"fgivetkiftiBiofa
for- the foiinding of .a. College in this Colony'

Deposited by the
Linonian and Brothers Library

CHRIST'S FOLK
ET TEE APENNINE.

REMINISCENCES OP HER FRIENDS
AMONG THE TUSCAN PEASANTRY.

BY
FEANCESCA ALEXANDER.

EDITED DY
JOHN RUSKIN, D.C.L.,
Honorary Student of Christ Church, and Honorary Fellow of
Corpus Christi College, Oxford.

* " New York :
JOHN WILEY & SONS,
IB ASTOR PLACE.
1888.

Press of J. J. Little & Co.
Astor Place, New York.

Ldk

¦sssf*'

'&

PREFACE.

Since first I received from Miss Alexander the
trusts involved in the editorship of the "Story of
Ida" and "Songs of Tuscany," she has been in the
habit of writing to me little sketches or stories of
her peasant friends, as they chance to visit her,
either, as it often happens, for the simple pleasure of
talking to her, or silently watching her at her work,
— or, as it still oftener happens, when they seek her
counsel in their troubles, or her sympathy in their
good fortune. Her door is never closed to them ; the
drawing in progress advances under her hand with
the same tranquillity through the children's babble
and the mother's boast; and time is never wanting if
they need her attentive care, or active help. Her let
ters usually contain at least a page or two of chat
about the visitors who have been claiming her imme
diate notice, or some reminiscence of former passages.

IV PBBFACB.
between them, which the affectionate historian, finding
me hardly less interested in her favourites than she
was herself, and interested in the way she wished,
gradually completed and developed, until now I find
under my hand a series of word-portraits, finished as
tenderly as her drawings, and of even higher value in
their accuracy of penetration, for the written sketches
contain little gleams of gentle satire which never oc
cur in the drawings. And it seems to me that the
best Christmas work I can do this year, (my own
fields of occupation being also in great measure closed
to me by the severe warning of recent illness and
the languor it has left,) will be to gather out of this
treasure of letters what part might, with the writer's
permission, and without pain to any of her loved
friends, be laid before those of the English public
who have either seen enough of the Italian peasantry
to recognise the truth of these ritratti, or have re
spect enough for the faith of the incorrupt Catholic
Church to admit the sincerity, and rejoice in the
virtue, of a people still living as in the presence of
Christ, and under the instant teaching of His saints
and apostles. I shall change no word in the familiar

PREFACE. V
language of the letters, nor attempt any other ar
rangement than that of merely collating the passages
referring at intervals to the same person, nor even
this with any strictness. For it is one of the pleas
antest features in the tenor of these annals to have
our friends coming to see us again at their different
ages, and in their added dignities of possession or
position. The story with which I begin is, however, a little
different Ifrom the others, having been written for me
by Francesca in consequence of my complaint that
the "Story of Ida" was too sad, and conceded too
much to the modern feeling of the British public
that people who are quite good have nothing to do
but to die. The story of Polissena may perhaps
never reach the same place in the reader's heart; but
it is iu the depth of it far more bravely and widely
exemplary. Beantwood, SOtA November, 1886.

CONTENTS.

I. The Peace of Polissena
II. "Pensateyi Voi I"

IV.

III. The Mother of the Orphans.

The Nun's School in Florence —
I. The Nun's School in Florence
IE. Polissena "In Vena" .
III. Francesca's Bee
IV. Enrichetta's Nightingales
V. Rosita and Angelina
VI. Into Good Hands . . .
VII. Rivalta 
VIII. St. Mark Still Preaches
IX. Enrichetta's Charity . .

V. "Addio, Cara!"—
I. Kindness of the Wild West .
II. Rossini's Return to Florence
III. The Love of the Duomo
IV, The Locanda at Bassano
V. The Patriarch of Venice

PAGE 3
39 59

101109110
113 113
118122129133139
141144147
152

Vlll

CONTENTS.

VI. The Armenian Ida
VII. In the Dark Valley
VIII. "Addio, Cara!" .

VI. Lieti Andiamo— I. The Knitting for Cesira.
II. The Story of the Savings Bank .
III. Rosita, and Giacomo Boni .
IV. The Story of Santa Rosa
V. The Doge's Daughter .
VI. How St. Peter Lost his Temper .
VII. The Story of the Bishop of Verona
VIII. Lieti Andiamo ....

PAGE 158 161
165

173 177181
186189191195
199

CHRIST'S FOLK.

i.
THE PEACE OF POLISSENA.

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA.

Seveeal years ago — I should think about twelve — •
I used to see a party of three young people, strangers
at Abetone, working in the woods, and they attracted
my attention, because one of them was a girl who
shared in all the boys' work, and seemed to take the
general direction of whatever was done.
They used to lodge at night in the house of old
Margherita of the Cima, and her blind son Fortunate ;
and as I was in the habit, while Margherita lived, of
going often to see her and listen to her stories, I
soon made acquaintance with the young strangers.
The girl, Polissena, was the'i apparently about four
teen or fifteen years old, Bid she looked poor, and
not very strong, and she was not in the least pretty,
only she had a pretty smile, and her manners were
gentle and modest. The two boys, one a little older

4 cheist's folk.
and the other a little younger than herself, were
her brothers; their father had lately died, and Polis
sena, being the energetic one of the family, had
quite naturally stepped into his place as head.
What I have now to tell about her became known
to me little by little, in the course of all the years
that have passed since ; and though her life is one
of few events, I think it is worth writing down, if
only for the reason that she seems to me, taking her
whole life together, to be the happiest person whom
I ever knew.
This morning I have had a visit from her, and
have been asking her many questions about herself;
and her answers to them, and what I have heard of
her from others, will enable me to tell the story
connectedly. One question I could not ask her: I
know that away somewhere near the beginning of
Polissena's fife there was some terrible tragedy; but
I do not rightly know what it was.
The neighbours call her "La Bruciata," and she
bears the mark of some frightful accident. One of
her hands has been so injured by the fire as to have
hardly the shape of a hand at all, so that she has

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 5
been cut off from every kind of "woman's work;"
she cannot sew, nor knit, nor spin; nobody would
take her for a servant, nobody will ever marry her.
And I have known some, less afflicted than she, who
have lived on charity, or been burdens on their
families. But she began, when a very little girl, to
share her brothers' work; and used to go with them
into the woods to collect weeds for the horses, or
wood for the house.
Her father went trapelo, as they say here: that
is, he lived at Ponte a Cutigliano, just at the foot
of the steep ascent to L'Abetone, and he kept one
or two large strong horses, which could be fastened
to any wagon or carriage, in front of whatever horses
there might be already, and would help drag it to the
highest part of the road ; the owner walking along
beside them all the way.
When Polissena's father died, she used to go trapelo,
taking turns with her elder brother; the great, strong
horses would obey her voice perfectly.
As she said to me this morning, when I asked her
how the horses all came to be so obedient:
" My brothers and I like our horses, and take good

6 chbist's folk:.
care of them, and never beat them; and the horses
know, and will listen to everything we say. Some of
the barocciai here beat and kick their horses ; I cannot
bear to see them ; and the horses will not let them come
near them if they can help it : horses know, just the
same as Christians, when people are good to them."
She used to feed and take care of the horses, and
at other times woidd go and load wood with the
men ; indeed, I had to wait for several days before I
could have a visit from her, because she and her
brother had an engagement loading beans. She has
passed her life doing men's work of the roughest
sort, and must, I should think, be often in the
roughest sort of company; and I should have sup
posed that if anything would take all the womanli
ness out of a woman, it would be such a life as that.
But now I come to just what I wanted to say
about Polissena, and what some one else will have to
explain, for I cannot: her strange rough life has
neither injured her, nor made her unhappy. She is
singularly gentle and refined in manner, and I should
think in character; never feels herself degraded by
her work or her surroundings, or envies other women

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 7
who are, or seem to be, less unfortunate; — indeed, she
would be very much surprised if she should hear that
any one considered her unfortunate at all.
People call her "piuttosto bellina," yet there is not
a good feature in her face, and sun and wind have
made her complexion more like that of a sailor than
a woman : there is really nothing good-looking about
her, excepting a graceful though rather meagre little
figure, and white regular teeth; she has a pinched,
poverty-stricken face, as of one who has suffered in
childhood. And yet people like to look at her ! She
does look good, and kind, and truthful, and I can see
that she grows better-looking with time, as very good
people usually do, and there is a certain placid hap
piness in her face, which makes it very pleasant to
look at, in spite of its plainness. She has the softest,
sweetest voice that ever was given to a woman, and
much grace of manner. This grace, indeed, is com
mon to a great many of the mountain women, but
Polissena has something more, in her real kindness of
heart, and interest in all those about her. She is not
a great talker, being too busy for gossip, but when I
do have a chance to talk with her, she always says

8 cheist's folk.
something that I like to remember. If she asks a
favour of any one, she always asks it "Per amor
mio !" and such an appeal, made in the full confidence
that everybody loves her, just as she loves everybody,
seldom fails.
I should have supposed that her life would have
been the harder to her for the very reason that she
is so very "womanly" in taste and character, so fond
of everything pretty and peaceful. But the womanly
side of her nature finds an outlet in her love of flow
ers. In the steep hill-side garden behind her house,
where she raises beans and potatoes for the family,
and does more work, it seems to me sometimes, with
her one available hand, than any two men with a
good pair of hands each, Polissena has her flower
garden, — quite an "institution" in that part of the
country, — where she raises a great variety of really
beautiful flowers. I ought to know something about
it; for every now and then some passer-by leaves a
basket at our door, and when I open it I know in a
minute who sent it. First a layer of chestnut leaves,
to keep out the sun, and under that a pile of flowers
laid carefully, so as not to hurt each other; splendid

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 9
roses and carnations, and other choice flowers, and
with them some of the more beautiful of the wild
flowers that grow about Cutigliano ; and under these
the basket half full of beans, or cherries, or new po
tatoes, as the case may be, with always a little bunch
of sweet herbs for the soup ; — really a valuable pres
ent in this place, where nothing is to be bought.
r I asked her if the men among whom she was
obliged to work were never uncivil or profane. She
said that they had never been uncivil to her ; that
they would not be so to any girl who was quiet and
minded her own business; but she acknowledged that
they were often profane. " I wonder," she said,
"how they can speak bad words of the Almighty, as
they do, and then, as soon as they are in any trouble,
be asking Him to help them. But of course they
have no one else to go to. Who else can help us ?
It is just as if I should abuse you and call you
names, and then when I wanted something, come and
ask you to give it to me. I am sure you would not
give me anything. God does help the people who
abuse Him, because He is so good ; but I think that
He must like better to help the people that love

10 cheist's folk.
Him." I said to her, "You seem to love Him."
She answered, "Oh, yes, of course I love Him, be
cause He has been so good to me" (with a little em
phasis on the "me," as if she hardly supposed He
could be quite so good to other people). "He gives
me such good health, and He almost always gives me
what I want if I ask Him, and He has helped me so
often when I was in trouble !" I asked her if she
never felt it hard to have to do such heavy work.
She smiled, and said, "Oh, but it is such a pleasure
to work when one has good health. I do not think
there is anything else so pleasant as working ! My
sister — do you not know her ? She is larger than I,
and a great deal prettier, but she is not so strong,
and she cannot do the sort of hard work that I can :
she stays at home and helps my mother, or she goes
to pick berries at the Cerchietto. But if she should
have to go for berries to the Sassi Scritti, as I have
to, sometimes, she would not be able to bear it. She
thought of going to service at Pistoia, but we cannot
bear to part with her, and really there is no need of
it, for we have everything quite comfortable at home,
and enough for all our wants."

the peace of polissena. 11
I asked her what she meant by the Sassi Scritti,
and she gave me quite an interesting account of them,
which I will give as nearly as possible in her own
words. "Up over Pian degli Ontani there is a mountain,
very hard even for me to climb, that they call Sassi
Scritti, because the rocks up at the top of the moun
tain have words cut in them. I cannot read them,
none of our people can. It is a different sort of
writing from that which we know, but very beautiful
to look at; and they say that the words were cut
there by people who lived a very long time ago,
nobody knows how long.
" I go there sometimes for blueberries, in the sea
son when the dealers come up from Pistoia, and other
places on the plain, to buy them ; you know that they
buy blueberries to make wine. One day I had gone
there with a large party of people; we had climbed
a great way, and picked a great many berries, when
there came up a great storm, but really a terrible
storm, with thunder and lightning, and a deluge of
rain; so that we had to leave our berries and only
think of saving ourselves. We were running toward

12 cheist's folk.
some trees, thinking to take refuge under them ; but
there was an old man among us, a very good old
man, and we generally did everything that he said;
and he told us that we must not go under the trees,
because the lightning would strike there, if it did
anywhere ; but that he would take us to a safe place.
Then we climbed a little more, and he brought us to
a place where the great rocks were piled together,
and made a sort of cave, and he told us to go in. I
was frightened at first — it was a beautiful place, but
strange and fearful-looking, and I thought perhaps
the lightning would come in after us; but he said
there was no danger.
" So we waited there a long time, with the storm
going on outside, and I looked at the rocks about
us; they were all written with those strange words
that none of us could read. But you cannot think
how beautiful it all was! And late in the day, after
the storm had cleared, the old man said :
"'We have lost our day's work; but if you like to
come with me I will show you something worth
seeing ! '
"Then he made us climb just a little farther, and

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 13
brought us to the crest of the mountain, and then he
did show us something beautiful ! Only it was all
so strange ! I never saw anything like it in my life !
The land was spread out flat like water — I thought
at first it was water. And far away, on this level
land, I saw something white, as if a strip of white
cloth had been laid on the ground; and the old man
told us that was Florence!"
I asked Polissena to tell me a little about her
family. She said that her eldest brother, whom I
remembered having seen years ago, had lost his life
in Sardegna.
"He went several years ago to Sardegna," she said,
" and he had great fortune there. He entered the
service of a very rich lady, who employed a great
many workmen; and she liked my brother very
much, and set him over the other workmen, and
used to send him to pay them at the end of the
week. And people knew that he had the money to
pay the workmen, and they formed a plan to rob
him. One pay-day they lay in wait for him at a
lonely part of the road which he had to pass, and
they fired upon him as he went by upon his horse,

14 cheist's folk.
and so he died. You can imagine what a grief this
was to all of us, to have him die so far from us,
and in such a way! My poor brother — he was so"
good! We had not seen him for two years, but all
the money that he earned he used to send home to
my mother. The people who killed him did not
gain anything by it after all, for he had sent the
money that day for the workmen by another hand."
By this time, seeing that her eyes were full of
tears, I tried to lead her to speak of her mother and
of her two younger brothers. I told her that it must
be a great comfort to her mother to have a daughter
who would work for her, and take care of her as she
did. " Oh," she said quickly, as if she did not like the
idea of her mother being under obligation to her.
" But my mother is so good ! She is so good to me,
and you cannot think how happy we are together!"
Her second brother, who has some employment
out of the house, is married, and lives at Pian degli
Ontani; Polissena is a little anxious about him and
his young wife. She says: "I hope the good Lord
will take care of them, and guide all their affairs

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 15
for the best, but I never can see how they are
going to live. I love my sister-in-law; really I love
her in my heart, but I cannot understand her."
I asked her what it was that she found difficult
of comprehension in the character of her brother's
wife. She thought a little, for she is not used to
putting her thoughts into words, then she said:
" She is poor, and I rather think she does not like
to be poor; and she wants to behave as if she were
rich : and you know if God has made us poor we
must live like poor people. She does not like to
work: I think she makes a mistake, I find work
such a great pleasure, but of course people cannot all
feel alike."
And now I will end this story, which is growing
a great deal too long, by telling what she told me
about an illness which this brother had, and his
wonderful recovery, a year or so before his mar
riage. "My brother, the one who works for a master,
had been travelling a long way with the horses,
and he was very warm and tired. When night came
on he lay down and slept under the open sky, on

16 cheist's folk.
the damp ground; it was a cold night, and he took
an illness which almost brought him to his grave.
The doctor gave him over, the priest came and gave
him the last sacraments, and we were expecting him
to die every hour, when it pleased the Lord to give
him back to us in a very wonderful way. He was
lying insensible, as we thought, breathing very slowly,
and he looked like one already dead. The evening
had come, and they all said he would not see the
morning ; the priest was waiting to help him with
his prayers at the last moment, and a neighbour had
come to stay with him through the night, for my
mother could not stay in the room. I went in to
look once more at my poor brother, and the priest
was just telling me that it was all as good as over,
he would never revive again; when, as I bent over
his face, he opened his eyes, and I saw that he knew
me. And he said, in a voice so faint that I could
hardly hear it, 'Stay with me.' Then his eyes closed
again, and I thought, 'I shall die too.' But I would
not leave him, and I sat down by his side. I sat
there a great while! After a long time the priest
and the neighbour went away for a while (they used

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 17
to go out into the air sometimes for fear of con
tagion), and I was left alone with my brother.
While I was alone with him his breathing changed;
he began to draw long breaths with pauses between,
as if they were the very last. And I — I suppose I
was out of my head. I did not rightly know what I
was doing, but it was that feeling that I must do
something. I took up a bottle of vinegar that was
on the table, and bathed his forehead with it. As
soon as I had done so, the priest and the other man
came back again. They came to look at him, and
they began to say, 'His forehead is wet!' Then I
told what I had done, and they were very angry
with me: the priest scolded me well! But my
brother opened his eyes, and he said, ' Polissena,
what have you done to me, that you have brought
me back to the world?' Afterwards he said, 'Did
you see me when I made you a sign to pray for
me?' But the end of it all was, that in a few days
from that time he was well and about again !"
I asked Polissena if she had understood her
brother's sign, and if she had been praying for
him. She blushed a little, and dropped her voice,

18 cheist's folk.
as she said, " When I was alone with him I knelt
down by the bed, and said the ' Santo Yerbo ' three
times over. That is a prayer that obtains a great
many good answers, they say it hardly ever fails."
I asked her to teach me the Santo Yerbo ; and
she then recited to me, with much devotion, a string
of doggerel rhymes, alluding to several sacred events,
but without a word of anything that could be called
prayer, from beginning to end. " But you must say
it three times, you know," she said, as she came to
the end. I thought that I might have said it thirty
without its doing me any good.
So I asked her if that was all she said, " because,"
said I, "you do not ask for anything with that
prayer." She answered, " I say to the Lord, ' Do
please give what I need so much, 'per amor mio ! '
Of course He knows all about it, so there is no need
of saying more than that."
About that time Polissena thought she must go
home, where she was wanted to put some sticks to
the beans; but as she turned around at the door to
take leave of me, with her peculiar modest grace, I
found that I had quite come round to the neigh-

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 19
bours' opinion that she was "piuttosto bellina,"
myself. I think, although I tried hard to give a faithful
likeness, that the picture gives no idea of what is
best in her face ; her features are like what I have
drawn, but her face, when she speaks, lights into
great brilliancy. While drawing her, I learned sev
eral things more about her. To my surprise, I find
that she knows how to read very well, though she
has never been to school: this is the account which
she gave me of her education :
"When I was a little child I used to be a good
deal in the house of some neighbours, who were
quite rich people. The father wished very much that
his daughter, who was a very pretty girl, and much
older than I, shoidd learn to read, and he paid a
master to come to the house and teach her. But
she would never attend to her lessons, and used to
try her master's patience until he hardly knew what
to do. The truth is, she was in love ; and her lover
(whom she afterwards married) was always coming in
to talk with her, and so she did not care about the
reading. The master used to say : ' What a pity you

20 cheist's folk.
will not learn, when your poor father pays so much
to have you taught!' But she would not mind what
he said, and so, as he had nothing to do, he used to
say to me, ' Little girl, don't you want to learn ? ' I
was only too well pleased, and he taught me to read
very well."
I asked her what books she had, and she said,
"One or two books of prayers, and the 'Yia del
Paradiso.' "
I do not think she needs that last book very
much; it seems to me that she knows the "way to
heaven" already, and is walking in it straiter than
most of us do. Her faith is so great, and her con
science so clear, that she has no fear for this world
or the next.
She says : " God has given us death, but He has
given us heaven too !" After thinking a little, she
added : " He wants us to deserve it ; but then, there
are so many to pray for us. You know up in
heaven there are so many angels ! And all the peo
ple who do no harm, and never speak evil of their
neighbours, the angels pray for them. Besides, we
can pray for ourselves, and ask God to give us what

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 21
we want in the other world, just as we do when we
want anything here, and He will be sure to give it
to us ! Up in heaven, they say, we shall have always
music and singing; I suppose they will have all good
songs, not like a great many that one hears about the
country here ; perhaps the music will sound some
thing like the church bells ; they say those are the
Lord's voice!"
I asked her about her brother who married the in
comprehensible young lady who does not like to
work. She said, " They are doing very well ; my brother
likes work well enough for both of them ; he is in
Sardegna now ; he has not come home this summer,
and he sends all his money to his wife at Pian degli
Ontani." (Beally I think this may be called an unselfish at
tachment — to live all the year round in Sardegna, at
the risk of Maremma fever, and never see the object'
of his affections, but content himself with the happi
ness of working to maintain her in idleness !)
I wanted to buy some potatoes of Polissena, but
she refused to let me pay for them, saying that I

