls and pillars draped with red and gold, assimilating harmoniously with the brilliant coloured marbles and mosaics. The cupola, rising like a firmament, shone in the slanting rays of the morning sun — angels, saints, and prophets emblazoned in bright colours on the golden frescoes. Beneath, the altar was spread with the costliest vessels of gold, cha- lices, cups, salvers, and crosses carved by the hands of Cellini or Bramante, all radiant with sparkling jewels. On either side were enclosures prepared for 2 g6 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. the ladies, who carne in black veils and dresses de rigueur; but instead of the irreverent Easter crowd rushing, pushing, laughing, and talking, as if in the crush-room of the opera, the seats were thinly occupied by a sprinkling of ladies, whose devout looks showed that they came to pray, and not to stare. The tribune behind the high-altar was hung with crimson, and to the left stood a throne prepared for the Pope. Down the central aisle an avenue was formed by the civic guard and the quaint Swiss soldiers, through which his holi- ness was to pass. We were scarcely settled when a hush and a general motion of expectation an- nounced that the Pope had arrived at the central door. Slowly and silently the magnificent proces- sion passed up towards the altar. First came the Swiss guards, and the chamberlains in red silk. Then Pius, seated on the “gestorial” chair or throne, glittering with gold, purple, and crimson, wearing his triple crown, and habited in robes of white. Over him was borne a dais of crimson and gold, while beside him were carried two great fans of peacock’s feathers, typical of immortality. There is a look of Eastern magnificence about these fans extremely striking. The Pope, calm and majestic, dispensed blessings as he passed with the air of one wrapped in deep devotion. He DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 297 was followed by the entire Sacred College, all aglow with crimson and guipure lace, a sight cal- culated to break any lady's heart on the score of misplaced finery. Chaplains, secretaries, and chamberlains (mere minnows to these ecclesias- tical Tritons) fluttered in their rear, followed by files of the superbly-dressed Guardia Nobile, all picked men, tall, graceful, handsome; disciplined in the encounters of social warfare and “ carpet knighthood;” now superb in glistening helmets, short scarlet mantles, and a generally classic air, reminding one of Pollio in Norma , whose social line of conduct, as well as outward costume, they are said to emulate. The Pope was now seated on this throne, and the mass began. It is to my mind a fatal want in the otherwise noble ceremonial of the Papal mass at St. Peter's that the music is entirely vocal. Part-singing, however perfect, is monotonous. The Pope's famous choristers are always invisible, caged like singing-birds, in a golden-latticed gallery. The Gregorian chant, although admirable as mediaeval music, becomes wearisome after two hours' dura- tion, and the mass is long to exhaustion. The Pope stands, walks, and kneels, sometimes at his throne, sometimes at the high-altar, sometimes alone, and sometimes surrounded by the cardinals. 298 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. One wonders how he can remember such constant changes, unless one happens to know there is an officer attached to the Papal court whose sole business it is to prompt him, and to keep him and the cardinals “well posted up” in their daily- duties — what dresses to wear, what to “eat, drink, and avoid.” Sometimes there is a pause, the music ceases, the Pope and cardinals sit enthroned (Anglic^, rest themselves), and the golden vessels are moved and removed on the high-altar. During one of these pauses I looked round at the groups near the high-altar (where the mere vulgar crowd is not allowed to penetrate) and wondered at the curiously mediaeval aspect of the scene. Here were party-coloured Swiss guards, red, yellow, and black, with steel caps and corslets, com- manded by officers in complete armour of polished steel inlaid with gold, some actually wearing steel- chain tunics over crimson velvet, with golden helmets, so that when two or three whispered to- gether they instantly formed a picture for Maclise — Papal chamberlains, picturesque in high Eliza- bethan ruffs, doublets, gold chains, orders, long hose, and rosetted shoes; regular Sir Walter Raleighs, and, like him, remnants of a century when Spain ruled European fashions as France does now — priests breaking the mundane pageant DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 2QQ here and there, and reminding one of the mass still proceeding (which, by reason of its length and pauses, seemed over long before it really was), in every kind, colour, and variety of gold- embroidered