22 CHEIST'S FOLK.
had bestowed too many favours upon her, and that
I must take them "per amor mio," as she always
says. I told her that I could not remember having
done anything for her; to which she replied with
much solemnity, " but the Lord will remember."
When I pressed her for an explanation, I found
that she alluded to my having paid her a moderate
price for some plants, which I bought of her when
we came here in July. "I bought a bag of meal,"
she said, " with that money ; and we have enjoyed it
so much!" She told me that a lady, who passed the
summer months near them, had wished to take her
for a servant to sweep the house and draw the water.
" I was sorry not to go with her," she said. " She
was such a sweet good lady ! But when I thought
of my mother, I knew that I could not leave her;
and when my mother heard of it she said, 'If Polis
sena goes, we may as well all go.' "
I hope I have not tired you with all these" little
particulars, which do not seem to amount to any
thing; but you will understand, I never know
exactly what you may think of consequence and
what not; and so I generally tell you everything

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 23
or at least everything which I care about myself.
And I have come to care a good deal about Polis
sena, and I feel as if I always gain something when
I am with her. Sometimes I think it is — you
remember that our Lord spoke of certain people
whom He would make Eis abode with — well, some
times I think that perhaps she is one of those, and
that He is always with her ; she seems like it.
August 27th, 1876. — I wanted very much to write
this morning, because Polissena passed the day with
me yesterday, and told me all the story about the
horse. She came in all the rain, dripping wet, but
with sunshine enough in her face to illuminate
a dozen rainy days, carrying the unfailing basket —
potatoes this time, with flowers laid on the top, and
chestnut leaves over all.
And after we had made her sit and dry herself a
while by the kitchen fire, which she considered quite
an unnecessary precaution, I brought her to my room,
where we had a long and very interesting conversa
tion. She turned her chair around two or three
times at first, and seemed a little uncomfortable as
she looked at the pictures on the wall. At last she

24 cheist's folk.
said to me, "My poor father used to say that it was
not proper to turn one's back on any picture of the
Lord Jesus or the Madonna; but when they are all
round the room, what can I do?"
I managed to set her conscience at rest on this
important subject; and then I asked her about the
horse who would not drink excepting at the foun
tain, and she gave me a long and minute horse-
biography, of which I will not trouble you with
more than a small part. His name was Lilh, and
he was a strong, handsome chestnut horse that her
father bought just before he died. "He brought us
all up," she said; and then, seeing that I looked
puzzled at the idea of a horse filling the position of
nurse and governess, she explained herself : " He
earned the living of all of us when we were
children." She went on to say : " It is true that he would
never drink, excepting at the fountain. I could
never understand that ; who knows what sort of
idea he had about it? Perhaps he thought the
water in the fountain was cleaner, but I am sure it
was not, for I always brought him nice fresh water

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 25
into the stable. But when he was thirsty he used
to call me to take him to the fountain. Sometimes
he would call me up in the night, and then if I
did not go at once he would call again, and I always
knew what he wanted, and could not help going.
Poor thing, he was so good, and had done so much
for us ; we all loved him so much ! Besides, if I
did not take him to the fountain when he wanted to
go, he would not eat either, and then of course we
could not expect him to work. He lived with us for
more than twenty years, and he was so gentle that
he never needed any guiding but my voice ; he
understood everything I said. Whenever any of us
went into the stable he used to make a great many
compliments ; but more to me than any of the
others, because when I went, I always took him a
piece of bread or chestnut cake or polenta."
Afterwards I asked her a good many questions
about herself and her life, and I was rather surprised,
as she is so religious, to find that she does not seem
to care much about going to church. She says : —
" I pray better in the forest, and for the most
part, while I am at work. I have tried to fall into

26 cheist's folk.
that habit, because, you know, poor people cannot
afford to take a great deal of time for their prayers.
With ladies and gentlemen, of course it is different;
but I do not think the work makes the prayers any
worse. In the forest I am quiet, and nothing dis
turbs my thoughts; while in church, — well, when
I was a child it seems to me that things were
different, and that people used to go to church with
great devotion : but now, people go in fashionable
dresses, and they look about, and whisper, and
sometimes they come and whisper to me; and then,
how can I keep my mind fixed on what is going
on?" To Edwige, who is much troubled with fears of
purgatory, she said, "I am never afraid. We must
try to do as well as we can ; and the Lord will not
condemn us; you know what He said, 'Male non
fare — paura non avere.'" Which common Italian
proverb she fully believes to be of Divine origin.
But if I go on in this way I shall fill up all my
letter with Polissena's sayings; so I will leave them
though they are almost all worth remembering. I
suppose in everybody's religion one idea, or doctrine

THE PEACE OE POLISSENA. 27
rather, takes the lead ; in hers it is an overpowering
sense of the goodness of the Almighty.
Do you know, Faustina, in the "Roadside Songs,"
is becoming quite a heroine among the Quakers ;
and it is really a help and comfort to me to know
that some people feel as I do about the army and
the conscription, which are eating the heart out of
Italy. The Italians have put me down with lofty
talk about "l'Amor della patria," and will not under
stand that it is just because I do love Italy that I
cannot bear to see it so burdened. These good
Quakers want me to write something more about it,
but I shall not, for I have not the talent sufficient;
and if I had, nobody would mind anything I said.
You know I do not believe in the world growing
any better, — not until the Lord's kingdom comes.
I was interrupted by the arrival of some friends
from Fiumalbo, who always come once a year to pass
a day with us. One of them was Bosa Donati,
called La Bianca, keeper of the shop where every
thing is sold in Fiumalbo, from books of devotion
to confectionery (of which last she brought us a
handsome specimen of her own making, a curious

28 cheist's folk.
cake which nobody else knows how to make, com
posed of rice, sugar, and almonds). Her husband is
the carpenter, a very poor, humble, hard-working old
man, of whom she told us a' story yesterday, which
made me think that he had really a good deal more
idea of " honour " than most of the gentlemen who
talk about it, and fight about it.
He has lately, as we already knew, inherited a (for
him) considerable property — 12,000 francs — from a
cousin. But what we did not know was, that the
cousin made nearly all this money by buying the
confiscated Church property for about a tenth of its
value. And all this the old carpenter has returned
to its original use as nearly as he can, by giving it
to his parish priest to use for religious purposes while
he lives, and leave to his successor when he dies. So
there is a carpenter that I think St. Joseph need not
be ashamed of !
To-day Polissena has been to see me again, and,
though I did not mean to tell you anything about
her in this letter (fearing that you must be tired of
hearing about her), she has, in the course of a long
conversation, told me some things that throw so

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 29
much light on her history and character, that I
cannot help writing them down now before I forget
them. She says that she had such a good grandmother,
who died when she was a little girl, but she can still
remember her perfectly. The old lady was very
pious and charitable, and would always spare some
thing from her poverty for whoever had need. One
day when she was alone in the house with Polissena
(then a small child), some one knocked at the door;
and she said, "That is a poor beggar; go, my child,
and take him a piece of bread!"
But Polissena was unwilling.
" Grandmother, you are always sending me to the
door with pieces of bread; and pretty soon there will
be none left for us!"
" Oh, what a foolish little thing you are !" said the
grandmother. "Do you not know that when we help
the poor, what goes out at the door always comes
back through the window? Nobody ever came to
want in that way! But go now, and take the bread
to the poor man, and then I will tell you how our
Lord knocked at a rich man's door once Himself!"

30 Christ's folk.
I will not write out the grandmother's story,
because it was a free version of the Madonna and
the rich man, with our Lord instead of His mother
asking for help; but it made such an impression on
Polissena, that she says, "The grandmother never had
to speak twice to me after that to make me go to
the door; indeed, I generally went without being told
at all !"
Another little story that the old lady used to tell
her children will make you smile if I tell it as Polis
sena told it, and yet it has a beautiful side to it, and
brought the tears to her eyes, and made her voice
tremble as she repeated it. " Once it happened that
the Lord and St. Peter were walking out together,
and they passed through a street in a certain town
where some masons were at work on a house, and
there was a young man hanging by a rope. You
have seen builders tied with ropes in that way, have
you not, doing some work on the front of the house?
And all at once they heard him exclaim, ' Oh, it is
our Lord and St. Peter ! '
"And he tried to turn, so as to have a good look
at them; and I suppose the rope was not fastened

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 31
very well; he fell, fell to the ground, and was killed
before their eyes ! St. Peter was very sad about that
poor young man, and he walked on silently for some
time, until they found themselves in a wild place,
some way out of the city, where there was quite an
ugly piece of road, cut like a terrace on the side of
the mountain, with a ravine below it full of rocks,
and a wood at the bottom, . . . really a very danger
ous place! A very old man was coming toward
them ; but as he drew near, his foot slipped, and he
rolled down that terrible ravine, among the rocks to
the bottom.
" St. Peter supposed, of course, that he was dead ;
but after a few minutes they saw him climbing up
again, and he was hardly hurt at all. And yet it
was a much worse fall than the other. St. Peter's
heart was still very heavy for the young builder, and
he said :
'"Lord, why didst Thou save the old man, whose
life is so nearly over, and not the young man, for
whom life was just beginning?'
"And our Lord answered:
" ' The young man's soul was mine, but the old
man's soul is not mine yet ! '

32 cheist's folk.
"At which answer St. Peter's eyes filled with tears;
and that is the reason why, Grandmother said, his
eyes have tears in them now, once a year, when his
festa comes."
" But, Polissena," I said, after listening to this
story, "what do you mean about St. Peter's eyes fill
ing with tears % Do you mean some image of him
in a church, or the saint himself in heaven, who
sheds tears on his festa?"
" I cannot remember ! " she answered ; then, after
some reflection, " I should not wonder if it were in
Borne ! It may have been in Pome ; it may have
been in heaven; but I rather think it was in Borne,
because, if it had been in heaven, it would have been
difficult for any one to go there and see it, and then
come back and tell about it !"
And I have a good deal more to write about the
grandmother, but it is growing late, so I think I
had better send you the rest in another letter.
I must end Polissena's account of her grandmother,
which I left in the middle yesterday.
She went on to say : —

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 33
"My grandmother used to sleep with my sister
and me — one on each side of her — and before we
went to sleep she used to hear us say our prayers,
and she would teach us what prayers she knew herself.
Sometimes — you know what children are — we were
sleepy, and did not want to finish our prayers ; but
she would say : —
'"You had better go on, children; you will sleep
so much the better, and have such a pleasant awaken
ing in the morning ! '
" Poor grandmother, she used to pray so much
herself. If we awoke in the night, we would see her,
by what light came in through the window, kneel
ing by an armchair that stood by the wall, with a
picture of the Madonna hanging over it; I remember
just how she looked, always in her night-dress.
" She was often cold at night ; and we would
call to her : — ' Grandmother, come back to bed !
You were cold just now ; you told us so ; do not
stay there in your night-dress ! ' and she would
answer : —
'"I am not cold now, children ! '
"She lived to be very old— a lively, pretty old

34 CHRIST'S FOLK.
woman, always busy and active, working about the
house, and keeping things tidy (for she was extremely
neat in her ways), and she had hardly any illness
before she died. Her name was Eulalia ; and my
mother named two children for her after she died,
but neither of them lived long. I suppose we
were not worthy to have another Eulalia in the
family." After I had listened to this account, I told Polissena
that it must have been a great blessing to have such
a good woman in the family, to which she replied,
quickly, and with a certain sort of jealousy that I
have often noticed in her where her mother is con
cerned : —
" But my mother is so good, too ! In all my life
I cannot remember that I ever heard her speak
sharply, neither have I ever seen her strike one of
her children. And I must say that the children are
good to her. My brothers are grown-up men now,
but they are always perfectly obedient to her, as if
they were little children."
So much then for the family that was brought up
by the horse !

THE PEACE OF POLISSENA. 35
I thought you might like to hear these particulars,
which, however, I did not mean to make so long ;
but now I do not mean to trouble you any more
about Polissena, excepting that, before I leave her
finally, I think I ought to tell you that she has some
very peculiar ideas about religion, which I am sure
nobody ever taught her, for I never saw them in any
religious book, whether Catholic or Protestant. She
believes, says she is certain, that there is no need of
sickness or trouble, and that they only come, in some
way or other, from wrong-doing; that if people
would trust in the Lord, and leave everything in
His hands without fear, and be very careful to "obey
Him in everything," as she expresses it, "there is no
reason why everybody should not have two heavens,
one here and the other there."
She added: —
" I always trust the Lord about everything myself ;
and that is why I am so fortunate ! When I have
no work to do, it never makes me anxious, for I
know He will think of it; and the day never ends
without somebody wanting me for something or
other, and sending to hire me. People often wonder

36 cheist's folk.
at my good fortune, but they could all have just the
same if they would !"
There, I have told you enough now (though I will
not promise not to have some more to tell you the
next time Polissena comes).

CHRIST'S FOLK.

11.
'PENSATEYI VOIP

PENSATEVI VOIP

I want now to tell you a story that I think will
please you; and though not long, it will take me
some time to put together all the fragments that I
have been able to gather up from Signor Bortolo,
and from the present tavern-keeper of Bivalta, Cari
na's son. I should not have said anything about it
if it had not been for what you once wrote — which
made a great impression upon me at the time — about
the possibility of a tavern being just as good- as a
church; and so I thought you would like to hear
about the only case I ever heard of in which it really
was so.
This good Carina — her maiden name was Benetti —
came from Asiago, a place beloved alike of geologists
and antiquarians, and the old seat of government of
the Setti Communi, which kept a sort of half inde
pendence for I should be afraid to say how many

40 cheist's folk.
centuries under the Venetian republic. One of these
days, if you care to hear about the strangest and most
out-of-the-world corner of the Yeneto, I will write
you an account of Asiago, where we once stayed for
some time. It is enough to say just now that it is a
place very remarkable for the piety, honesty, and in
telligence of its people.*
Whenever in the Yeneto one hears of a parish
priest who is doing an extraordinary amount of good,
one is extremely likely to hear in the next breath,
'He came from Asiago! as I have often ob
served.' Carina was left an orphan at twelve years old, and
went to live with an aunt, whose trade it was to
weave and sell linen; and she herself learnt to weave,
and did it, as she always did everything, well. Sig
nor Bortolo, who knew her as a middle-aged woman,
says that she was very handsome, tall, light in her
movements, and very strong : a quite poor photograph
which I have of her, taken in extreme old age, and
* The reader must please observe that in the title of this
book, ' Apennine ' stands broadly for ' hill country of Italy.'
J. R.

'PENSATEVI VOL' 41
when she was much broken, shows that she had fine
regular features, and, apparently, blue eyes and a fair
colour. Francesco Moro, of Bivalta, was a raftsman of the
Brenta, whose business was to bring loads of wood
from the mountains, and sell them in Bassano ; and
the business carried him every now and then to Asia-
go. One day he had some money in his pocket, and
wanted to buy a piece of linen. Somebody directed
him to Carina. She had none on hand, but promised
to weave it before his next visit. On his return he
found that she had kept her promise; he was pleased
with the linen, more pleased with the weaver, and, in
his son's words, 'He began then to look upon her
with eyes of love.'
They did not waste much time in courtship. He
married her without a soldo in her pocket, and took
her home to Bivalta, to the house where his father,
mother, brother, and brother's wife were all living to
gether. From that day to the end of his life, Fran
cesco Moro seems to have been completely devoted
to his wife, and altogether dependent upon her. She
was not very happy with his family ; she was used to

42 CHRIST'S FOLK.
poverty, but not to roughness, and they were, I fear,
rather a rough, hard set of people. As soon as he
went away with his raft they set her to bringing
loads of wood down from the mountain on her shoul
ders, as they were in the habit of doing themselves.
*
She had not been used to this sort of work, and it
was too hard for her, but they insisted. On the day
when her husband was to return they had given her
a very heavy load to carry. Her son says: —
She raised it with great difficulty to her shoulder,
and it fell off. Then she tried the other shoulder,
and it fell again. She tried over and over again in
every way she could think of, but she could not carry
it, and at last she said, ' I will do this no more ! '
And she left her bundle of wood and came home
without it.
Later in the day, when she saw her husband com
ing up the bank from the river, she went to meet
him, and told him her story, and she said,
'Francesco, help me! If I do this work any
longer I shall die!'
He thought a little and then said,
'I wiU help you, but you must do as I say. I

'PENSATEVI VOI/ 43
will not go home just yet ; but you go, and when
the supper is ready do not sit down to eat with the
others, and do not call me. After supper, prepare
something in a tegame* by itself, and call me in,
and we will eat together.'
Carina did as she was told, and she and her
husband ate together at a table apart after the others
had done. The old man took no notice of them until
they had finished, then he said,
'I see what you have done, and I know what you
mean by it. This is the last meal that you will ever
eat in my house. You may sleep here to-night, but
in the morning go!'
I have told all this in the words of the son, but
now it is easier for me to go on by myself. In the
morning the young people went out into the world
alone together, without money or provision of any
kind; only Catina had a little bundle of clothes that
she brought from Asiago. A kind neighbour, to
whom they told their story, gave them a breakfast of
potatoes, after which they set about making the best
* 'Tegame,' an earthen pan.

44 CHRIST'S FOLK.
of their circumstances, pretty much as a pair of
squirrels might have done.
Francesco chose a bit of waste and useless ground,
close to the river, to which no one was likely to dis
pute his right, and there he built with his own hands
a shed of rough boards, which for many years was
their only shelter summer and winter. There their
eleven children were born, and there nearly all the
events which I have still remaining to tell you took
place. Catina sold most of her clothes, and bought —
besides one or two objects of first necessity for the
house — two bottles of brandy and a little fruit, with
which she opened a shop (in the shed, of course!)*
The raftsmen and barocciai would not think they
could live, and no one else would expect them to
live, without a glass of brandy now and then, espe
cially in cold weather. Catina did nothing contrary
to her conscience, nor to the conscience of those about
her. On the contrary, she was fully persuaded that
whatever she did was especially given her to do by

* Italics mine, and will be mine in future, Francesca never
using them. — J. R.

'PENSATEVI VOI.' 45
the Almighty; so that, in the words of Signor Bor-
tolo, ' She never thought she did anything ; she
thought that God did it all by her means.' Neither
was she ever for a moment troubled by their neces
sities and difficulties.
Her son says of her, that the placidity of her
spirit was never disturbed, nor her temper ruffled, by
any contrariety; that her face was always smiling and
contented. Whenever she undertook any new scheme
(and she did undertake a great many, for her poor
family) and it did not prosper, she used to say,
' Oh Signore Dio ! quest' affare va male. Pensa-
tevi voi ! ' That is, O Lord God ! this affair goes
badly. See to it Thyself!'
After which she would dismiss the affair from her
mind. Her son said :
I have heard her say those words a hundred times;
and, whatever the affair was, it always went well
afterwards. Her ambition was to sell wine, and how she ac
complished it shows just what an energetic woman
she was. She had a neighbour, a woman who owned
a little land, and had lately been mowing; this

46 CHRIST'S FOLK.
neighbour once told her that she should like to sell
her hay. On the next market day, without saying a
word to anyone, Catina rose early, went to her
friend's hay mow, and took a wisp, only a wisp, of
hay ; with which she set off before sunrise, for Bas
sano, twelve miles away,* where she had never been.
There she stationed herself among the tents and
benches in the Piazza, under the old clock tower, and
waited her time.
She did not know a soul in the place (which was
much more of a great world to her than Paris can
ever possibly have been to you) ; but she was not at
all anxious, and did not trouble herself to speak to
any one. It was God's business, not hers, to provide
for the husband who had sacrificed everything for
her, and for the babes in the shed by the Brenta.
She thought that He had sent her down to Bassano
to sell hay that morning; and of course, all in good
time, He would send somebody to buy it. Pretty
soon, Count Mccolo Caffo, one of the principal men

* And down hill, into the wider world. Asiago is at the
head of a sequestered valley.

CPENSATEVI VOI.' 47
of Bassano, strayed out through the market, and his
attention was attracted by the silent, stately woman,
standing still like a statue, while the others were
shouting and gesticulating to attract attention and in
vite customers. He went up to her, and asked what
she wanted. She answered that she had come from
the country to sell hay, bringing a specimen with her.
At this he told her that he thought they might make
a bargain, as he just then wanted some hay for his
horses. And he invited her into his house near by,
that they might come to an agreement regarding the
price, etc. When there, she told him that her great
wish was to sell the hay for a barrel of wine; at
which he at first laughed, the wine (of which he had
a good store, made on his own estate) being worth
much more than the hay. But Catina had something
about her, which I, having never seen her, cannot at
tempt to describe, (but which, as you know well,
some people do have,) which generally made every
body do exactly what she said. And when Count
Caffo had finished laughing, the next thing he did
was to promise that he would on the following day
send the barrel of wine to Bivalta, and take away

48 CHRIST'S FOLK.
the hay. Catina walked home, quite contented, and
immediately went to the house of her neighbour who
owned the hay.
'I have sold your hay,' she said, 'for a barrel of
wine: and now I want you to wait a little for your
money. Let me keep the wine, and sell it in my
shop; and when it is sold, I will pay you all.'
To this her friend readily consented ; Catina sold
her wine, paid for it, and had a fair profit left; and
better than that, she had made a good friend in Count
Caffo, whose kindness from that day forth never failed
her. He presented her to his friend, Signor Ambro-
gio Zanchetta, the father of Signor Bortolo, and
brother of our dear 'Mother of the orphans;'* a
man whose memory is still held in great reverence
in Bassano. Signor Ambrogio immediately lent her
another barrel of wine, and a sack of Indian corn, to
be paid for after she had sold them. And it soon
became well known that everybody could trust
Catina; her debts were always paid when due, and
no one ever lost by her. Her husband meanwhile
* I give her story in next number.

'PENSATEVI VOI.' 49
kept on with his raft and his loads of wood ; but such
was his confidence in her, that he always left what
ever money he earned in her hands, reserving only, as
his son said, " a few coppers to give to the poor, when
he went to church." (By the way, do you not think
that almost any man in his position would have
thought that he was one of the poor himself, and rather
have expected people to give to him?)
After a while the neighbours began to tell old
Moro, the father, that it was a shame in him never
to help his son Francesco ; and finally the old man
was shamed into giving him a very small bit of land,
consisting of a steep bank, sloping down from a ter
raced mountain road. Catina, immediately on coming
into possession of this handsome and unexpected for
tune, proposed to her husband that they should build
a tavern ! And they really did it ! Without spending
money, or hiring workmen, husband, wife, and larger
children all worked together. None of them knew
anything about building, but somehow they did build
it, and not so badly, either !
Catina made the mortar, carried stones, and directed
everything. When the building was finished, it con-

50 cheist's folk.
sisted of three rooms, one above the other; of which
the highest only, where the shop was kept, was on a
level with the road, and the other two were built into
(or hollowed out of) the bank.
And now I come to what I particularly wanted to
tell you, — the very peculiar way in which Catina car
ried on a tavern, and kept shop. First of all, I ought
to say that it was a very successful way. She died
quite rich, according to her ideas, and her son is now
a very prosperous tavern-keeper, who cannot speak of
his mother without his voice trembling, and his eyes
filling with tears. But it was a peculiar way. The first
thing she did was, to make every Saturday a great ket
tle of soup, and give it all to the poor. Her children
remonstrated, — 'Mother, we have not bread enough to
eat ; and you give soup to the poor ! ' She answered,
' God gives everything to us, and we can give nothing
to Him! Only He has said to us, that what we give
to the poor, we give to Him; let me give back to
Him a little of what is His own!'
Still the children would not be contented ; and they
teased her so, for what they considered her extrava
gance, that, for once in her life, she yielded, and on

'PENSATEVI VOI.' 51
the next Saturday there was no more soup for the
poor. On the afternoon of the same day, a contadino
came to the shop, to settle some affair with Catina ;
and while he was talking with her, his donkey, which
he had left outside with the cart, put his head in at
the shop window, and somehow managed to upset a
large basket of eggs, there exposed for sale. Catina,
on seeing what had happened (a considerable misfor
tune for her), said :
' See, children ; yon would not let me make the
soup for the poor, and now this misfortune has hap
pened! The price of those eggs would have paid for
twenty kettles of soup ! '
And from that day forth the children let her give
away what she liked in peace; and the poor never
wanted again for their Saturday's dinner.
When she went to Bassano, which she always did, I
believe, on market day, the first thing she did was
to go to church, and give the priest three lire
Venete, to say a mass for the souls in purgatory. To
this mass she listened with great devotion ; then went
about her affairs, with the full assurance that the
blessing of heaven went with her. As I have said,

52 CHRIST'S FOLK.
her temper was of the sweetest and most tranquil ;
but there were two things which, with all her power
of endurance, she could never bear, — profanity, or
evil speaking. If any man, talking with others in her
little shop, so far forgot himself as to use the name
of the Almighty without due reverence, or tell any
story injurious to the character of a neighbour,
Catina, in unspeakable distress and agitation, would
take him by the jacket and put him out of the door,
saying :
' Not here ! For the love of God, not here ! '
(All this, you understand, at the risk of losing her
customers; but in Carina's manner of doing business,
the affairs of the other world were always first, and
those of this world second.)
And having noticed that, in other osterie, as the
men sat around the fire after eating and drinking,
their conversation was seldom free from profane
language and scandalous stories, she, in building her
little tavern, would have no seats in the chimney;
saying that her fire was for cooking, and not for peo
ple to sit and gossip over. Her son and Signor Bor-
tolo both agreed in telling me that prayer was such a

'PENSATEVI VOL' 53
constant habit with her, that there was hardly any
time when she was not praying. Often when people
came into her shop to buy, they found her so ab
sorbed in prayer that she did not even see them.*
When they had aroused her attention, and she was
weighing out the bread, or fruit, or whatever they
wanted, she talked to them always of God.
Signor Bortolo says of her: 'She mixed God in
everything : she could not make a bargain for a
bag of Indian corn without mixing Him in it ! '
She was often at his house, when he was a child
(for the Caffo and Zanchetta families continued until
the end of her life her best friends) ; and as she
entered the cortile where he was generally playing
with his brother and sisters, she never saluted them
in any usual fashion, but always with the words,
' Keep close to God, children ; He does every
thing ! '
* The reader will please observe that whatever the truth of the
Bible may be, he may learn from these stories the accurate mean
ing of it. These two first given explain what St. Paul (or who
ever else wrote them) meant by the verses, ' Rejoice evermore/
' Pray without ceasing. ' ' In everything give thanks ; for this is the
will of God, in Christ Jesus, concerning you.'

54 The thought that He was always with her, made
her never afraid to undertake anything of which she
saw the need, however difficult. There was no
church in her time at Bivalta, and one seemed to be
much wanted. She proposed to the few people of
the village that they should build one; and such was
her influence over them, that they immediately set
about it, she working among them, as she had done at
the building of her tavern, and all her family, large
and small, helping.
When the church was finished, the good Signor
Ambrogio presented an altar cloth and two candle
sticks. And this church is at present maintained by
the Rivalta people, but principally by Catina? s son,
who, in piety, seems to follow his mother very closely.
Catina lived to be very old; nobody ever knew ex
actly how old. During the last years of her life she
became infirm and quite deaf; but (her son said) she
looked and seemed perfectly happy, 'praying ahvays,
and knitting always; sitting until the end in the cor
ner of the shop where she had sat ever since her
youth, with a very. bright, sweet look in her face!'
She died in 1872, her husband having passed away
several years before.

'PENSATEVI VOL* 55
There is my story; not just what it might have
been if I had known Catina myself, but still, I think
you will say, worth the time it will take you to read
it. 
Yes, Francesca, that is all very well ; but you don't
count how many times some of us may want to read
it over again ; and then to think over it ; and then to
read the history, if we can find it anywhere, of the
Seven Commonwealths under the rule of Asiago,— of
which I am sure we shall be grateful for whatever
you will take patience to tell us. But chiefly, for
myself, I want to know of the Eleven who built the
Tabernacle, what has become of the Ten little Franks
and Carinas who were thus brought up, at home,—
as it is more and more my notion that children should
always be, and none of them sent to schools or
lyc^es, other than their parents can provide. But I
say nothing till Francesca tells us how the people
of Asiago remained so pious, intelligent, and honest ;
and what has become of the Ten little Cats and
their tribes.
Bkantwood, February \Wi, 1887.

CHRIST'S FOLK.

in.
TEE MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS.

THE
MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS.

I think we are beginning, Francesca and I, perhaps
a little too grandly with our Polissenas, and Carinas,
and Superioras, all at once. Here are two letters just
come, one from Francesca herself, one from her
mother, which describe another order of folk of the
Apennine, — they also very sweet, and dear, and won
derful ; and to be kept reverent record of, among the
servants of heaven. So we will let the story of the
Superiora wait a little, and have some talk of these;
only first, here is what Francesca says in answer to
the envoi of "Pensatevi" and its questions: —
" But now I must thank you for the beautiful
words that you have written at the end of 'Pensatevi
voi!' especially for what you said about schools. I
have a perfect horror, myself, of all 'institutions'
which separate children from their families; and I,

60 CHRIST'S FOLK.
too, have known young people who have learnt in
fidelity, and much else that is bad, in those places.
But one lesson they never fail to learn, whatever else
is wanting, — that they can do very well without papa
and mamma ; and this lesson, once learnt, is never
again forgotten, as papa and mamma, after they grow
old, usually find out. And I do think that parents
must be very bad indeed, not to be better, for their
children, than any one else.
" Then I wonder what most people mean by
education. Awhile ago, I heard somebody lament
ing sadly about a dear little girl whom I know, that
her education was interrupted by her care of a sick
mother! The poor mother wrote me, about the same
time, that she could never be thankful enough for
the blessing that she had in her little daughter, who
never forgot anything that could be a comfort to
her. I wonder if she would have been taught that
or anything else as good, in a boarding-school?
"But how my pen is running away with me to
day! Worse than ever before, I think. Next week
I will send you a letter all about Asiago and the
Sette Communi: I do not write it to-day, because I

THE mother of the oephans. 61
want a little time to think up my recollections.
Meanwhile, your wish to know about the 'little cats,
and their tribes,' obliges me to tell you what I fear
it will make you sad to hear, — that nearly all Catina's
children died young, though not in infancy. People
say, 'They were taken away early, in mercy to their
good mother, because the world is so wicked now !
Who knows, if they had lived, if they could have re
sisted.' Of her six sons, only one is left; and he, a
grey-haired man, the good tavern-keeper of Bivalta.
He told me that he had three sisters living, two mar
ried, and one single; but I have never seen any of
them. "I wonder at your little girls not caring for bot
any,* which I have always found delightful, though
I have never had much time to study it : and I won
der especially that, among the cruciferse flowers, not
one of them thought of wall-flowers, my own fa
vourite !
* In answer to a 'word in my last letter about my Saturday-
class, of which I will give some account in next number. Their
attention was, at the time, restricted to cress and cabbage, and
not permitted to wander towards wild and useless things like
wall-flowers !

62 CHRIST'S FOLK.
"Now, I want to tell you that I feel so much
obliged to you for putting it into my head to draw
these pictures of Saints ! * It is the pleasantest work
that ever I did, and keeps me always in good com
pany; and I have many beautiful stories that no one
now seems to know anything about. Paolina comes
to me once a week, and I have chosen her as a
model for a lady who especially practised the virtue
of patience, because I think she looks like the charac
ter. I asked her the other day if she had ever, in
her life, been out of temper, and she had to think a
great while before she could remember, but finally
was rather of opinion that she had been, some time
or other."
(Now we come to the other orders of Christ's
Folk.) " Do you know, your interest in my bee, and in
Marietta's swallows, makes me want to tell you about
some other pretty creatures that I have been fond of.
I have had very few pets in my life, if that means

*In sequel to "Roadside Songs," and illustrating more au
thentic traditions.

THE MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS. 63
animals of my own to take care of; but I have had
a good many four-footed friends; and I am going to
leave, now several things that I wanted very much to
write, for the sake of telling you about a cow that I
used to know a great many years ago, when we first
began to go to L'Abetone. Not that there is much
to tell, only she was rather a remarkable character,
and she and I were greatly attached to each other.
She was one of five, that used to go about the coun
try attended by a poor girl, generally considered to
be under-witted. Marina was the girl's name,* and
she was certainly rather silly, and not just like other
people ; but she was affectionate, and usually gentle,
though she would fly into a terrible passion if any
one teased her cows ; and she had a poeiical streak in
her nature, that made me like to talk to her. She
* In order to prepare for general index, I think it will be
best henceforward to put a terminal note to each part of
" Folk," with the names of the people in it. Here are our old
friend Paolina, and a Marietta and Marina, all worth our mem
ory, in two pages. So I shall introduce at once the proposed
registry, which must be also a dictionary : for I suppose Paolina
means little Paula, and Marietta little Mary; but Marina, sea
maid (?) — as Marino Faliero.

64 CHRIST'S FOLK.
loved those cows with an absolutely passionate affec
tion. I remember her saying to me once, 'Poor
cows ! they are a great deal better than we are. I
am sure that God must love them more than He
does us, because they never do any harm, nor speak
evil of their neighbours ! ' She treated them always
with the most deferential politeness, and had given
them very poetical names. They were, Bella Bosa,
Stella, Damigella, Argentina, and Galantina. And,
like most animals so treated, they had become almost
human in intelligence and power of affection. Cows
have their sympathies, like the rest of us, and for
some reason best known to herself, Argentina saw fit
to attach herself to me. She was a very beautiful
young creature, not quite full grown, with a quiet
and stately grace about her that would have done
credit to any lady. She was snow white ; only the
tips of her horns, the tassel at the end of her tail,
her hoofs, and her heavy fringes of eyelashes, were
black. And, — I am afraid you will find it hard to
believe what I am going to say, but Mammina re
members it as well as I do, — when I was drawing in
the field, as I often did in those days, Argentina

THE M0THEE OF THE OEPHANS. 65
would come behind me, bend her beautiful head until
it rested on my shoulder, and watch, with much ap
parent interest, the progress of my work! Mammina
was frightened at first to see those long horns so
near my eyes ; but the gentle creature was always
careful not to hurt any one. And Mammina has al
ways believed that she really cared for what I was
doing, and liked to see the picture grow under my
hand. I suppose it was only the wish to share in
whatever I was doing, that one often sees in animals
toward those whom they love.
" But I did not think this would have been so
long a story ; you must excuse it. And now I must
end, for it is growing late. Mammina wrote you a
letter yesterday, which, I am sorry to say, I forgot
to post, so now I must send them both at once.
Good-bye. I wish I had more time and more paper.
With love as ever.
"Plokence, March 10th, 1887."
(Here follows the ratification by Mammina in
quite good time.)
" The beautiful milk-white cow, when she stood

66 CHEIST'S FOLK.
behind F. and rested her chin on her shoulder, cer
tainly had every appearance of watching the land
scape, and the gradual creation of it on the paper.
I, also, had a friend among them, but mine was a
cream colour, finished with black. Their mistress
was half-poetess and half-underwitted ; she was the
woman who, when her baby died, said she meant to
have given it to Francesca when it was two years
old. We used to buy a great dish of salt, and go to
meet the cows as they were going home at sun
down, and give it to them. They were so fond of
it. One evening the cream-coloured one — her name
was Bella Bosa — left the others, and walked home
with us. She was a splendid creature in her way,
with all the beauty of young wild life, and grown in
mountain air. We passed through the fir-trees, and
came to the fountain. Mr. Alexander had amused
himself, helped by all the boys in Abetone, in making
a wall of earth, covered with turf full of flowers,
where the water ran from the brim of the basin; so
it had made a transparent little lake, a few inches
deep. Into this Bella Bosa walked, and after stand
ing a moment, dropped her head till it just touched

THE MOTHEE OF THE ORPHANS. 67
the water, drinking it so gently that it was not dis
turbed ; she seemed rather breathing than drinking ;
and all the time she watched us with her great wild
soft eyes. It was just sundown ; it had been raining,
and bad cleared ; the sky was pale transparent blue,
cloudless, but the mists were drifting down the ravines,
rose colour, white, and grey, fire colour prevailing.
" We had a tame canary that appeared also to like
to see F. draw. Mr. A. found it at Bellosguardo ; it
had dropped into the road from a nest above a high
wall ; he brought it home, and we brought it up. It
was summer time, the windows were all open, but it
always kept in or about the house, and made itself
entirely one of the family. It came to the table and
breakfasted with us ; it went with us when we walked
out, flying from tree to tree, so as to keep near us ;
at night it roosted on the bar of the bed; it had no
name but Birdie, but always answered when I called
him, even when he was out of sight. One day I saw
~ him on a fir-tree, and a cat creeping about it ; I went
to it and called him, and he flew down to my hand.
He used to sit on the handle of F.'s pen and see her
draw, and when she threw him off, he would make a

68 CHRIST'S FOLK.
circle round the room, and alight again on the pen-
handle. How much he comprehended, we could never
fancy, but all creatures have a wonderful sympathy,
with human beings.
"Do you know you are decidedly gaining health
and strength? I cannot remember when the winter
has dealt with you so kindly. Take good care of
yourself, the greatest care, is the serious charge of
" La Tua Mammlna.
"Florence, March 16ft, 1887."
I must yet find room, before we come to the
Superiora, for the story of Lilla with the blue eyes,
with its incidental description of the King of Italy,
better than any that got into the papers.
" But I wish that you could have seen how many
people have come to me with sad faces and gone
away with happy ones, in these last few weeks! One
morning, when I went upstairs, I found waiting out
side my door a girl whom I used to know, years
ago, on a farm at Bellosguardo, as a pretty, barefoot
baby, just large enough to toddle along by my side,
and help me pick flowers, when I went to walk with

THE M0THEB OF THE OEPHANS. 69
her little black-eyed cousin, Frederico, just the same
size. Lilla had blue eyes of extraordinary size and
colour, with black, curling lashes; so that we have
always spoken of her, ever since, as the baby with
the blue eyes. And poor Frederico — he never grew
to be anything but a baby! He was taken away
suddenly, one April day, before the flowers had faded
that he had gathered that morning, ' to give to the
Signorina,' as he said. And Lilla grew up to a
woman, and lost her parents, and made what was
called a prosperous marriage, with a Florentine shop
keeper, who fell in love with her blue eyes. And
then he was unfortunate in business, and they became
poor, and poorer still, until at last, there she was
waiting at my door, with a handful of flowers and a
baby. So I asked them in; and when they had sat
down, I saw that Lilla was in trouble, and that she
was afraid to tell me what it was. She could only
tremble and hold down her head. So I began to
question her, and told her not to be frightened, but
to tell me just what was the matter. Still she
could not speak, and I said, 'But I know that you
are in trouble; I see by your eyes that you have

70 CHEIST'S FOLK.
shed many tears.' ' Yes,' she answered, ' I cried all
last night.' ' Then tell me what the matter is ! ' and
at last it all came out with a sob : ' We cannot pay
the rent ! The landlord is going to turn us out ! ' I
was a good deal relieved to find out that this was
all, and told her not to worry any more about
that, but to tell me how much they were owing.
But this she would not do, saying that the debt was
too large, and that all she wished was that I would
give her a little help for the present. However, I
pressed her, and at last, dropping her face very low,
and twisting her fingers very hard, she said, under
her breath, ' Twenty francs? ' Now, Lilla,' said I,
' I do not think you are telling me the truth ; the
debt is more than twenty francs ; tell me just what
it is.' And, raising her eyes to my face with a sort
of desperation, she said, ' Well then, twenty-five ! '
But I do not believe there was a lighter heart in
Florence that day than Lilla's (unless it was mine),
when she went away with the money in her pocket.
"But it is rather hard to keep one's patience with
the doings of the municipality just now, pulling down
old houses before new ones are built, and making

THE MOTHEE OF THE OEPHANS. 71
everybody generally uncomfortable. I have to think
very often about that text that forbids our speaking
evil of the rulers of our people ; only I should like to
know who they are; there never seems to be exactly
anybody responsible. I am sure I like the King and
Queen, — every one does; but it is hardly fair to call
them rulers, when they cannot have so much their
own way as other people. Sometimes the King will
insist on having his a little, about his own affairs y he
did last year, when the cholera was about, and every
body tried to make him stay out of danger. I saw a
lady a little while ago, married to a Piedmontese, who
was at Busca, just where the cholera was worst, last
summer, when the King went there, and she gave me
an interesting account of it all. She said every one
was in a panic, and afraid to go near the sick people ;
but the King took hold as if he had been an hospital
nurse, going always where the danger was greatest,
sitting by the beds of the sick, administering their
medicines, rubbing them with spirit when the chill
came, giving food, advice, or money as they were
wanted, sometimes sympathising, sometimes laughing
and jesting, to keep up their hearts, until others came

72 cheist's folk.
forward to help, just for shame. And in ~ the even
ing, when he went to rest tired out, and his servants
came about him to change his clothes and 'fumigate'
him, he used to smile at their anxieties, and then
raise his eyes to heaven, as if to say, ' There is where
my safety comes from ! ' Of course all this did not
suit every one, and there was some talk of passing a
law to prevent ' sovereigns ' from risking their lives ;
but Umberto said if they did he should be the first
to break it, and as every one knew that he would
keep his word, there was no more said about it.
" Mammina has just been reading your ' Unto This
Last,' and said so much to me about it that I stole a
few minutes for it this morning (and was sorry I
could not steal more). She and I were both much
impressed by what you said, that masters should treat
their workmen as they would be willing to have their
own children treated if they were in the same place.
Do you know, it is exactly what I have heard her
say, ever since I was a little child, — not about work
men (of whom she never had any experience), but
servants. And neither she nor I ever heard such a
word from any one else, and people have generally

THE MOTHEE OF THE ORPHANS. 73
looked upon her ideas as very visionary ; but she has
always acted upon them, and nobody ever had such
devoted servants. So if you want to know the prac
tical working of your doctrine, I will tell you what
Edwige said, after twenty years' service in our house.
Some girls in my room were talking about an ac
quaintance who had just inherited a great fortune, and
one of them said to Edwige, jestingly, 'If any one
should leave you so much money, what would you
do with it?' And she answered, without a moment's
hesitation, 'I would keep on doing the work here,
just the same, only then I would not be paid for it?
" In one thing, Mammina says, perhaps you may
think that she goes too far.* She thinks that ser
vants should be paid enough to enable them to lay
by a provision for their old age, without being de
pendent on the charity even of their employers ;
and she thinks, if people cannot afford to do this,
they should keep fewer servants, or live in more
humble style in other respects.
"Florence, March 16ft, 1885."
* Mammina has a way sometimes of going too far, certainly 1
But not in this instance. — J. R.