vestments — officers in dark uniforms, and officers in white uniforms, diligently keeping back masses of Roman peasants, gaudy as butter- flies as to body and petticoat, and quite laden with chains and crosses, earrings and flowers, gold, silver, and pearls; many of them wondrously handsome women. To all these add rows of black-veiled ladies sitting on either side in the reserved seats, backed by the many-coloured walls rich with mosaics and variegated marbles up to the very cupola, where, under a glare of light, the four gigantic Evangelists in the spandrels of the arches float in a haze of golden sunshine. Again we settled down to the mass. The Pope advanced to the altar, denuded of mitre and royal trappings, and wearing a plain white dress. The music ceased; the attendant prelates retired; every knee was bent; every head bowed in seem- ing devotion. Alone on the steps of the altar stood that venerable old man, his hands clasped over the elements, his eyes turned to heaven. While he communicated, the silence was positively awful. Then, stealing around, came the soft 300 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. sounds of the silver trumpets, low and plaintive, at first, as wailing spirits, then swelling forth in a hosanna of joy and praise. The Pope, holding in his hand the host, turned to the four quarters of the globe. The Agnus Dei was chanted; the Pope resumed his robes and retired as he came, bestowing blessings around; and the crowd, ebbing and flowing like a human sea, cast its vast waves through every open door into the piazza beyond, where the burning sunshine caught and absorbed them in its rays. We, too, with these thousands of living victims, were ruthlessly clutched by that burning monster, the sun, waiting to devour us the instant we left the kindly shelter of the cool sanctuary. But the celebrations of Rome’s great festa to her patron saint were not yet over. Magnificent pleasures were yet awaiting us in the Piazza del Popolo at the first hour of night. The piazza is now densely filled. The fountains and obelisks rise out of acres of pleasure-loving Romans; gal- leries are erected in the porticoes of the twin churches opposite the Flaminian Gate. Every win- dow is filled, and every eye turned in expectant eagerness towards the Pincian Hill, where amid lofty terraces and sculptured trophies, gigantic statues and dark ilex woods, the girandola (fire- DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. 301 works) is to be exhibited. Meanwhile, the usual fanning and consuming of ices and of sweet drinks goes on among the Roman princesses, seated on a raised estrade, looking as haughty and un- pleasant as any classical Cornelias or Volumnias that history could furnish. The herald cannon sound, and up fly millions of rockets, descending in blue, red, purple, and yellow stars. When these brilliant comets allow us to look round, the summit of the Pincian is transformed into a great temple of fire, enclosed by walls of quivering crystal, broken by niches filled with fiery statues — a temple such as Vulcan might have reared to Venus in the infernal shades. Now volleys of deafening cannon rattle till one’s ears ache, and, behold! overlapping streams of liquid fire rush down the steep sides of the Pincian into the piazza, and mysteriously dis- appear in showers of golden sparks, which the crowd struggles to catch; but, lo! they are gone! Then we have an interviezzo of rockets and Catherine- wheels, the cannons all the time out- doing one another; and now a burning palace appears, with great halls and galleries, and end- less arcades and colonnades, in fiery perspective, red with palpitating flames. Such a palace might have suited the ghosts in Vathek, condemned to 302 DIARY OF AN IDLE WOMAN IN ITALY. wander hither and thither for ever through bound- less vaults of fire, clasping a flaming heart under folds of shadowy drapery. I could not tell all the wonderful tricks and changes of these marvellous fireworks. The en- chanter Merlin never terrified his enemies with more surprising displays of his transforming art. As a final triumph, the whole Pincian became the crater of a horrible volcano, belching forth fire and flames, while the roar of cannon mimicked the thunders of the labouring mountain. Red lava-streams rushed down in every direction, and millions of rockets shot up into the heavens, to fall back bright and glittering, like planets fallen from their spheres. A moment more, and all was over. The moon shone down serenely in a soft twilight, casting pale lights on the statues and terraced galleries, as if all else had been a disordered dream. And here my Diary ends. I am suddenly called back to England, and “the Idle Woman ” (not so very idle after all) lays down her pen and becomes “the woman of the period,” with really nothing to do! THE END.