74 CHRIST'S FOLK.

After this lovely picture of the King of Italy, how
ell cc
nobles !

well comes this following, of one of her truest

The Mother of the Orphans.
In the beautiful city of Bassano, on the Brenta,
between the mountains and the plain, Signora Maria
Zanchetta has passed the eighty-five years of her
busy, happy, and useful life, bringing a blessing to
all who have come near her, first in her own fam
ily, and afterwards, for the last forty-five years, to
one generation after another of poor orphan girls,
to whom she has been more than a mother. She
always had, from childhood, as she herself told me,
a wish to enter a religious life ; but her vocation
seems to have been rather for the active than for
the contemplative fife.
She belongs to an honourable family of Bassano,
and appears to have had an especial love and rev
erence for her parents, whom she would never leave
as long as they lived. After their death she con
tinued to live with an invalid sister, Paola, whom
she remembers always with great tenderness, and who

THE MOTHEE OF THE OEPHANS. 75
is spoken of still, by those who knew her, as some
thing very near a saint. I have often wondered
how much of Signora Maria's sweet and beautiful
Christian spirit, which has brought comfort into
hundreds of lives, may be owing to the influence
of the saintly elder sister, whose helpless condition
must have made her seem, to herself and others,
comparatively useless in the world, but who lived
always so very near to heaven !
After Paola died, Maria, being no longer needed at
home, resolved to give herself entirely to some chari
table work, and her mind turned to the girls' orphan
asylum, close to her own house. Her brother, and
other relations, would have preferred that she should
have become a nun in one of those convents where
girls of noble families are sent for education, consid
ering that such a life was more honourable, and better
suited to her condition. She told me this part of her
story herself, and added :
"In the convent I should have been paid for my
work, but I wanted to serve the Lord without recom
pense in this world, and so I came here to the
orphans."

76 CHRIST'S FOLK.
There she has lived ever since, wearing the same
dress as the poor girls, living their life, entering into
all their pleasures and troubles; overseeing the wash
ing, giving a hand to the mending, leading a humble,
laborious life, full, one would think, of wearisome
cares and burdens, — a mother's burdens, without a
mother's instinct to support them ; but still, if one
may judge by her face, she has lived in perpetual
sunshine. And how young she looks still ! She must
have been a delicate blonde beauty in her youth ; and
she still retains a complexion like a sweetbriar rose,
and her kind blue eyes are as clear and peaceful as
an infant's. Her hair, still abundant as in youth, is
quite white, and yet not like snow, unless it be snow
with the evening sunshine upon it; one sees in a
moment that it has once been golden, and it is finer
than anything that I ever saw, excepting thistledown.
Her dress is of the poorest and plainest, and yet I
cannot feel that she would be more beautiful in any
other. A blue cotton dress, and cap of the same,
with a handkerchief and apron such as are worn by
the contadine, — nothing else ; but all arranged with
scrupulous neatness. There is nothing monastic in

THE MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS. 77
the dress, nor in the life ; Signora Maria is free to
stay or go as she will; she is bound by no vow,
belongs to no order ; there has been nothing but the
love of God and of the poor children to hold her
to her place all these long years. She has some
property, but she leaves the use of it to her family*
taking for herself only just what is sufficient for her
own maintenance in the asylum, that she may not
take anything from the orphans.
I had long wished to know this good Signora
• Maria; and finally, last May, I had the great pleas
ure of seeing her. I had sent to ask at what hour
she could see me ; to which she replied, " Any time
after six in the morning." Which I thought was
pretty well for eighty-five ! When, the next morn
ing, I went with Edwige to the orphan asylum, and
we entered the very modest little " bottega," as they
call it, with its low ceiling, and counter where they
sell artificial flowers, and certain simple medicines of

* How many, so-called, Reformations, disruptions, dishonours,
and agonies of the Catholic Church would have been spared her,
had the Popes simply insisted on this law being observed by her
religious orders 1 — J. R.

78 CHRIST'S FOLK.
their own preparing in which the Bassano people
have great faith : and where also they receive orders
for ornamental laundry-work, and for embroidery of a
religious description ; — when, as I was saying, we en
tered this room, half a dozen elderly women were
standing talking together, all in the same old-fash
ioned blue dresses. I asked if I could see the Supe-
riora, on which this very pretty and young-looking
lady came forward ; and I, not dreaming that she
could be the aged saint for whom I was looking, re
peated my question. "A servirla!" she replied. I
was obliged to explain the astonishment which I
could not conceal, by saying that I had expected to
see a much older lady. "I am old," she answered,
" but I have good health, thank the Lord !" And
then she led us through a room where a number of
girls were doing the peculiar laundry-work of which
I have spoken. One cannot call it ironing, for no
iron is used about it; but with their fingers, and a
fine stick kept for the purpose, they work the
starched linen into all kinds of delicate patterns.
They all rose and bowed politely as we passed, and
then the old lady preceded us up the stone staircase

THE MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS. 79
(which she mounted so rapidly that she left me some
way behind her), and conducted us to a pleasant up
per chamber, where we all sat down together. On
this day, and on those following, when I was taking
her portrait, I gathered many particulars of her own
life, and also about the institution, which I must
write down one by one as I can remember them, for
I find it impossible to arrange them in any order.
She told me that they were in all seventy-five,
between women and girls. Every girl taken into
the institution has a right to a home in it for life,
if she will ; and many never choose to leave it, or if
they do, they return to it; but others have married,
or gone to service, or to live with their relations.
Once, many years ago, she had seven little slave girls
put temporarily under her care by a good missionary
who had bought them in Africa. She seems to have
a peculiar tenderness in her remembrance of the poor
little unbaptized savages. " The others call me Su-
periora," she said, "but they used to call me Mamma
Maria." And her voice softened to more than its
usual gentleness as she said those words.
And now I must leave the dear old lady for a

80 CHRIST'S FOLK.
moment, to repeat what Silvia told me once, about
those same little slave girls.
It was a warm summer's evening, and Silvia and
I were sitting, as we often do, on the broad stone
steps of the Bezzonico Palace, between the two im
mense old stone lions that guard the door, and
watching the sunset behind the mountains. And
Silvia was telling me how, when she was a very
small child, those little African girls were brought
to the house, and what wild black faces they had,
and what brilliant eyes. As they were running
about the wide lawn behind Palazzo Bezzonico (which
stands in a retired country place about a mile from
the city), they caught sight of those stone lions
by the door, aud immediately pressed about them,
and fell to embracing them as if they had been dear
friends, and covered them with tears and hisses;*
and Silvia thought they were thinking of their own
country, and perhaps of lions which they had seen
in their African deserts. I asked Signora Maria if

*I think this is the loveliest thing I ever heard of the rela
tions between animals and man. — J. R.

THE MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS. 81
she knew what had become of those poor girls. She
said that she had heard that two of them afterwards
entered a convent; but she had lost sight of them all
for many years, and indeed they had only remained
in Bassano for five months.
While I was drawing the old lady's portrait, a tall,
strong, very pleasant-looking woman, of fifty or so,
came in and stood beside me. She wore the same
dress as the Superiora, excepting that she had no cap,
nor other covering for her wavy black hair, which
was elaborately braided, and knotted up behind, in
the fashion commonly followed by the contadine in
this part of the country. She had very bright eyes,
in which a smile seemed to have taken up its perma
nent abode, even when the rest of her face was
serious. Her voice was soft (there seems to be some
thing in the atmosphere of that house which makes
everybody's voice soft) ; but her movements were
rapid and energetic, and she evidently had a supply
of vigour and spirit sufficient for half-a-dozen, at
least, of average women. She was extremely inter
ested in the progress of the picture, (which she said
was as much like the Superiora as anything could be

82 Christ's folk.
that was sitting stMl,) but it was rather a grievance
to her that the old lady would be taken in her
homely house dress.
"Come now, you might* wear that other cap!"
she said, bending over the little fair Superiora, put
ting her strong arm very softly around her neck, and
speaking coaxingly as if to a baby ; then looking at
me : " She has such a pretty cap, that I made up for
her myself, and she will not wear it !"
" I wear it when I go out," said Signora Maria,
"but I would rather have my likeness in the dress
that I always wear at home."
I too said that I would rather draw her just as
she was.
"I suppose you are right," said the younger
woman, regretfully, "but she is so much prettier in
that cap!"
I thought her quite pretty enough in the old blue
cap, and kept on with my work. Meanwhile I asked
some questions about the institution. Signora Maria-
said that it was founded in the last century by a
* These three last flashes of italic are F.'s. — J. R.

THE MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS. 83
good priest, Don Giorgio Pirani, and afterwards
further endowed by Don Marco Cremona, whom she
had herself known in his old age. How old this Don
Marco was she could not remember; a cast of his
face, which she afterwards showed me, and which she
told me was taken after his death, represented a very
handsome, benevolent-looking man, of about seventy;
but I imagine (judging from the rest of the conver
sation) that he must have been much older. She told
me that the founder, Don Giorgio, having inherited
considerable property, and having no relations that
needed it, had bought the land, and three or four
houses, which he had thrown into one, and had given
it all for poor orphan girls of Bassano. The place
accommodates seventy-five girls and women, and is
always full. Thirty centimes (3d.) a-day are allowed
for the maintenance of each girl, and were probably
sufficient in Don Giorgio's time, but times have
changed since then. However, they do various kinds
of work, principally of a religious or ecclesiastical
nature, — making priests' dresses, or artificial flowers
for the altar, or wafers to be used at the Communion ;
besides sewing, knitting, and embroidery of all kinds;

84 cheist's folk.
— and the women work for the children, and the
whole seventy-five live together in one affectionate
and united family. The old lady seemed very fond
of her " tose," as she calls the girls, and said that they
also loved her; which I should think they would, for
a more entirely lovable woman it would be hard to
find. She has the delightful manners of an old-
fashioned Yenetian, full of grace, sweetness, and
vivacity, and would think that she failed in one of
the first Christian duties if she did not observe all
the laws of politeness. She never once failed, during
our rather frequent visits at the institution, to come
downstairs to meet us, receiving me always at the out
side door with a kiss on both cheeks; and when we
came away she would accompany us into the cortile,
and stand there taking leave with the sun on her
white hair. When however she found that this last
attention made me really uncomfortable, she desisted ;
for her politeness being rather of the heart than of
etiquette, she never fails in comprehending and con
sidering the feelings of those about her.
But to return to our conversation. The woman
with the black wavy hair, whose name was, as I

THE MOTHEB OF THE ORPHANS. 85
found out, Annetta, remarked with regard to the
good Don Giorgio Pirani, that "he died so young,
poor man!" As it seemed he had accomplished a
great deal in his life, I was rather surprised, and
asked, " How young ?" To which she replied, in a
tone of deep compassion, "Only seventy-five, poor
man! But then he had worn himself out with the
care of the institution, and he had a great deal of
trouble." Annetta calculated age in the Bassano fashion : in
this healthy air, and with the usually simple habits
of life of the people, longevity is the rule and not
the exception. The portrait of Don Giorgio's mother
hangs beside his in the refectory, with an inscription
stating that it was painted " in the year of her age
eighty-nine ;" also that her name was Daciana Pirani,
and that she assisted her two sons, Giorgio and Santi,
in their charitable work for the orphans. The picture
itself bears the date 1774, and represents a fresh-
coloured, erect, and very pleasant-looking lady, with
bright black eyes ; very plainly dressed in a long-
waisted brown gown and blue apron, with a little dark-
coloured cap, which time has rendered so indistinct

86 CHRIST'S FOLK.
that I cannot quite make out the fashion of it. A
plain handkerchief, apparently of fine white linen, is
folded over her bosom, and her arms are bare to the
elbows, with a fine Yenetian gold chain wound several
times around one of them, — her only ornament, ex
cepting her little round earrings. She is standing by
a table, on which are her crucifix, prayer-book, and
rosary. The Superiora told me that when Don Gior
gio was engaged in building and fitting up his asylum,
sometimes, at the table, his mother would observe that
he was absent and low-spirited, and had little appetite ;
at which she would ask him anxiously, " What ails
you, my son ?" and he would reply, " I have no more
money for my workmen." At this she always said,
" Oh, if that is all, do not be troubled ; I will see to
it;" and rising from the table she would leave the
room, to return in a few minutes with a handful of
money sufficient for the immediate expenses. Don
Giorgio himself must have had, if his portrait tells the
truth, a singularly kind, sensible, and cheerful face,
with more regular beauty than Don Marco Cremona,
but less imposing, with dark eyes and white curling hair.
Of Santi Pirani I could learn nothing, excepting

THE MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS. 87
that he was a priest, an excellent man, and his
brother's helper.
But to return to what I was saying about the Bas
sano fashion of reckoning age. It is not long since a
Bassano gentleman, himself quite a wonderful picture
of vigorous health, was complaining to me that the
health of the city was not what it used to be.
" Indeed," he said, with the air of one bringing
forward an unanswerable proof of his assertion, "at
this present time, among all my acquaintances, I know
only one man past a hundred ! My father knew sev
eral; but now, they all seem to drop off between
eighty and ninety !" And he shook his head sadly.
I asked some questions about his centenarian friend,
and was told that he was a poor man, and lived on
charity. " We all give to him," he said : " he always worked
as long as he could, and at his age we do not think
it ought to be expected of him."
As nearly as I can understand, people here begin
to be considered elderly when they are about eighty,
but those who die before ninety are thought to have
died untimely.

88 CHRIST'S FOLK.
Signora Maria's family had an old servant, by name
Bortolo Mosca, who lived with them for seventy-two
years. He entered their service at fourteen, and left
it — for a better' world, I hope — at eighty-six. He was
quite feeble for some time before he died, and his
master kept a servant expressly to wait upon him.
A woman servant, Maria Cometa, died in their
house at nearly the same age, having passed all her
life in their service.
I was much interested in observing Annetta's be
haviour to her Superiora ; it was half reverential,
half caressing; I could hardly tell whether she con
sidered the old lady as a patron saint, or a pet child.
Anxious to know what was the tie between them, I
asked Annetta how long she had been in the place.
She did a little ciphering on her fingers, and then
said, "Forty years." In answer to other questions,
she told me that her father and mother had both
died, within a few weeks of each other, when she was
a small child, the youngest of seven ; and her uncle,
finding himself left with the burden of so large a
family on his shoulders, had thought well to relieve
himself in part by putting the smallest and most

THE MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS. 89
helpless "with the orphans." "She has been my
mother ever since," she said, dropping her voice, and
laying her hand on the little old lady's shoulder.
She added that some of her brothers had come on in
the world, and had wished to take her home, and
that she had gone at various times and stayed in
their families ; but that she had always come back to
her place in the institution, because she could never
be happy, for any length of time, anywhere else.
I asked if the girls whom they took in were gen
erally good, and repaid their kindness as they should
do ; to which the old lady replied, " Many of them
do, and are a great comfort; but others give us
much trouble. What can we do? We must have pa
tience, we are here on purpose." "Besides," said
Annetta, cheerfully, "it would never do for us to
have all our reward in this world; if we did, we
could not expect any on the other side."
The Superiora told me many interesting stories
about the institution, and of the bequests that had
been left to it by various Bassano families, of which
the most valuable appeared to be some land in the
country, with one or two contadine houses, where the

90 CHRIST'S FOLK.
girls are sent occasionally to pass a day in the open
air, and enjoy themselves. Many families had be
queathed furniture and pictures to the institution, so
that one sees everywhere massive nut-wood chairs, and
tables carved and inlaid, all of old republican times,
One picture, of which I do not recollect the date, but
it is about two hundred years old, I should think.
represents a young lady with fair curls, magnificently
dressed in brocade and jewels, by name Maddalena
Bernardi, who looks always as if wondering at the
simple unworldliness of the life about her; and be
side her hangs the last of her race, (her son, I sup
pose, for he is much like her in feature ; but no one
knows, now ;) a poor Franciscan frate, " who did a
great deal for the orphans," Signora Maria says.
Next to the frate, between him and good Don Gior
gio, she showed me a Yenetian senator, all robe and
wig, with a face looking like nobody in particular,
scarlet drapery tossed about in confusion, and a back
ground of very black thunderclouds. "This picture,"
she said, "was left us by the Doge Erizzo, and repre
sents one of his family: he left us also a hundred
and twenty staia of Indian corn, and two barrels of

THE MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS. 91
wine, yearly; and we still continue to receive them."
She showed me also a room where the floor was
quite covered with heaps of corn, saying, " I send it
to be ground as we need it ; but it will not last
long, there are so many mouths !"
During the many days that I visited Signora Maria,
I noticed several things which seemed to me different
from other orphan asylums which I have seen. To
be sure, I have not seen a great many ; but from
what little I have been able to observe, I have taken
an impression that orphan girls usually have their
hair cut close to their heads, and wear the very
ugliest clothes that can possibly be obtained, and that
their clothes are made so as to fit no one in particu
lar. Also I think that they are apt to look dull and
dispirited, with a general effect of being educated by
machinery, which is not pleasant. Signora Maria's
little girls, on the contrary, are made to look as
pretty as is possible in the poor clothes which are the
best that can be afforded for them. Their cotton
handkerchiefs are of the gayest patterns, their hair
is arranged becomingly, so as to make the most of
the light curls of one, or the heavy braids of another ;

92 Christ's folk.
and most of them wear little gold earrings. And if
one speaks to them, they answer with a pleasant
smile and do not seem frightened. I do not think
that the dear old lady keeps them under an iron
rule, by any means. Another thing which I noticed
was, that while many of the younger children, who
had been but a little while in the place, looked rather
sickly, and showed still the marks of poverty and
neglect, the older girls, who had been there for sev
eral years, had, almost without exception, an appear
ance of vigorous health. It was my good fortune to
be there once on washing day, when a number of
girls, apparently from fifteen to twenty years old,
bare-armed (and some of them bare-footed), were
hanging out clothes to dry in the cortile ; and such a
picture of health and beauty I have seldom seen, nor
such light, strong, rapid movements, nor such evident
enjoyment of their work. Next to the room where
I did most of my work, was a long narrow room
where many of the women and elder girls used to
work together. An inscription in large black letters
hung on the wall, " Silentium." I suppose it must
have been put there with an idea of giving an

THE MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS. 93
orderly, conventual air to the place ; perhaps it may
have served that purpose, it certainly did no other.
The door was open between us, and the lively talking
that went on in that room was incessant. Once, the
old lady by my side called to them " Tose !" and I
thought that she was calling them to order; but it
proved that she only wanted to have a share in the
conversation. When not sitting for her portrait, she
used to sew, or knit, as she sat beside me; she could
do beautiful mending, and never wore spectacles.
She told me that she had worn them until a few
years before, when her sight had come back quite
strong as in youth.
But I must allow, in speaking of my friends of
the orphan asylum, that some of their religious obser
vances are a little — peculiar. In the large garden,
on the side where Signora Maria has her flower
border ("We cannot afford much room for flowers,"
Annetta says, "but they are the delight of the
Superiora!"), is a long walk under a canopy of grape
vines, leading to a niche where stands, under the
thick shade, a large wooden Madonna of the Immacu
late Conception. She is very ugly, and but a poor

94 Christ's folk.
piece of carving; a stout heavy woman in impossible
drapery, and with no expression whatsoever. The
seven stars (somewhat rusty and blackened by the
weather) are arranged on a rather too conspicuous
piece of wire about her head. The last time I saw
her, however, she had much improved, if not in
beauty or sanctity, at least in cleanliness of appear
ance ; which Annetta accounted for by saying, com
placently, " I gave her a coat of white paint, myself ;
oil paint; so now she will look well for a long time
to come, and the rain will not hurt her."
I observed that some one had placed a rose in the
clumsy wooden hand, and that her ears were orna
mented with little garnet earrings. Annetta said,
" The girls put together a few soldi, and bought
those earrings for the Madonna; they are very cheap
ones : and I bored the holes in her ears myself, with
a gimlet." *
Before this Madonna the girls go on summer
* There is no passage in all these histories which claims from
the general reader more tender and loving attention ; or in
reading which he ought to repent more solemnly of light thought
and scornful mood, or to remember with more shame the icono-
clasm of Churches that had neither sense nor charity.

THE MOTHER OF THE ORPHANS. 95
afternoons to sing the litanies, and apparently find
their devotion in no way disturbed by the idea of
Annetta's tinkering. She seems to do pretty much
all the carpentering and repainting that are wanted
about the establishment, and is just as well pleased
to "restore" the Madonna as anything else.
I was very sorry, at last, when the time came to say
good-bye to the peaceful old house and its inmates.
The Superiora, on the occasion of her. last sitting,
presented me with a very pretty specimen of the
girls' work, a small pincushion surrounded with arti
ficial flowers, and surmounted by a dove, with spread
wings, in white linen : its shape, and even feathers,
quite wonderfully represented by means of the pecu
liar starching process which I have tried to describe.
I can only hope that the dear old lady may be
spared to the utmost limit of life in Bassano, which
would give her many years yet; for it is sad to
think of the change that must come over the little
community when she is taken away. She is still the
life of the house, her influence is everywhere; she
reminds me always of the beautiful promise, " They
shall yet bear fruit in old age." Once I was ex-

96 cheist's folk.
pressing to her my admiration for the institution,
and she said, "It is a happy institution."
And so it is; but it is she who has made it
so.

Pardon me, dear Francesca. She, — yes, and An
netta, and Don Giorgio, and the dead Paola, yet
living " near to heaven," but with them ; and the
obedient souls aud joyful hearts of every orphan
child, recognising the Mother given her again by
God. These, and the Catholic traditions of Yenice ;
and the glory and the beauty of Lombard Italy, in
her land and her people, — in the blue mountains of
Bassano, and the blonde beauty with a complexion
like a sweetbriar rose, and eyes as peaceful as an
infant's. Think you, Francesca, you could institute
such an orphanage as this between Edmonton and
Ware? But I must say one more very definite word on
the question of servants, touched so timidly by
Mammina. She has never read rightly either her
Carlyle, or me, or — to so earnest a pilgrim mother
I say it with reverent awe — her Bible. What does

THE M0THEE OF THE ORPHANS. 97
she imagine to be the meaning of the beautiful
verses 13 — 17 of Deut. xv., "When thou sendest
him (thy servant) out free from thee, thou shalt not
let him go away empty. Thou shalt furnish him
liberally out of thy flock, and out of thy floor, and
out of thy winepress : of that wherewith the Lord
thy God hath blessed thee shalt thou give unto him.
And, if he say unto thee, I will not go away from
thee, because he loveth thee and thine house; then
thou shalt take an awl, and thrust it through his ear
unto the door, and he shall be thy servant for
ever." Of which the eternal import is, that a good ser
vant is no more to be turned out in his old age than
a good dog is. And either in a servant or a dog,
the law of their goodness is that they love their
master, and serve him for love, not for bones; which
is indeed the manner of every right-hearted and no
bly-minded service that ever was, or is, or can be, to
the world's end, — or the end of any number of worlds
that are yet to be made, according to existing laws of
rock, flesh, and soul.

98

CHRIST'S FOLK.

Nominal Index to Part III.
(The names given alphabetically in this index will usually be the Chris
tian ones simply, surnames and distinctive titles taking their
chance afterwards.) Page
The two African children  79
Annetta  81, 85
Argentina {the cow)  64
Bella Bosa (the cow)  66
Birdie (the canary)  67
Bortolo Mosca ....... 88
Catina  61
Daciana Pirani  85
Giorgio Pirani  83, 85
Marco Cremona  83
Umberto, The King of Italy . . . . 71, 72
Lilla (with the blue eyes)  69
Maddalena Bernardi  90
Maria Zanchetta (the Superiora) .... 74
Marietta •••••... 62
Marina (the herdgirl)  63
Paola Zanchetta  75
Paolina  62
 80

Silvia (of Bassano)

CHRIST'S FOLK.

iv.
TEE NUNS SCEOOL IN FLORENCE.

THE
NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE.

The pretty stories in Francesea's latest letters come
so fast, and the King's visits to Tuscany and the re
building of the Cathedral facade have so stirred the
spirit of the people to all that she most delights in
telling, that I know not how to arrange, nor where to
end this number. But as in the last part there was
question of what it is chiefly now vital for us to learn
in England, — the right methods of schooling, or of
doing without it, for the children of our own heath
ery Alps and grassy Apennines, — I will not let my
self be drawn away from that matter ; which has, in
deed, been my own chief subject of thought and
watching for all the years I have lived at Coniston.
We have one little school on our own side of the
lake, quite perfect in its kind ; a dame-school, in the

102 cheist's folk.
dame's — Miss Yewdale's — cottage, with no schoolroom
but her own comfortable kitchen, and the garden out
side, into which the children can run when they are
tired ; — she, I think, never is. Beyond the garden,
which is always bright with the first flowers of every
month in the year in which flowers are born, is a bit
of mossy and rocky field, falling steeply to the bed of
a brook; beside which the rough path to the school-
cottage winds up from the terrace road that leads to
High Cross, the highest point of the hills between
Coniston and Hawkshead.
And hear the children learn — all that the most of
them need ever know — to behave quietly, to be kind
to each other, to read plain English words; to count,
up to all they are ever likely to want of numbering;
to sew, knit, and fit their dress in a lasting and
homely manner. But when from this wayside acad
emy they are promoted into the Government school
in the village of Coniston itself, they have to learn
whatever will enable them to take office with busi
ness men in towns ; and sundry things besides — in
grammar, and modern physical science, which enable
them for nothing; while of the natural history of

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 103
their own country, and of any simple arts practicable
by peasant hands, they remain wholly ignorant.
Four years ago I tried to simplify and bring to
more local accuracy their astronomical knowledge, by
building a celestial globe in their playground, large
enough for two or three of them, according to size,
to get inside of ; which, turning on its pole, might be
set always to the night of the month ; and the chief
stars, being represented by pierced larger or smaller
holes, might be visible always by daylight, and on
quiet evenings, by external lamplight, be compared
in their groups with the actual stars. This was done
for me in all contrivance of mechanism with perfect
success by Mr. Gershom Collingwood ; but he got
too much interested in the constellations himself ever
to simplify their figures enough for distinctness to
children ; and we are both of us disheartened now, by
the doubt whether the children of the immediate
future will ever care to see the stars at all.
, But this last spring, being out of conceit with my
plans for endless books, I thought to write a dame-
school one, on the wild flowers and useful vegetables of
our own district, of which the text might be composed

104 cheist's folk.
for me mostly by the children themselves. So with
my own little farm-girl, the ' Jane Anne ' of Fors 94,
p. 157, I gave leave to six others, whose parents
could give them plots of garden for their own, to
come to Brantwood for their Saturday half-holiday ;
and so classed them by their seven ages to gather
what they could find of wild flowers, choose what
they liked best in the kitchen garden ; and learn, with
help of the best picture-books in Brantwood library,
anything they cared to know of them. But I found
that they cared to know less than I expected; and
though during the half- hour's lecture, chiefly telling
them how to find out things for themselves, they
were always delighted to do anything they thought
might be useful to me, I found the botanical plates
had little attraction when I left the room.
But one thing I proved with success, that the
Latin roots of floral names might be learned with
perfect ease, forming a foundation for the good under
standing of all other English words related to them:
only observe, the first law of learning Latin, for chil
dren of any rank, is that they should know the mel
ody of it,, read with the full Italian vowels. I hear,

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLOEENCE. 105
with more than amazement, of disputes still in our
Universities about Latin pronunciation : — of course
the scholars of Italy must give final verdict ; but of
all languages Latin is exactly the one in which sound
has largest part of the power ; and until it is sung, or
spoken, Latin is only half understood. More things
than this I should have proved, but Saturday half-
holidays were not quite enough to do all I wanted.
I must go on to Francesca's account of Catholic
schooling for poorer children.
" I began this letter yesterday, and was interrupted
by the arrival of my sitter, a pretty and pleasant
Dominican nun, who comes to me as a great favour,
that I may study her dress for Santa Caterina. She
belongs to a little sisterhood here, devoted to the care
of the sick, and the teaching of poor children; and
she herself teaches a school of fifty little girls in the
old Ghetto — the poorest of the poor. She and one
other sister teach them, first of all, their prayers ; and
then, reading, writing, sewing, and knitting; and they
also make soup for their dinner. The children are ex
pected to bring bread for themselves, but often some
of them are so poor that they come without, and then

106 CHRIST'S FOLK.
the sisters buy it for them, if they can afford it.
Some day I am going to see the school, and then I
will tell you about it; meanwhile, I wish you could
see my monacal She is the gayest, lightest-hearted
creature in the world, and, for a middle-aged woman,
the fullest of play that I ever saw, (though with
plenty of good sense and real piety behind it) — ready
to laugh at everything or nothing ; and with a con
firmed belief that her life of teaching, cooking, and
sewing is the most delightful and exhilarating possible.
How she does love the children ! How pleased she is
to tell anything good about them ! She says they
love her, too, (which I think likely ; I know I did,
before she had been with me for half an hour!)
' When I was ill the other day, they all grew quiet
and sober, and did not want to play in the recess ;
and if they see me going for water to make the soup,
two or three of them always run after me and want
to carry my pitcher.' I call her pretty ; and, indeed,
at first sight she seemed to me absolutely lovely; yet
she is only a little stout woman, with ordinary fea
tures. But she has the fresh colour of perfect health,
(made more brilliant by the clean white linen about

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 107
her face;) her eyes are as bright as diamonds, and
her smile so full of gaiety that it spreads over all the
faces about her. How different she seems from the
people who make a business of gaiety ! I think some
times they end by losing it altogether. But I can
never understand why the very happy people, and
those who give thanks all the time, are usually the
ones that we should think the least fortunate. Did I
ever tell you about Persiede? (I suppose she must
have been christened Prassede, but Persiede is what
she calls herself, and what everybody else calls her.)
Her husband was a street-sweeper, and he was a very
good man, who used to rise early, in the dark, on
winter mornings, to go to church before he went to
work. One very cold winter he fell ill, through expo
sure to the cold, and after two months he died. Per
siede hurt herself by overwork in his illness, and has
been herself an invalid ever since. She is old now,
and feeble, and very poor, and can work little; but a
kind-hearted contadino, whom -she used to work for
when she was strong, lets her come to him, and pack
fruit for the market, and gather vine-leaves to cover
it, and do such other easy work as she is still capa-

108 CHRIST'S FOLK.
ble of, that she may not feel herself an absolute beg
gar. You would not call Persiede a fortunate per
son, would you ? One day a lady gave me a dress of
the nostrale flannel, woven at Prato, telling me to
give it to some poor woman. Persiede came to see
me about that time, thinly clad and looking half,
frozen, so I gave the dress to her. I remember that
she thanked me in a lost, amazed sort of way, and
slipped out of the room very quickly. I was alone
at the time ; but a little later, Edwige, coming up to
my room, found poor old Persiede in a corner, on the
stairs, crying in such a way as quite frightened her
to see! She stopped to ask what was the matter;
and, indeed, one might have thought that the poor
woman had enough to cry about. But what do you
think was the answer which (with difficulty, being so
overcome by her feelings) she finally managed to sob
out? — " Because the Lord is too good to me/" Did
you ever hear any of the people who lead gay lives
say that the Lord was too good to them ? I never
did."

IHE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 109
n.
POLISSENA "IN YENA."
TEE STORY OF THE NECKLACE GIVEN TO THE MADONNA
OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN.
I wish I had time to tell you some of the things
that cPolissena has been telling me : she was, as they
say, " in vena" to-day ; and it has been one succession
of curious stories and remarks. Every subject spoken
of brings in some story by way of illustration. Here
is one, to show that a good deed once done should
never be repented of.*
" You have heard of the Madonna of Montenero ?
She is a very miraculous Madonna indeed ! One
time a blind girl went to see her, with her mother.
And the blind girl wore a very beautiful necklace
about her neck; and she promised, if her sight were
restored, that she would give the necklace to the Ma
donna. And as she knelt in the church, suddenly the
light came to her eyes, and she saw as well as any
* Does not Polissena think the story shows a little more than
that?

110 Christ's folk.
one. So she hung up her necklace in the church,
and came away very happy. But on the road she
grew thoughtful, and when her mother said to her,
Clementina, this is a great mercy that you have re
ceived ! she answered, Yes ; but I am without my
necklace ! When suddenly she felt the necklace
about her neck; and, at the same moment, the light
went out from her eyes. She took the necklace back
to tbe Madonna afterwards, but she never saw again."

m.

FBANCESCA'S BEE.
But as for my bee, one bee of the same kind
looks very much like another, and I cannot say cer
tainly that the same one comes back every year;
only this much is certain, that a very large and mag
nificently beautiful dark-blue bee, with brilliant trans
parent wings, precisely like sapphire, (and always
apparently the same,) has come to my terrace, now,
every spring for the last six or seven years, usually
also making me a visit in my working room: and he

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. Ill
is so gentle that he will let me stand close by and
watch him while he gathers honey. I shall never
forget my horror when a lady told me once that I
ought to kill that bee, and give him to some col
lector. (But she meant no harm, for she did not
know of our friendship.)*
Here is my bee, flown into the room just as I be
gan to write! He makes himself perfectly at home,
examining all the flowers, and hums about as if he
were in a field, often close to my face. I wonder if
he knows me ! Polissena, who has kept bees, says f
that they are "blessed of the Lord," and that, when
ever one goes to the hive, one should ask for a bless
ing in the Lord's name. She says, if one omits this
custom " the bees don't like it !"
It is certainly true that bees like to be talked to;
and that they know their masters, and become at
tached to them; and some people whom I knew
once, who undertook to keep bees on scientific prin-
* Sorella, dear, it is far worse to do or think harm, in folly
than in passion. That is one of the chief things I have had to
reiterate in Fors ; I will look the places up for you.
fWas this on the "in vena" day?

112 CHRIST'S FOLK.
ciples, without making companions of them, made a
miserable failure of it; but perhaps that had nothing
to do with it. They are curious creatures; I don't
believe we know much about them.
You will like to hear, Sorel, that mine have built,
now these three years, in the roof of the Brantwood
dining-room, which I built the walls of, and planned
the roof, — but was surprised to hear afterwards from
the builder that he would not like me to put flower
pots on it. Any way, the bees found it comfortable
inside. They swarmed round the turret, and the ser
vants were surprised to see me walk through the
musical mist of them. But people say I have no
"small talk," so I didn't try my wits at them. They
found a hole in the slates somewhere, — went in, — and
we have never been able to get an ounce of honey
out of them since; though just before I left this last
August, for St. Albans, they were in a great fuss at
the edges of the slates, going out and in like ants. —
J. B., Sept. 1887.

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLOEENCE. 113
IV.
ENBICHETTA'S NIGHTINGALES.
Eneichetta lets no one shoot or annoy the birds
about her villa at Yiesca, and (as they soon find out
where they are safe) a whole tribe of nightingales has
taken possession there, and you can imagine what
music she has. I have heard one, when I was in
the shady walk in her garden, begin that long, sweet
whistle of his close beside me, almost within reach of
my hand ; and then go on with such a song as took
my breath away, not minding my presence in the
least !

v.
EOSITA AND ANGELINA.
I am afraid that this letter which I am writing
you to-day will not be a very lively one, for I have
had a sober time since my return, having had Ange
lina ill again, and her husband away, and no one with
her but Eosita, the pretty excitable South American

114 cheist's folk.
niece of whom I wrote you from Bassano, and who
brought such an element of gaiety into our quiet
life there, that I felt myself quite lost for a while. I
should as soon have thought of being taken care of
in illness by a Brazilian humming-bird ; but, would
you believe it? that "fiamma di fuoco," as we used
to call her at Bassano, turned out to be the most
tender and devoted of nurses, and the most judicious,
too. She never went out of the house, received no
visit from any one, and refused altogether to leave
her aunt for even a short time, eating and sleeping
by her bedside ; and seemed to know by a sort of in
stinct exactly what should be done for her relief.
How little we know about people until we see them
in trouble.
But now I want to tell you about what I call a
wonderful Providence, with regard to these friends
of mine, which came about, indirectly, through
you. Mammina was saying this morning, that
everything relating to you seems to bring a
blessing not only to us but to others. On the first
day when Angelina was able to sit up, as I sat near
her, they began to ask me about you, and your ill-

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 115
ness this summer, and I told them, among other
things, about those three texts in the Bible, which I
touched as if by accident. They seemed very much
impressed, and I told them also about the lily, and
Polissena's prophecy, and about how kind my cousin
Joan was, and all the rest. The next day Angelina
sent Bosita to see me : she was very pale and quiet,
being quite worn out with what she had been
through, in Angelina's illness. As soon as she was
seated in my room, she asked me if I could let her
see the book in which I found those beautiful words.
There was a Testament on the table; a very pretty
copy, which I had just bought to give to my httle
sposo Pierino. I showed it to her ; she had never
seen one before; and as she opened it at random,
and began to read, she was utterly overpowered by
the beauty of what she found. Her eyes filled with
tears; she said that she had never heard anything
like that, and we passed the rest of the visit in
reading it together. When she went away, as I
found she cared so much about it, I gave it to her,
she promising to read a little every day. (If you
had seen how she cried over the raising of Lazarus !)

116 CHRIST'S FOLK.
The next day, when I went to Angelina, she began
to ask me, almost with the first breath, if I could
not find a book like that for her. She was quite as
much in love with it as her niece, and they had been
reading it together all the evening; and now she
says that she wants to read a little every day, like
Bosita. And so Mammina has just gone up there
to take her one. So the comfort that was given to
me in your illness has been the means of giving com
fort to two other hearts that needed and that are
ready to receive it ; for if the Kingdom of Heaven
is for those who are like little children, it must
certainly be for Angelina and Eosita.
But, as usual, my story has grown too long, and I
am afraid I have not told it very connectedly, for
while I was writing, I have had poor Bice to see me,
and one of the widows, both in much trouble, and
with sad stories for me to listen to; but, thanks to
you and Ida, I was able to send them away with
lighter hearts than they came. Oh dear, here comes
another. There seems to be no end to it to-day ;
and just when I wanted to have a quiet time,
and enjoy myself writing to you.

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 117
I never told you what I wanted to about that
good Signor Fontana, who made the first part of
the journey with us, and now I have hardly left
room. We were talking to him about a noble and
rich lady of Bassano, (that is, her ancestors were
noble, but I am afraid they used up all the no
bility themselves, and did not leave her any,) who
has occasioned a great deal of indignation among
those old-fashioned people, by reducing the gains of
her contadini, who were so poor, before, that the
priest had to spend all his little income for them ;
they had no salt for their polenta, excepting what he
gave them. Her excuse was that the taxes ate up so
large a part of her gains (which was true). Fontana
said that he, on the contrary, had given up the right
which all padroni think they have, to take milk,
eggs, fruit, and other provisions for their families
from the contadini without paying for them ; and
he said that in consequence he gained much more
from his land than harder masters did; as the conta
dini, from affection, made his interests their own,
and took good care of all that belonged to him. I
tell you this because it fits in so well with what you

118 CHRIST'S FOLK.
told us in the Songs, that the Italians can only be
helped and guided by love. But I think he has
more right to put "Nobile" before his name than
she has, if he did make his fortune out of cake and
sugar-plums. Her contadini are preparing to emi
grate. But the paper cuts me short. Good-bye.
Love from Mammina and me.
Your affectionate Soeella.
Florence, November 3rd, 1885.

VI.

INTO GOOD HANDS.
I am delighted that you liked my little account of
the royal visit to Lucca, and that you think you can
make use of it. One httle incident, rather pretty,
Edwige told me, but I do not know if it be true.
There are all sorts of stories about. A con-
tadino had come down to Lucca from somewhere
in the mountains, with a petition which he wished

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 119
to present to the King ; but when he saw him, with
his seguito, he did not know who he was. (Probably
the poor man's only idea of a king was gathered
from some picture of the Adoration of the wise
men.) So he looked at all of them, and rather
thought the King was not there, but perhaps one of
those gentlemen would convey the paper to him.
And being taken with the King's pleasant face,
he went to him, in preference to any of the others,
and put the paper into his hands, saying, "I will
leave it with you, sir; I rather think I have given
it into good hands." At which the King smiled, and
said, " Yes, you have."
They have all gone now, and the feasts are over,
the banners taken down, and only the sight of the
Duomo to remind us what has been. I am not at all
sorry to have the city quiet again ; the only show I
went to see was the flower show, where Letizia would
take me, rather against my will; but I was glad I
went, for some of the plants were very wonderful,
especially the palm trees. (I will not say anything
about the orchids, knowing your opinion of them.)
The plants " developed by cultivation " I do not care

120 CHRIST'S FOLK.
quite so much about, and often think them prettiei
in their natural state ; but those splendid palms and
tropical ferns I would never be tired of looking at.*
There was one hall devoted to the sale of vases f of
flowers, pictures of flowers, etc., and among them
some porcelain and terra cotta figures; and I bought
a lovely copy of the Madonna by Donatello, in basso-
rilievo, for the terrace,^: and paid for it eight francs !
The strange thing was that it was almost the only
pretty thing, and nobody had bought it; — and all the
ugly things cost a great deal more, and many of them
were sold! There was a little figure close by my
Madonna, of a very vulgar, disagreeable old man,
drinking something out of a cup, — thirty francs!
They told me it was because that was original, and
that such subjects were more fashionable now than
Madonnas! But it is dreadful to see the representa
tions of old age that seem to be the fashion just

* Are you ever tired of looking at the ¦wmsplendid Arctic ones,
then, Sorella?
t Vases? How far exalted, and by what skill, above a red
flower-pot ?
% Of Francesca's town garden, often elsewhere referred to.

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 121
now, with all the dignity and beauty of old age left
out.* I have been interrupted two or three times, and
must now end. Only I must tell you of a rather
sweeping compliment that Mammina received yester
day, for I am sure it will make you smile. I had
quoted her example about something, when Edwige
silenced me indignantly. "I hope, Signorina, you
don't mean to compare our Signora to other people.
She has more sense when she is asleep than they
have when they are awake!"
We are going to Yenice on Tuesday if nothing
happens. The Bookes came to say good-bye yester
day. I was sorry to part from the children, who have
often brightened me up this winter when I have
needed it. Laddie says he is coming back when he
is a man, to buy marble at Carrara, because he means
to be a sculptor. But he changes professions often.
The last time I saw him he had made up his mind
to be an engine driver, and the time before that an
admiral. Good-bye, and love from us both as ever;
* And all its indignity put in.

122 CHRIST'S FOLK.
and that all may be well with you is the constant
prayer of Your affectionate Soeella.
Florence, May 26$, 1887.

vn.

EIYALTA.
My last letter from L'Abetone was to you, and
now I write to you the first word from Eezzonieo.
I am beginning soon, only the first day of October
(1886) to-day, and we arrived in the evening, day
before yesterday. Silvia has arranged for our annual
pilgrimage to Castelfranco and the Giorgione Madonna,
to-morrow; and on Monday Signor Bortolo is going
to take me to Bivalta, to look up what information we
can about the saintly Catina da Bivalta, the tavern
keeper, of whom he says that she is the only human
being for whom he ever felt a true veneration.

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 123
It was such a beautiful journey!* The rose-bushes
that were such masses and garlands of blossom when
we went up the road in the spring, were all covered
now with their scarlet berries, close together like
strings of coral; and the fields that were then car
pets of flowers, had been mown, and great flocks of
sheep and lambs turned in to eat the short grass of
the second growth. For the first three miles or so,
the banks along the roadside were all scattered with
clusters of fringed gentian, and with the splendid S.
Bellegrino thistle, nearly as large as a sun-flower,
pure white, and shining like mother-of-pearl, (do you
know it?)f And then we came into the country of
blackberries and bluebells, and so on to S. Marcello,
among the chestnut trees, where we passed the night.
I have lost a lovely bit of a Francesca letter, first disclaiming all
power of describing or drawing Catina's country, and then
gradually kindling and glittering into lights and shades on it ;
till, pushed to do what she can for me, by my total ignorance

* From L'Abetone.
t Well, I'm afraid not, little Sorel ; but you know, the flavour
of thistle is all that concerns me! You can find solar phenome
na in them, of course, be they no bigger than daisies.

124 CHRIST'S FOLK.
of anything but the blue outlines of the Alps beyond Bassano
seas, like purple clouds from Venice, she begins delightfully
thus : —
The road all the way from Bassano to the Sette
Comuni is the most beautiful that can be imagined,
especially in the higher parts, where it winds often
through woods filled with the most beautiful of moun
tain flowers ; and at nearly every turn we see the
great plain spread out beneath us like the sea, widen
ing always (in appearance) under our eyes as we as
cend, sprinkled with cities and villages, and with hills
rising out of it like islands. Finally, after a day's
journey, about sunset, one finds oneself in another
plain, (or rather a great stretch of undulating country,)
very high up in the air. One of the great 'altopiani'
of the Alps; the inhabitants say, the great altopiano,
the most wonderful of all. But it is only fair to say
that I saw it under unfavourable circumstances.
1882 was a year of drought, and of much suffering
among the cattle; the grass was burnt and dry, the
ponds were shrunken into pools with wide margins of
baked clay; and the road was fine white dust that
every breath set in motion. One peculiarity of the

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 125
country is that you never feel as if you were among
the mountains at all. The horizon on all sides is low,
and not very distant ; the ground forming itself every
where into long low swells. But constantly, as one
draws near the edge, the top of some far-away
mountain of wild and fantastic shape rises in sight,
so distant as to appear little more than a blue shadow
in the sky, and makes one remember, for a moment
only, the immense country between it and us, lying
almost under our feet. And if one goes far enough
to find a looking-off place, the precipices which divide
us from the lower world are something terrible to
see ! There are fir woods in the country, one not
more than half a mile from Asiago, where we often
went ; but the road to it was bare, dusty, and dismal.
And Asiago itself was of unpromising appearance at
first sight. It consists of one long street paved with
round pebbles, and houses on each side, — but such
houses ! They were roofed with thatch (often black
and decayed), or else with wooden shingles ; and (to
avoid danger from fire) there were no external chim
neys ! The smoke escaped through a hole in the back
of the fireplace, and of course blackened all the side

126 cheist's folk.
of the house. There was a small church dedicated
to St. Sebastian, with a simple but very pretty old
steeple, the only thing deserving the name of archi
tecture in the place; and there was a large new
church standing a little back from tbe town, not
handsome, but interesting, as having been built by
the people themselves under the instigation of cer
tain missionaries who travelled through those moun
tains some years ago, and held what the Americans
would call " revival services ; " on which occasion the
old church was found to be too small. The new
church looked too large for the town, but was always
well filled on Sunday, when troops of contadini
poured in from the country around. As for the
farmhouses, and little villages in the country, they
were in appearance wretched beyond anything that I
ever saw in Italy. A Tuscan contadino would hardly
put his cattle in such hovels. And all this was the
stranger, because the country, in most respects poor,
was very rich in building materials, having great
quantities of both red and white marble. The land
seemed mostly poor, the few trees were stunted, and
the fields were fenced with upright slabs of mar-

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLOEENCE. 127
ble, set in rows and round at the top, so as to
give the impression of gravestones, — a sad substitute
for the Tuscan hedges. All these are first impres
sions. On the other hand, in the city the windows
and little balconies (of wood or hammered iron)
were filled with beautiful plants, especially geraniums
and carnations, which blossomed out as the season
advanced; and it was generally confessed, even by
strangers, that there were no such carnations any
where as those of Asiago for size and colour.
And I soon found out that Asiago put decidedly
its " worst foot foremost." The houses were much
better within than without, having large comfortable
rooms with rather low ceilings of fir beams, and floors
(if I remember rightly) of fir planks, uncarpeted and
unpainted, but kept very clean, and showing the pretty
grain of the wood. And most of these houses had
carefully-kept gardens behind them, unseen from the
street. Many of the inhabitants were wealthy people
(their property consisting for the most part, like that
of the patriarchs, in cattle), and nearly all were intel
ligent and well instructed, paying great attention to
learning. You ask me what has kept them so intel-

128 CHRIST'S FOLK.
ligent, honest, and pious ; but these are questions that
I cannot answer.
Meanwhile I have been reading a book by Signor
Nalli, in which I find that our friend Catina came of
a very ancient and honourable family — Benetti. For
you must know that our Asiago friends are very par
ticular about genealogies, and follow them up to re
mote antiquity. The tradition uniformly received
among the people is that the altopiano of the Sette
Comuni was settled by the Cimbri, who took refuge
in that nearly inaccessible country after their defeat
by the Eomans under Caius Marius, in the year 104
b.c. Other tribes came there afterwards, but the peo
ple usually call themselves Cimbri, and a language
called ' Cimbro ' still exists among them, though be
ginning to die out. There is one priest who still
preaches in it, and some devotional books have been
printed in Cimbro at the printing-office of Asiago.
These Cimbri had a purer faith than their conquerors,
and adored one God, (probably the true one,) called
in their language I e s i v (written in Cimbrian char
acters i s 8). And six families of Asiago prove the
purity of their descent by Cimbrian characters on

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 129
their shields, of whom one, the Benetti, bear the
Divine name itself. (The contadine families have still
the habit of eating from dishes marked with the name
of our Lord.) All of which looks as if Catina's
family were pious people, even to the most remote
generation. The Benetti house stood nearly opposite
to the tavern of the Golden Star, where we lodged at
Asiago.

vm.
ST. MARK STILL PEEACHES.
Venice, July, 1887.
For myself I am glad to be here again, after a
winter troubled in many ways. Every day we go to
St. Marco, and I have never seen the time yet when
I was ready to leave it. There never was such an
other church ; every year when we come back it seems
more beautiful than when we left it. Mammina takes
the " Stones of Yenice," and reads us the explanation
of the mosaics, etc., which adds greatly to both our
enjoyment and understanding of them. She reads it

130 CHRIST'S FOLK.
in Italian, translating as she goes along, that Signor
Bortolo and Edwige may enjoy it all with us. Yester
day she was reading outside of the church ; it was the
passage at page 96, Yol. IL, describing the " archivolt
on the left hand of great entrance," and we were com
paring it carefully, word by word, with the original,
when a workman in his shirt sleeves, crossing the
square, stopped behind her and listened with the
deepest interest to it all. When he sa*w that he was
observed, he drew back a step, but immediately re
turned and remained until the end. There is one pas
sage (and only one so far as I have gone) in the book
which does not quite agree with my experience. I
mean the one in which you say that the old mosaics
have no longer any power over people's minds. I
think that simple people still feel the power of those
simple pictures ; they came from the heart, and they
go to the heart, and always will, I believe.* The
other day Edwige and I — the others had left us —
* Yes, when the head is strong enough to show them the way.
Edwige, and the little old woman with the bright, sweet, sen
sible face, are not to be classed wholly among ' simple ' people,
any more than Francesca herself.

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 131
were standing near the mosaics of St. Christopher, in
the atrio, when I heard an excited voice close behind
us, " I wonder if you know what it means." I turned,
and saw a little old woman, with a bright, sweet, sensible
face, coloured like a little withered red-cheeked apple,
with sparkling black eyes, and a black shawl drawn
over her beautiful silver hair. And without waiting
for an answer, she broke out into her explanation
of the mosaic, — not much like one of yours, but very
good in its way. (I thought her rather patronising
towards St. Christopher, whom she kept calling
" poveretto," but she used the word affectionately, and,
being herself of great age, had, I thought, a certain
grandmotherly feeling towards him.) And she told
the story in Yenetian, with great expression, uncon
sciously acting it all out with her small withered
hands, in the most graceful and natural manner pos
sible. It was plain that she felt quite certain it was
every word true. Edwige said (I thought with much
reason) when we left the church, " I think the peo
ple who built this church must have been very wise ;
but the church itself is made for common people, be
cause it is all arranged so that we can understand it.

132 CHRIST'S FOLK.
The pictures are all stories out of the Gospel, and
there are no learned inscriptions, but only simple
words. When our Lord says" (and she looked at
the mosaic over the door) " that He is the gate, and
any one who enters by Him will be saved, it needs
no learning to understand what He means, the most
ignorant person can take it in." (Oh dear, I wish
all those who are not ignorant could take it in.)
" And would not you be happy, Signorina, if you
had painted that picture? I think the man who
painted the Lord Jesus in that way had a right to
be contented afterwards. I don't suppose he was,
though." And with this philosophical reflection she
ended for the time, but the other day she talked
with me a good deal about her spiritual affairs ; and
I was sorry to find her troubled with certain appre
hensions about her own eondition, which I do not
think such a good Christian ought to have. She
went so far as to say that she would rather take my
chance for heaven than her own ! I told her that
she would make a great mistake, because, as she had
done a great deal more in this world than ever I
had, we might hope that she would have a higher

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLORENCE. 133
place in the other. And what do you think she
said ? You would never guess, so I must tell you.
" But I have enjoyed so much more of the pleasures
of this world than you have !" When I came to ask,
I found that the " pleasures" consisted mostly in her
five children. But, do you know, she* always talks
as if her life had been singularly happy, and says
that she should like to go back and live it over
again.

IX.
ENEICHETTA'S CHAEITY.
I have two or three things left to say about our
dear Enrichetta, — of her charity, which she kept so
carefully concealed. For she always seemed to be as
much ashamed of her good deeds as other people are
of their bad ones ; and it was only by chance, and in
the course of long years of intimate friendship, that I
found out what I tell you now. Nobody was fallen
too low for her compassion. She would ask into her
house those against whom all other doors were closed.

134 CHRIST'S FOLK.
She would visit hospitals, prisons (that is, the prisons
where women are confined), she would obtain leave
from the authorities to pass an hour alone with a
prisoner, to see if by some means she could reach her
heart with kind words, and talk of the Lord's good
ness. She was exceedingly and even passionately re
ligious ; and people who were regarded by others with
disgust or contempt, were, to her, only so many souls
that her Lord had died for. Gentle and pitiful she
was to the worst of them ; always inclined to the in
dulgent side with others, though with herself perhaps
a little over-scrupulous. She was convent educated ;
and her servants thought that her death was hastened
by her observance of the fasts in Holy Week. Still,
this was not so much a matter of conscience with
her, as an affectionate clinging to the customs in
which she was brought up. She gave largely in
money, but always secretly. It was her maid, who
lived with her for* thirty years, who, after she was
gone, told me of her constant, great, hidden charities.
But I have said enough: of what she was as a
friend, I have not the heart to speak. Her judg
ment was equal to her heart, and we went to her for

THE NUN'S SCHOOL IN FLOEENCE. 135
advice about everything — in this world and the next
— and have great reason to be thankful that we did
so. She was a beautiful woman ; tall, dark-haired,
dark-eyed, fresh-coloured, with delicate regular fea
tures ; but she had something so much better than
beauty, that one hardly noticed it. Her face seemed
all illuminated with the sweetness and goodness of
her spirit ; but that was not all either. I do not
know how to say what I mean ; but it was the face
of one who lived more in heaven than on earth.
She could enjoy the things of this world, too, and
knew how to use them. She and her son employed
much of their great fortune in buying old, ruined,
worn-out estates, putting the houses and land in
order, and making the contadini comfortable; and
they have left everything a great deal better than
they found it. She did not care for display, neither
would her religion permit it ; but everything about
her was handsome, simple, and the best of its kind;
and for old-fashioned comfort, good order, and hos
pitality, her house will hardly be matched again in
Florence.

136

CHRIST'S FOLK.

Nominal Index to Part IV.
(The names given alphabetically in this index will usually be the
Christian ones simply, surnames and distinctive titles taking
their chance afterwards.) Page
Angelina ....... 115, 116
Asiago (Catina's country)
Bice 
Bortolo, Signor
Edwige 
Enrichetta ....

Fontana, Signor .
Letizia 
Nalli, Signor
Nun (Dominican, of Florence)
Persiede ....
Polissena ....

Eivalta (Catina's village)
Eosita ....

Sette Comuni, The
Silvia .

Umberto, The King of Italy

123116
122, 130
121, 130, 131
113, 133117

119128
105 107109

122
113, 115 124122 118

CHRIST'S FOLK.

v.
"ADDIO, CARA/"

"ADDIO, CARA!"

KINDNESS OF THE WILD WEST.
The following is a fragment of a letter of Fran-
cesca's to Joanie, while I was lately ill; — the reliquary
was that given me by the Capuchin monk in Eome
in 1874; see 'Fors,' Letter LYI. (Yol. V., p. 139),
and contained without any doubt such minute relics
as it professed to contain, of St. Francis, and some
other less known saints of his time.
For the message from Illinois I am myself deeply
thankful ; but must try in future not to make friends
anxious for me, far or near, for such time as may
yet be left me, in this new world of theirs. — J. E.,
October, 1887.

140 CHRIST'S FOLK.
Polissena came yesterday, and you may imagine my
pleasure in presenting her with the beautiful reli
quary, but I do not think you can imagine hers in
receiving it ; her face changed, and lighted up as if
the sun had suddenly shone upon it. First she kissed
it reverentially, holding it for a moment pressed to
her lips; then she sat and looked at it for a long
time, during which it was impossible to make her
hear anything that was said to her. She will write
her thanks herself, in a letter which she has promised
to bring me on Sunday, and which I will send to
you, and you to my Fratello, when the right time
comes. I could not talk much with Polissena yester
day, because some American ladies came to see us,
and kept me busy in different ways. One of them
was from Illinois, and she is a very devout disciple
of my Fratello, and wanted to see me entirely for his
sake. She tells me that his influence for good in the
wild west country of America is immense. When he
was ill two years ago, in every little country town of
Illinois (and she thought also in the other States) the
feeling was so great and universal that placards were
pasted on the wall twice a day telling of his condi-

"ADDIO, CARA!" 141
tion ; and when she was in Scotland last year, and
he was ill again, she seemed quite scandalized that
there were no placards, and she had to wait for the
newspapers.

n.
EOSSINI'S EETUBN TO FLOEENCE.
In a following letter (" Addio, Cara !") Francesca
says of Angelina that she seldom sang sad music, but
usually some pure piece of melody from Mozart or
Bossini. It will never be known, either from my
works or my biographies, how much thought I have
myself given to music, in the abstract forms of mel
ody which correspond to the beauty of clouds and
mountains. The modern musician cannot study them,
because the rival skills of instrumentation, and the
confusion of passionate acting with abstract music,
have rendered it impossible to get any singers to
submit to the training which would enable them to
give a single passage rightly, either from Bossini or
Mozart; and few readers but her poor Fratello will

142 Christ's folk.
understand the meaning of what Francesca tells us,
of her sweetest friend. — J. E., October, 1887.
I believe I left off my last httle note of thanks,
when so many people came in about the festa; for
the Bossini procession passed just under our balcony,
and, of course, all our friends, who had nowhere else
to go, remembered us ! I did not want at all to stop
my writing for the sake of the celebration; but I
could not leave Mammina with everybody to see to,
and no one to help her; and really it was a very
grand sight ; and it was quite beautiful to see how
the dense crowd in the Piazza made room, and stood
back quietly, to let the long procession pass. Of
course you will see an account of it in all the
papers; but they will hardly tell of the respectful
and deep feeling shown by all the people. But
then it is quite wonderful how good a Florentine
crowd will be, when there are no policemen about;
— when there are any, they appear to awaken the
worst feelings in the Florentine heart. They say
that when the King and Queen came here last, they
were particularly requested to come without guards,

"ADDIO, cara!" 143
or escort of any kind ; and were told that, if they
brought any, the Florentines would consider them
selves insulted.
It was very solemn and impressive to see Bossini
brought back to Florence to the sound of his own
music, played as I never heard it played before. For
they had brought together all the best bands in Italy ;
and I wish you could have heard " Cujus animam ;"
you would never have forgotten it !
It was interesting to me to see the societies of
all the "arts and professions," each with its banner,
— including "sellers and loaders of charcoal," and
"restaurant waiters." And I wonder if anywhere
out of Italy those particular " professions" would
think of turning out to honour the memory of a
musician, even though he were Bossini. By the way,
the charcoal people had a particularly gorgeous ban
ner, blue and gold. I thought it ought to have been
black,* — with a coat of arms in the middle, repre
senting a smoking charcoal bed!f
* Think better of it, Sorel.
f Why not rather a winter portable pan, or an angel bringing a
coal to comfort, or kindle, spirit-Kps with?

144 CHRIST'S FOLK.
m.
THE LOYE OF THE DUOMO.
I write to you on the great festa day. The bells
have just been ringing, all over the city, in token
that the Duomo is unveiled; and the work
begun six hundred years ago is finished. I am writ
ing to you alone, here in my little room. Edwige.
has gone off for a first sight of her beloved church ;
she is entirely wild, and, after the many troubles
of her life, behaves as if she were not more than
sixteen. I had meant to stay at home until the
excitement was over, having httle heart for any sort
of gaiety after all that I have lost the past winter;
but she, after trying every sort of argument yester
day to induce me to go and look at the decorations
in the Piazza, finally said in a grieved tone, "If
the Signorina did not go to look at the Duomo,
she would not be a true Florentine." Which terrible
threat finally sent me down there, through the streets
swarming with people like a hive of bees. But it was
a grand sight ! It seemed as if all the towns in the

"ADDIO, cara!" 145
neighbourhood had emptied themselves into Florence,
and everybody so proud and happy, it was a pleasure
to see. Even the poorest tried to dress a little better
than usual, just because they were Florentines, and
this was their festa (and Edwige put on her new silk
handkerchief, that she never wore before, " for love
of the Duomo "). Banners on all the houses, gay
draperies from windows and balconies; the palaces
hung out their rich silks and brocades, and the poor
always managed to find a bright coloured table-cloth,
or something to look gay. I went into the church ;
it was hung with thousands of candles, prepared for
to-day's illumination. People were passing in and
out, but there was no service going on. Many were
on their knees, giving thanks, I suppose. But I will
not lose time in writing what you will see in all
the papers. There was much that was touching, and
solemn, even a little sad. Especially so to me, the
revival of the old times, never dead in Florence,
shown by many of the shopkeepers placing over
their doors the banners once belonging to their par
ticular arts. It brought more tears than smiles, to
see the grand old banner of the wool trade hanging

146 CHRIST'S FOLK.
over a pile of blankets and coarse flannel, at a shop
door in Borgo S. Lorenzo. Because it was not done
in a masquerading spirit, but one knew the dealer
in woollens wanted to believe, and make others be
lieve, in his relationship to the great people of the
old time. And other things were altogether gay;
among the rest to see the visitors from the country
(some of them in the most extraordinary dresses; I
saw two young girls in dresses, evidently home
made, of the red Turkey cotton generally used for
linings to quilts) enjoying their very light meals in
the open air, at the doors of cafes and restaurants,
decorated with plants in full blossom. Bonciani bor
rowed all the best of the plants on the terrace, to
make what he called a " prospettiva" at the door of the
hotel. A young girl yesterday in my room made the
rather singular remark, " How hard it must be for
people to die while the festas are going on!" To
which Edwige replied, "It does not make any differ
ence; people have to die just the same. But there
will never be such another festa for a hundred years.
I suppose then there will be a centennial, because
now people have centennials for everything; but we

"ADDIO, cara!" 147
shall not be here to see it." She sighed at the idea
that we should not see the centennial of the Duomo,
then her face suddenly brightened and she said, " But
perhaps they have centennials in the other world.
And perhaps we shall see it if we have a good place
there."

rv.
THE LOCANDA AT BASSANO.
The Virginia creepers are all turning scarlet, and
I think I never saw anything so beautiful as the
place at this season. But we have been passing two
or three sad days, for our dear Angelina has been
taken ill at the locanda in Bassano, and we are all
much occupied with her. The doctor says that there
is nothing dangerous the matter with her, for the
present, and that she will soon recover from this
attack, and be as well as she was before, (which is
not saying much : she has been but poorly for sev
eral years.) But meantime it is very hard on us to
have her suffer; and not to have her able to come to

148 Christ's folk.
us, when she came to Bassano on purpose. We are
with her every day, and find our trouble much
lightened by her extreme cheerfulness and courage.
When she was first attacked her only thought was,
"Do not let Mammina know." She never complains
of anything, but is always expressing her thankful
ness for the kindness of those about her, especially
of the hotel chambermaid, who strikes me as an
untidy and far from pleasant-looking old woman ; but
Angelina assures me that she is "una creatura an
gelica." I believe the truth is that everybody
becomes "angelica" with our Angelina: she is so
sweet and good that one cannot help it. And then
she thinks that all the people she comes in contact
with are saints. The chambermaid is the favourite ;
but I am also constantly hearing of the celestial vir
tues of the landlord, the landlady, the waiter, and the
little boy who goes errands : and she lies there quite
happy in her imaginary Paradise of the little hotel
chamber, perfectly helpless, but doing us all more
good than a dozen people who can work. Yesterday
Silvia was not well, and had a good deal all day to
worry her, and when I asked her in the evening how

"addio, cara!" 149
it was that she had been- so placid and contented
through it all, she said, " It is Angelina's example, it
does me so much good to see her." Angelina was
the first person who ever adopted Mammina, and
gave her that name, and to me she has been a true
sister for a good many years now. Some day I will
tell you more about her and her life in Peru, where
she went with her husband at fourteen. Meanwhile
I must not dwell on stories of sickness and trouble,
and I hope in a few days she will be about again.
Marina has just this minute sent us up such a platter
of fruit gathered in that wonderful vineyard of hers,
— great branches of vine, with heavy bunches of
fruit hanging between the great leaves, and such
pomegranates burst open on the tree. I said, as I
caught sight of them, how I wished I could send
you one of those pomegranates, for I never saw any
thing of the kind so beautiful.
The evenings have grown too cold now for me to
sit on tlie doorstep and tell the children stories in the
afternoon, so now we sit around the table with
lighted candles, and my duties have become somewhat
heavier, as all the family attend, and I have to choose

150 CHRIST'S FOLK.
some story that will please everybody, from the grand
mother to little Bebo. Yesterday evening, I am
sorry to say, Silvia and Pierino had a quarrel as to
which should have the seat next to me to hear Beauty
and the Beast, (for the third or fourth time,) and I
had to make peace by putting myself in the middle,
after enquiring which was the oldest child of the
two — a question which nobody answered. My audi
ence consists of Marina, who, as you know, has had a
strange life of trouble and romance, and heroic ad
ventures with Austrian soldiers and spies; — of Silvia,
who has had enough to sober her, one would think,
besides her poor health and scientific propensities ; — of
the little German governess, and the two children.
Besides these we have often a friend of the family
who comes in to pass the evening, — a sober, poor,
hard-working, elderly schoolmistress. And they are
all very critical, and will not allow me to slight any
part of my story, and ask me the most difficult ques
tions. Bebo last night would know who kept the
Beast's palace in order, and cooked the supper; and
they expect me to describe minutely the dresses that
Cinderella wore to the ball, on both occasions; also

"addio, cara!" 151
her sisters' dresses. Bebo often entertains us with
stories of his own, showing much power of invention
and a sublime disregard of impossibilities. The other
day, when his brother passed the examination,, he
asked why he could not have an examination too ; (he
is just six,) and his mother asked what he should be
examined in ; to this he replied, " Beading, writing,
and telling stories."
I have just been telling one of the poor women
(Bice, who sat for the Suora) that you are better,
and she fairly went off into tears, and said, " I have
been praying a great deal for him, but I rather think
that could not have made much difference; it is not
likely the Lord Jesus would mind anything I said!
Most likely He has made him well, and sent him a
blessing, because He knows he is a good Signore, and
has been so kind to us all!"

152 CHRIST'S FOLK.

THE PATEIAECH OF YENICE.
I am so glad at last to find myself writing to you
without being in a hurry ; I am taking a rest at
last, but beginning already to think that I shall not
care to make it a very long one. We are here at
Abetone, and finding it a great deal pleasanter than
we had expected. Our friends are all very glad to
see us ; and the strangers have hardly begun to come,
so that for the present everything seems pleasant
and peaceful, almost as in the old times ! I was so
thankful that you sent me that note to Yenice,
which enabled me to take the journey with so much
easier mind ; and now I am trying to think of all
the things that I had laid aside in my head to write
you about, of which I am afraid I cannot help for
getting a good many. First of all I promised, did
I not? to tell you all about the Patriarch. You can
not think what a strange visit we had ; at least, it
seemed so to me, for I had imagined him among
all sorts of grand surroundings, in some magnifi-

"ADDIO, cara!" 153
cently furnished room, with servants in gorgeous liv
eries to wait outside of the door, and he himself very
stately and imposing; and instead, I saw only one
servant, a rather shabbily dressed little old man, gos
siping with an old beggar woman in the hall; and
when he made out what we wanted (he was quite
deaf), he led us up the broad white marble stairs,
into a large room, very clean, but furnished without
the least regard to either elegance or comfort, or
anything else, I should think, excepting economy. A
haircloth sofa, a good deal worn, and half-a-dozen
chairs to match, with two ordinary tables, were all
that I saw ; and the great room looked nearly empty.
After a few minutes the Patriarch himself appeared,
and met us with much kindness. He did not offer
me his hand, but gave it to Signor Bortolo, who
kissed it, bending on one knee. I need not describe
his appearance, since you have his portrait, only he
looks a little thinner and older now than when that
was taken, and is somewhat bent, and I thought his
face looked very tired and careworn. His manners are
gentle and quiet, but not in the least stately ; one
could hardly imagine him a cardinal : he seems like a

154 CHRIST'S FOLK.
humble, gentle-spirited Christian, such as I have known
so often among the poor, — not very different from
Edwige's old mother ; and wearing himself out for his
Church, as she wore herself out for her children. He
was very polite, and seemed to wish that our visit
should be a pleasant one ; and he was interested in
whatever pleased us ; but I noticed that the mention
of a sacred name brought a new and singular light
into his face (which is the principal sign, I think, by
which one recognizes the "hidden servants," and re
called to me my good minister, Signor Bossetti, though
in other respects the two men were so unlike each
other!). When we rose to go, he accompanied us to
the door, and stood holding it open for us, instead of
calling a servant, as might have been expected ; then
he opened another door, and said, " Only see how I
live!" It was a room quite as poor as the first, but
with the tables and chairs quite covered with heaps
of papers all lying in confusion. He sighed as he
said, " All those papers must be attended to, and
most of them are letters from people who have need
to see me on business, and want me to appoint a
time." I am afraid that he is too heavily burdened

"ADDIO, CARA!" 155
in many ways, and is perhaps one of those people
who take things too much to heart. The condition
of the poor in Yenice seems to weigh much upon his
mind ; and they say that he does many things not
expected of people of his rank, explaining the cate
chism to children, hearing the confession of obscure
people, etc. He was so kind as to ask us to come
and see him sometimes, when we came back to
Yenice ; which rather surprised me, as he is so very
busy ; but then it proves that we have several mu
tual friends, and among them the dear old lady of
Bassano, whom he is attached to almost as much as
I am.
Now I have written such a long story about the
Patriarch that I have left no room for all the other
things I wanted to tell you, and that is the way it
always happens ! But I thought you would like to
hear about him, because one does not see a living
saint every day ; or at least, if we do, we do not know
it. Signor Bortolo says that they have a story in the
Yeneto that the angels come down into the Campo
Santo at night with their golden censers, and burn
incense at the graves of those saints whom nobody

156 CHRIST'S FOLK.
knows. And it must be a great deal pleasanter to
be one of those saints, than like poor St. Marina. I
hope she does not know how they have put her up
on the altar among those dusty artificial flowers,
and the priest shows her for francs!

VI.
THE ABMENIAN IDA.
Such a strange thing happened to me the other
day about " Ida," and it is not much to tell ; only I
like to tell you everything that interests me ; and
this is something that has gone to my heart more
than I can say. I suppose you will hardly remember
Badre Alishan of the Armenian convent.* He is the
oldest, I think, now, of all the frati there, and I have
always looked upon him as a sort of saint ; he has
been our friend for a great many years. The other
* You ought not to suppose any such thing of me, Sorel. I
never forget my monk friends, I am too proud of having pos
sessed their regard ; nor had I ever any more valued than those
of the lagoon-isle.

"ADDIO, cara!" 157
day I gave him a copy of "Ida." I did not suppose
he would care much about it, and only gave it to
him a3 a compliment, and because he had given me
an engraving of a page of one of their Armenian
manuscripts. The next day, when I was, as it
chanced, alone in the house, to my great surprise the
old Padre came to make me a visit. As soon as he
had sat down he said, "I am glad in one way that
you are alone, for I have that to say to you that I
should hardly know how to say if any one were
present. I read the story of Ida yesterday, and it
made me shed so many tears! I do not mind telling
you, though I should be ashamed to tell any one
else." * By this time the old gentleman was becom
ing rather unintelligible to me, as when he is excited
he talks very fast, and mixes his Yenetian Italian
with Armenian in a most bewildering manner.
When I next caught the thread of his discourse, he
was saying : " I want now to return your present
* I have to ask both Francesca's pardon, therefore, and her
old friend's for printing this letter at all ; but how else could
the record have been, as the dear old Padre wished, "kept
with Ida's story"?

158 cheist's folk.
with another, with something that is worthy to be
kept with Ida's story, — a memorial of one who was
like her, who was an angel on earth as she was, and
who died as she died." He unwrapped, with trem
bling hands, a little packet that he had brought with
him, and gave me a small photograph of a beautiful
Armenian girl; and as I looked at the sweet young
face, I saw, to my astonishment, that she was so like
Ida! Just the same age, and the same soft eyes and
delicate but distinctly marked eyebrows, the same
pretty oval to the face, the same mouth and chin pre
cisely, the same slight graceful throat, even the dark
hair turned back from the forehead as Ida used to
wear it ! Much moved, I told him of the strange re
semblance, and he said, " She was so like her also in
character! She was my brother's daughter. I never
saw her, for she was born and died after I left my
country, but I loved her very dearly. Begina Satinie
was her name; she was named after one of the an
cient queens of Armenia. And much of what you
say about Ida might have been written about her.
She too felt no fear in the presence of death, and

"ADDIO, caea!" 159
before she died she would have her hair cut off, and
gave a little to each of her friends; and she disposed
of all her little ornaments, and whatever else she had,
and left some keepsake to every one in the family,
and to each of the servants. And look here!" He
showed me, on the back of the picture, her name and
the date of her death, which he translated from the
Armenian. She had died at Constantinople on the
twenty-first of January; Ida in Florence on the
twenty-second! He continued: "For some time I
had resolved to separate from this picture because it
had become so precious to me; I love it so much. I
will not keep it with me any longer; and now you
will keep it, and you will care for her for Ida's
sake." I tried to persuade him to keep the picture
himself, but he only became excited and tearful and
unintelligible again. As nearly as I could under
stand, he did not think it right for him, a frate, to
love anything earthly so much. "No," he said,
"you must keep it, and when you say a prayer for
Ida, you will remember to say one for her, —
though I hope, I think that she is with Jesus al-

160 cheist's folk.
ready! I rather think she prays more for me than
I do for her!" I said, "I do not think our friends
who are gone ever forget us." " No," he answered,
"they remember us, they pray for us; I think they
do everything for us, only they never speak to us ; I
wish sometimes they would speak just one word!
There was an old father in our convent who died
some time ago, at a great age, and he asked us all to
pray for him ; and he said, if we would, he would
write us a letter some day, all in characters of gold.
But he has never written it yet, though we have
been expecting it for quite a long time;" and the old
man sighed and looked disappointed, then he added:
" We buried him in the sacristy of the church, be
cause we thought he was a saint. But all that ever
happened was, that I dreamed once I heard him sing
ing the Litany, and oh, he sang it with such devo
tion! I never in my life heard anything like it!"
By this time a very peaceful smile had come into his
face, though his eyes were tearful, and he looked like
one not far off from the country of his hope. But
oh, Fratello, if I had had any idea that this Armenian
story (with nothing in it) was going to take so long,

"ADDIO, CAEA!" 161
I would not have told it,* for it has crowded out so
very much that I wanted to say. I ought to stop
now.

vrr.
IN THE DAEK YALLEY.
Mio caeo Fratello,
After a week of great trouble I sit down, tired
and confused, to write to you, certain that I shall
write nothing worth your reading, and yet not willing
that Sunday should pass without a word from me.
You will know before I tell you what has happened.
Our dear Angelina, who has taken the place of sister
to me for twenty-five years, has left us at last; gone
no doubt to the heaven promised to little children
and those who are like them. And this is only the
fifth day. I do not quite understand it yet, but I
am beginning to. One thing I do understand already,
* You would have been very unkind, Sorel, then ; it is one of
the most beautiful and useful of all your stories.

162 CHRIST'S FOLK.
that however long I may live I shall never see such
another. She passed away very peacefully in a long
sleep; thank the Lord for that! They hardly knew
when she was gone. But I will not dwell on the
last sad days (though there has been much sweetness
in them), for you have troubles enough of your own,
without bearing the burden of mine. I do not think
that any one ever came near her without being the
better for it, and without receiving some kindness
from her. She was very beautiful; (I was always
sorry Mammina sent Joanie her photograph, which,
though enough like her to be better than nothing, to
us who knew her, does her no justice at all : like
most of those fair luminous beauties, her face would
never paint* well), and she was very rich, and her
husband gave her everything of the most magnificent ;
and she was the sweetest singer that ever I heard,
and every one loved her that came near her; and she
had enough to turn a dozen heads, and yet she was
the most simple, unworldly creature that ever I knew.
* Photograph well, I think you mean, Sorella. Could not
Giorgione have painted her, think you, beneath that Madonna of
yours at Castelf ranco ?

"ADDIO, cara!" 163
She never cared to be one of the great world, in
which she might have made so brilliant a figure ;
but lived retired, dressed simply, (she hardly ever
put on the fine lace and jewels that her husband
gave her; I suppose Eosita has them now,) cared no
more for fashion than Polissena does, and had her
house full of all the forlorn people she could find —
the poor and the shabby, the broken in health and
spirit, the disgraced by unworthy relations; all the
people that the world had turned its back upon,
found a true and warm friend in Angelina.
Here is a letter from Polissena, in such very
original spelling that I don't believe you can read it,
so will translate it for you. I must explain one or
two things about it. The other present that she
speaks of is a little money which I gave her some
time since in your name, because it was some of what
you gave me for Ida, and I thought it was yours and
not mine. Tour daughter is Joanie. When you
were ill, and Polissena used to come to me for news,
I told her that there was a lady who took the place
of daughter to you, and wrote me news of you every
day. I do not know who has read some pages of the

164 CHRIST'S FOLK.
book* to her, but I imagine it to be the Signora Bian-
ca, an Englishwoman married at Pian Sinatico, whom I
have never seen, but who is very kind about going to
read to blind Teresa. Her (Polissena's) anxiety about
your health is quite sincere. She always has an af
fectionate feeling — almost a sense of relationship —
toward those whom she has once prayed for; and in
all her letters she is begging for news of you. Ma
rina is here, as you know, but this great trouble has
made her quite ill. Poor Marina! after taking the
long journey on purpose, she was not able even to see
Angelina. I am with her every day, and yesterday
she told me a story that interested me much, so much
that I think I must write it to you, especially as it is
very short, f
* "The Peace."
t It will find its place in another number.

"ADDIO, CARA!" 165
vm.
"ADDIO, CABA!"
The name of my Armenian friend is Padre Leon
Alishan, one of the best men in the world, and who
has written some interesting books in his own lan
guage. One, " The Life of an Armenian Saint," has
been translated into French, and he gave me a copy
of it. But above all I care for the honour which you
pay the memory of my dear Angelina. I do not re
member now what I wrote you about her; but, what
ever it was, I am sure that it must have been less
than the truth. Now that she is gone, we remember
many things which, in her lifetime, seemed so a part
of herself that we hardly thought of them, — they be
longed to her just like her dimples or her golden
hair. A " cuor d'oro" people used to call her ; and
only now we begin to understand that there are not
many such golden hearts left. During a long illness
of her husband, it became necessary for her to take
upon herself the administration of their very large
estate ; at which time she astonished every one by her

166 Christ's folk.
great business capacity, never before suspected. He is
a scientific man, for the most part immersed in pro
found studies ; and after his recovery he was not
sorry to turn over his affairs to her keeping. And I
often wonder if any great property was administered
in such a way before! Sometimes, when I went to
her house, the floors would be covered with flasks of
wine, jars of honey, fruit, chickens, geese, pheasants,
— a little of everything ; it was an arrival from the
estate. And in a few hours all, or nearly all, would
have disappeared — gone to the houses of poor or
sick, or in some way needy people. She never talked
about it, but I knew it, because I knew so many
of those whom she helped, and they used to tell
me. She never seemed to care for her great wealth
excepting to make as many people happy with it as
she could ; indeed, she was never happy herself unless
she was making someone else so. She did not do it
on principle; I don't think she ever thought much
about principle, for it was so natural to her to be
good: she never thought about it any more than
a rose thinks about being sweet. I doubt if
she knew that she was good, though she knew

"ADDIO, cara!" 167
enough of all the good in every one else! I think
she must have known that she was beautiful, if she
ever looked in the glass; but there never was a
woman so indifferent to her own beauty. And how
she used to sing ! Just like a nightingale ! You
must not think that I am talking extravagances ; her
singing will never be forgotten by those who once
heard her. Mammina says that she never heard more
than one other voice in the world that would com
pare with hers, and that was Alboni's. I wonder if
you remember it. She was a finished musician, but
never cared to display her voice any more than her
beauty. The most that 6he cared for either, was
when they served to brighten a sick-room or cheer
a heavy heart. When we asked her for a song, she
would begin without rising from her seat, — seldom
sad music, always something with a great deal of
melody, usually some song by Mozart or Bossini;
but there is no use in trying to tell what it sounded
like. Well, she had her troubles, poor Angelina ! She
was a great sufferer for many years in health, though
she was so cheerful and courageous that few ever

168 CHRIST'S FOLK.
suspected it; and then she always attached herself to
all the infirm, and sick, and very aged people : and
broke her heart when any of them died. And she
bore everybody's troubles as well as her own ; and I
am glad, sometimes, to think that she is at home, and
at rest. Almost the last time that I saw her, (and it
was only a few days before she died,) a poor woman,
a servant, had been sent to the house on an errand.
Angelina asked to have her brought into the room,
saying that the woman had been ill, and she wanted
to see with her own eyes how she was. I was sitting
by the bedside, and I remember as if I saw it still,
how Angelina raised herself up, and took the pale,
tired woman's hand in hers, and sat talking with
almost sisterly interest of her ailments, of her pov
erty, of her absent family, etc. Then she ordered
a meal to be prepared for her, and would have it
served in the chamber that she might see if she ate
it, and sat up again to look and see if she finished
all. I saw her give her something else in her hand,
— I don't know what it was, — and I still seem to hear
her cheerful "Addio, cara!" as the invalid woman
went, rested and refreshed, from the door. She knew

"ADDIO, cara!" 169
then that the end was close at hand; but somehow
she never made much account of dying.
Fratello, you must excuse me if this time my heart
has run away with my pen ; but your sympathy has
encouraged me to write you a little of what I am so
often thinking over. Good-bye for now; and love
always from Mammina and Your affectionate Sorella.
Bassano Veneto,
Di 27 September, 1887.

Nominal Index to Part Y.
(The names given alphabetically in this index will usually be the
Christian ones simply, surnames and distinctive titles taking
their chance afterwards.) Page
Alishan, Padre Leon (the Armenian monk) 156, 165
Angelina  147, 161, 165
Bassano (city of)  147
Bebo  150
Bice  151
Bortolo Zanchetta, Signor  155

170

CHRIST'S FOLK.

Capuchin Monk (at Rome)
Edwige ....
Ida (the Armenian)
Marina ....
Patriarch, The (of Venice)
Pierino ....
Polissena ....

Eossetti, Signor (Francesca's minister)
Eossini ....

Silvia

Page
. 139
144, 146
. 156
150, 164
. 152
. 150
140, 163
. 154
. 141

148, 150

CHRIST'S FOLK.

VI.
LIETI ANDIAMO.

LIETI ANDIAMO.

i.
THE KNITTING FOE CESIEA.
The fields and hedges at Casciana are one garden
of roses, honeysuckle, acacia, gladiolus, crimson and
rose-coloured lupin, and other flowers ; the wheat, just
now in blossom, grows in some places so as quite to
conceal the trunks of the olive trees, and the branches
rise out of it like grey islands out of a level green
sea; and the roses and geraniums in the little gar
dens of the contadini are a sight to look at ! The
people generally look prosperous, healthy, and happy,
and the children playing barefoot about the doors are
perfect pictures of blooming beauty. The other even
ing, when Letizia was walking out with me, she
stopped to speak to a pretty red-cheeked dark-eyed

174 CHRIST'S FOLK.

y, just beginning to go alone, standing at the
knee of an old woman, its grandmother, in the porch
of a little old stone cottage, among some red gera
niums. After we had passed, she told me part of a
story which I afterwards heard more fully from some
of the people here. The poor baby's mother died last
summer in the cholera at Spezia, and the father made
his escape to Casciana with his child of three months
old, only to be " sequestrated " by the carabinieri, and
shut up in the temporary Lazzaretto. (The country
people call them cherubinieri, but do not appear to
regard them as cherubim, by any means.) There was
nothing, there for the baby to eat, that it could eat,
and the poor little thing seemed likely to starve.
The father's sister, Clorinda, would wait outside of
the wall, and hear the baby cry without being able to
go to it, until she was half distracted ; but everybody
in these parts was in a state of blind and unreasoning
terror, and nobody would help her. So she went to
one and another with her story, and at first the
"Cherubinieri" stood firm to their idea of duty, and
were as hard as the stone wall itself ; but at last
they yielded to her continual tears and prayers, —

LIETI ANDIAMO. 175
and then what do you think they did? Took off all
the poor baby's clothes and burnt them, and then
fumigated it thoroughly, and put it into her arms in
that condition, half-famished ! Poor Clorinda's trou
bles were not over yet; not a woman in the place
would be nurse to the child, and she herself was
avoided as if she had the plague ; everybody ran
away from her. But she bought a goat, which had
more sense than the rest of the population ; and now
the child is a bright handsome little fellow as ever I
saw. Clorinda is now servant in the house where we
are staying, and often comes out into the garden
where I work, to gather herbs for the cooking ; an
easy-tempered, light-hearted little woman, whom no
body would suspect of anything heroic!
But I must end this, if I expect to do any work
to-day ; and there is so much more I should like to
tell you about this pretty old town! If you could
see the market, which is held early in the morning
j under the plane trees; it is so pretty to see the con
tadine women with their piles of freshly-gathered ar
tichokes, cabbages, etc., under the changing lights and
shadows of the leaves. (I saw a woman the other

176 Christ's folk.
day, who, after making her purchases, went into
church to her devotions with an enormous cabbage
in each hand ; which looked odd, but I dare say she
did not say her prayers any the worse for them.)
Edwige is as happy as the day is long, dividing her
time between country excursions, the church, and
knitting with me in the garden. Yesterday she had
just finished a pair of very pretty fine stockings, and
I asked her who they were for ; she answered, " For
Cesira; her little girl will wear them for her." "But,"
I said, "they will be too large for httle Sandrina."
" Never mind," she said ; " when I am away from
home I like to knit stockings for all my daughters,
and I always knit Cesira's pair first. Sandrina will
wear them when she is older; perhaps I shall not
be alive then!"
Casciana, May Wh, 1885.

LIETI ANDIAMO. 177
n.
THE STOBY OF THE SAYINGS BANK.
I knew a poor widow who hired two or three
rooms and under-let one of them to a woman poorer
than herself. The lodger was not able to pay for it,
and the widow needed the money for her own rent,
and she said to me, with an enthusiastic fervour of
charity, that set her face all in a glow, " I will not, —
I cannot turn her out ! I will sell my earrings first."
But to go back to the charity cart in the cholera
time.* My dear Angelina threw her fine house-
linen, sheets, bed-covers, etc., into the cart by the arm
ful, and then her own clothes, and her husband's
clothes, until the crowd below burst out into an
Evviva ! To be sure Angelina always kept a great
deal of linen on hand, because, when she knew any
poor women who wanted work, she used to let them
come to the house and sew for her, saying that the
* The letter referring to it has not yet been printed; but see
the following one of the way the cholera was met at Venice.

178 CHRIST'S FOLK.
linen would come in use some time or other ; and
so it did, but not usually for herself. Oh what a loss
she is! and what a pity that more people will not
take to being good, when one good life is such a bless
ing in a city. Somebody had an evviva the other
day, or rather, two persons had it, a little boy of five,
and his sister of four, outside Porta Bomana. When
the cart came by, they threw in their toy savings bank,
which was afterwards found to contain four francs in
copper. They are the children of good people, their
mother lived in the house with Edwige's Cesira, and
was very kind to her in her illness, and took her poor
little girl home to take care of. An unknown friend,
who heard the story, sent the children (anonymously)
another savings bank, with sixteen francs, and a mes
sage to the effect that the Lord renders fourfold ; but
I think He means to render them a great deal more
this time; for I have just left off writing to ask Ed
wige some questions about the children, and it seemed
to be a providence, for she told me that their elder
sister is very ill, supposed to be past hope. Now
the Mammina knows exactly what to do for the par
ticular kind of illness that this poor girl has, and

LIETI ANDIAMO. 179
has, with the Lord's help, cured two or three cases
where the doctors could do nothing; so I ran down
stairs to her. And only see how everything works
in ! The first medicine wanted is a particular kind of
wine, and dear Angelina, last Christmas Day, sent us
a large supply of just that very wine from her estate,
much better than any that one can buy (besides two
other kinds), and Mammina had locked it all up, be
cause she could not bear to see it, much less to use
it. But now she has given me the first bottle for
the poor girl, and we think it will bring her a bless
ing, and she will live. Oh! how fast I am filling
up my paper; and I have not told you about a poor
man who lives next door to Edwige, and who threw
into the cart a whole suit of clothes down to the
shoes. He obeyed the Gospel precept, that he who
has two coats should give to him who has none, for
I do not think he had more than two.
I used the first daylight this morning in a very de
lightful way, reading the last Prseterita, which I en
joyed as I always do. I think even you hardly ever
wrote anything so beautiful as that description of the
country church and graveyard at sunset; which has

180 CHRIST'S FOLK.
stayed in my mind all day, no matter what I have
been doing, as if I had seen some beautiful picture.
Also your studies of the growing grass and leaves,
which my own dear father so loved to study, and
taught me to love. I have never known any one, ex
cepting you and him, who looked at plants just in
that way; he had never studied them scientifically,
but was never tired of finding out new beauties and
wonders in them, and regarded even the most common
with deep reverence, saying that they showed so
plainly the work of the Almighty hand. I remember,
when I was a small child, his explaining to me the
meaning and beautiful arrangement of the leaves,
blossom, stalk, and roots, of a clover plant, with as
reverential feeling and manner as another would have
used in explaining a chapter of the Bible. And
strangely enough, he saw many other things as you
see them, especially pictures. He was a great believer
in Carpaccio, per esempio, before you had ever taught
people to care for him.

LIETI ANDIAMO. 181
m.
EOSITA, AND GIACOMO BONI.
We are all feeling pretty sober here about the
cholera, which we do not fear for ourselves (having
been in the way of it twice before, and Mammina
knows exactly what to do, and is better than a dozen
doctors), but it is dreadful to hear of it creeping all
about the country, and now it is within six miles
of Bassano, which may the Lord preserve. Marina
had been ill herself, but when she heard that there
were some cases at Bessica, where the family estate
is, she immediately went there (though none of her
own people were as yet attacked), and is now busy
nursing and doctoring. She writes to me, " They
have blind faith in my care" (as well they may
have !), " and I trust that by taking precautions in
time the danger may soon be removed." A pleasant
contrast, this, to what Signor Bortolo Zanchetta writes
us of the poor contadini of Bassano, who are dying
because they will not take the medicines offered
them, " for fear of being poisoned " ! Only think
what sort of padroni they must have had, to feel so!

182 CHRIST'S FOLK.
My poor. Marina is all alone in her charitable work,
for Silvia and Beppino have been called to Cesena to
assist an old uncle, very ill. I heard this morning
that he had died; the last one left of Peppino's
immediate family. I fear it will be a heavy grief to
him. There have been a few suspected cases in Flor
ence, but nothing for the last three days, so I hope
our city may be spared. But they have organised the
society of the Croce Bossa, to be prepared for any
emergency, and one of the first to join it was An
gelina's niece, Bosita, who sent in her name without
telling her uncle and aunt what she was doing, for
fear that they would refuse their consent. If the
cholera comes, she will be spared neither labour nor
danger, and it is something that goes to all our
hearts to see this young, beautiful woman, only
twenty-five, and the mother of two little children,
thus taking her life in her hand for people who do
not belong to her. When Angelina spoke to her of
the danger, she said : " I am not afraid ; it is as much
my business as anyone's, and people should not be
deserted because they are sick and poor: if I die you
will take care of the children; or if you do not, my

LIETI ANDIAMO. 183
father and mother will." And she said to me, when
I spoke to her apart, "When we have a call every
thing is easy !" — raising her eyes to heaven as she
spoke, with a look as though she heard the " call "
pretty plainly. As I wrote you once before, there is
just this much comfort about the terrible visitations
which, for some years past, have come so often to
this poor country, that they do bring out so much of
the best side of human nature ! Your friend Boni is
in the midst of it all in Yenice. He was in Ger
many, having finally been able to commence the
journey which he had been looking forward to for
years, but gave it all up that he might be of use to
the sick, and their families in Yenice. He writes
me a heart-breaking account of tbe poverty there,
especially in the parish where he is visiting, S. Nicolo
'dei' Tolentini. He is employed by the municipal
ity to distribute provisions among the survivors in
the stricken houses. But I think I had better not
write you any more of these things, which are what
our hearts and heads are full of just now. I do not
want yours to be full of them. And here is a note
from Silvia, contradicting the report of her uncle's

184 CHRIST'S FOLK.
death, for which I am most thankful. And I have
now received your delightful letter of the fifth, and
you hardly ever wrote me a letter that made me so
happy, because I see that you really are becoming
yourself again, and that, as I supposed, your strength
comes with the summer. I enjoyed so much the
account of your excursion down to the Waterfall,
and the five children at the gate, and your tea, in the
country with the dog. It appears to me that I
never had a meal in a country tavern in my life,
that the particular dog which you describe, " gentle
and modest, but extremely hungry," did not walk in
to share it with me! And only to think of your
being already half through "Prseterita" ! My only
fear is now, that you will use up your strength too
fast as it comes. Do pray "hold back" as much as
you can! But, Fratello, I could not help being sur
prised to find that you were surprised to see how
much I cared for your letters. I never thought to
tell you of it, because I supposed you knew. Does
not everybody care for your letters? — though probably
not just in the way that I do. It would not be
fair, though, to let it pass for the fault of the bank

LIETI ANDIAMO. 185
that the letters were not sent to Casciana when they
should have been. It was all owing to a mistake in
my own letter to the banker, giving directions where
and how to send them. And I am sorry that you do
not like my address, but what can we do about it?
It would look very pretty to have the letters di
rected to a shepherdess or gipsy, but my friends of
those denominations do not, generally, know how to
read, so there would be some inconvenience about it.
However, if you like, you might send the answer to
this one directly here to the house, for I think we
shall certainly be here for another week, possibly
more. The weather is not very hot yet, and a dear
friend, whom we have not seen for years, has come
to stay for a little while in Florence, and we do
not want to leave her immediately. She is Giannina
Milli, the most distinguished improvisatrice in Italy,
and a grand woman in every way. Did I ever tell
you about her coming to meet dear old Beatrice at
our house at L'Abetone? *
FlKENZE,
Di 10 Giugno, 1886.

* No ; please tell me all about it directly.

186 Christ's folk.
rv.
THE STOBY OF SANTA BOSA.
- What do you think Bice's little Yirginia of six
years said to her the other day? She said, "Mam
mina, I wish you and I were just of an age, and
then we should always live together, and when one of
us died the other would, and we could go away to
gether. I am so sorry you are older than I." Her
mother said, " But I cannot help it." To which the
little one answered, in a very pathetic and appealing
tone, "But at least do not try and be any older than
Adelina." Adelina is her elder sister.
Yesterday I began this letter immediately after re
ceiving yours, but was not able to finish it, as I had
sent for little Santa Bosa to finish some parts of the
picture that were not quite to my mind, and I had a
busy morning trying to give the look of her silky hair
and pretty httle soft arms, while I told her the story
of Stellante Costantina, the grand Turk's daughter,
(which set Bice to crying, but then it does not take
much to do that.) I have finished the birds, not very

LIETI ANDIAMO. 187
satisfactorily, but as well as I could considering that
they kept up an incessant hopping and dancing all the
time ; but I am glad I tried, for I do not think I
ever knew how pretty birds were before, and I think
if children would all try and learn to draw birds from
life there would be no more shooting of birds in the
next generation, and we should have a whole nation
of Santa Bosas. Meanwhile, Edwige has been telling
me some interesting particulars ahout our little saint
that I never knew before. It seems that her mother
died when she was a child, and her father married a
woman who was not good to her. She was very
small and delicate, they say ; and her step-mother used
to make her do work that was too hard for her . . .
also the step-mother's children used to tease and tor
ment her in many ways, because they were larger
and stronger than she. Once her step- mother had
sent her to the spring for water with a great earthen
pitcher, larger than she could carry easily, and one of
the children knocked it out of her hands and broke it,
for mischief, in the hope that the step-mother would
beat her ; but she put the pieces together and made
the sign of the cross, and the pitcher was made whole

188 CHRIST'S FOLK. '
again. Another time her step-mother, who had never
taken the trouble to teach her to sew, gave her some
linen and told her to make a shirt, threatening her
with I know not what if she failed; and she (being
shut up in a room alone) dropped on her knees and
prayed for help ; at which a beautiful lady came in,
who spoke very kindly to her, and taking the linen
from her hand, cut and sewed it as no linen was
ever cut and sewed before. And when the little
girl showed it, and told tbe story, every one knew
that the lady who had helped her could have been
no other than the Madonna. When Edwige arrived
at this part of her story, Bice asked if these mira
cles did not touch the step-mother's heart; at which
Edwige answered, with solemnity, " Did you ever
hear of anything touching the heart of a step-mother ?
You know the proverb : The step-mother shows her
teeth at the children when she gives them bread, and
combs their hair the wrong way."
I have not been able to find out much more about
Santa Bosa. They say that, grown to be a woman,
she had a habit of speaking the truth which did not
much please people ; and, as she did not shrink from

LIETI ANDIAMO. 189
reproving wickedness in high places, she was dis
liked and much persecuted by people in authority ;
but those who were in trouble, or who had any sin
on their conscience, used to come to her for counsel
and comfort. She had great wisdom, but cared so lit
tle for her own comfort, or for the world's opinion,
that many thought her crazy while she lived, and the
nuns in a Franciscan convent which she wished to
enter refused to admit her, being ashamed of such
company. She told them that the time would come
when they would be glad to have her, as came to
pass after she died, when they thought it a great
honour to have her buried in their convent church.

v.
THE DOGE'S DAUGHTER
Santa Eosa is at the last touches now, and will be
finished on Monday if all goes well ; but I shall not
send her until the end of next week,* because I
* When sent, I serenely took possession of it, and gave it, with
out even asking Francesca's leave, to my child-society of "Friends
to Living Creatures."

190 CHRIST'S FOLK.
want to send Santa Marina with her, who still has
need of a little more finishing. I am almost certain
that Santa Bosa will disappoint you ; you probably
have some such different picture of the subject in
your mind.
As you sometimes speak as if you were interested
in countesses,* I must tell about one who came to
see me the other day, aged three years ; a descendant
of those doges of the Tiepolo family who did so
much for Yenice once upon a time, as you know.
The young lady would have nothing to say to me at
all, and it was in vain that I tried to tempt her with
fruit or cake, or with songs or stories ; she would not
leave her mother's side. But her mother wanted to
see what I was drawing, and I brought in Santa
Bosa; and no sooner did the child see it than she
brought her little chair and placed it before me, then
planted herself there, and remained absorbed in deep
* I forget what I said to give Francesca this impression; but I do
like the Italian title, because young ladies may (as in this case) be
countesses at three years old, but can't be marchionesses or duch
esses without getting married, — which at once diminishes my
interest in them.

LIETI ANDIAMO. 191
study of the picture. When I thought she had seen
enough of it I took it away, but she made a sign
with her little hand for me to bring it back, and it
was long indeed before she would let it go.
I am writing badly enough to-day, but I am trying
to write without looking at all, as my eyes will have
quite as much work as they can do later in the day,
so you must try and have patience, and I will try
and not make the letter very long if I can help it.

VI.
HOW ST. PETEE LOST HIS TEMPEE.
I do want so much to write out for you one of
the stories from Edwige's gospel, that she told me
the other day, and which she fully believes.
I have made her tell it two or three times, so as to
write it as nearly as possible in her own words. She
wsa talking about a quarrel among the gondolieri, in
which some had succeeded in having some of the
others turned out of employment; and she said: "It
6eems all very sad; one ought to be willing to live

192 CHRIST'S FOLK.
and let others live. When God made the world, He
said that it was a great pasture-field for all of us, and
we were all to live on it. My poor mother always
taught us that, but then she never did harm to any
one; and indeed if people were bad to her, she al
ways tried to do them all the good she could, because
she said that was the way the Lord Jesus used to do
when He was in the world. She used to tell us
how one day he was walking in the country with the
apostles, and they stopped at a house and asked a
woman to give them something to eat. Now that
woman had not a bit of bread in the house ; it was
baking day, and she had just made the loaves and set
them to rise on a board. But she was a very good,
polite woman, and she said: 'I am so sorry I have
no bread, my loaves are just rising; but if you will
have patience, and come in and sit down a little
while, I will make a little cake for you.' So she
brought an armful of sticks, and heated the oven in a
hurry ; and then she cut off a piece of the dough,
and made a nice stiacciata (just as my mother used
to do herself sometimes when we were hungry before
the bread was baked, and that stiacciata was so good;

LIETI ANDIAMO. 193
and sometimes she used to scrape up all the bits of
old dough that stuck to the sides of the chest, and
soak them in water over night, and then work them
up into httle round cakes for us: they were rather
sour, but we never minded.) Well, as I was saying,
the woman baked her thin cake with the oven half
heated, and when she went to take it out, the oven
was all full of bread — just as full as it would hold!
But, the day after, they went to ask for some bread
of another woman, who had plenty to eat in the
house, and she refused them, and said she had noth
ing, and drove them away with a very bad manner.
And St. Peter, poor man, — well, we are all of flesh
and blood, and nobody likes to have people uncivil;
— he lost his patience a little, and after a while he
said, 'Lord, what are yon going to do to that wo
man ? ' thinking that some great judgment would
come upon her ; but the Lord only said, ' Di bene
in meglio' (Better and better). St. Peter was not
just pleased, at first, for he did not think it was
quite right," — here Edwige screwed up her face into
an expression of puzzled disgust, intended to signify
the state of mind of the Apostle, — " but the Lord

194 CHRIST'S FOLK.
did it to show us what we ought to do, and my
mother always told us to remember it ; and she al
ways remembered it, and never lost her patience
with any one. And she always taught us to be polite
to all the beggars who came to the house, because
she said we should remember that the Lord had once
asked for bread, and been refused. And she said,
if we had nothing to give we should say, 'May the
Lord make you find it somewhere else ! ' "
I have been two days writing this scrawl (and I
pity your eyes when you read it), and I have just
as much left to say as if I had said nothing ! But I
must end now. I cannot tell you how anxiously I
am waiting to hear something about the Capella de'
Schiavoni. Love as ever from us both.
Your affectionate Sorella.
Venice,
Di 13 Quigno, 1885.

LIETI ANDIAMO. 195
vn.
THE STOBY OF THE BISHOP OF YEEONA.
Perhaps you have seen in the paper some notice
of the saintly Bishop of Yerona, Cardinal Canossa.
They have just been celebrating his jubilee now, (but
I do not know if the English papers tell about such
things,) and our friend the Patriarch of Yenice went
on to assist, and there was grand festa in all the city.
Marina can remember the Cardinal's father, a survivor
of the Yenetian Eepublic. He and an uncle of
Marina's husband were the last two who wore the
dress of old * Yenetian noblemen, which to the end
they never left off — a three-cornered hat, hair in a
queue, sword, black silk stockings, silver shoe buckles,
and — the especial mark of nobility — a white cloak
lined with scarlet, f In this dress Marina can remem-
* Not older than 1700; there were no three-cornered hats in
Titian's time, still less hair in queues. See the next note.
t It was still black in Evelyn's time, though the women's dress
had then become utterly fantastic and insolent; yet still, [1645,]
" the married women go in black vailes. The nobility weare the

196 Christ's folk.
ber having seen the old gentleman, in her childhood,
going about Yerona in a carriage with four horses,
and servants in gorgeous liveries — a thin, dried-up old*
man, with legs like two sticks, as she describes him ;
the especial object of her childish aversion. He was
terribly proud, this old Marchese Canossa, and enor
mously rich ; and there was a picture in his palace of
a dog with a bone in his mouth, and an inscription
to the effect that when the dog should have finished
the bone the fortunes of Casa Canossa would come to
an end. There was another great family in Yerona
then, named Carlotti ; and they had a beautiful daugh
ter, and she and Canossa's son loved each other, but
same colour, but of fine cloth lin'd wth taffeta in summer, with fur
of the bellies of squirrells in ye winter, which all put on at a
certaine day girt with a girdle emboss'd with silver; the vest not
much different from what our Bachelors of Arts weare in Oxford,
and a hood of cloth made like a sack, cast over their left shoulder,
and a round cloth black cap fring'd with wool which is not so
comely; they also weare their collar open to show the diamond
button of the stock of their shirt. I have never seene pearle for
colour and bignesse comparable to what the ladys wear, most of the
noble families being very rich in Jewells, especially pearles, which
are always left to the son or brother who is destined to marry, which
the eldest seldome do. The Doge's vest is of crimson velvet, the
Procurator's, etc., of damsac, very stately."

LIETI ANDIAMO. 197
eecretly, "waiting for a favourable time to declare their
attachment to their respective families. When it hap
pened that old Canossa's wife died ; and very soon
afterwards the old gentleman went to the house of
his neighbour Carlotti, and proposed to marry his
daughter. Carlotti, pleased to give her to the richest
man in Yerona, went to his daughter and said to her,
" The Marchese Canossa has made me an offer of
marriage for you; will you be contented to accept
him?" And the poor girl, believing it to be the
young Marchese, answered delighted, " Contentissima-,
Signor Padre!" Her father then ordered her to
dress herself and prepare to receive her fidanzato. I
leave you to imagine her state of mind when
she discovered her mistake ! She entreated, with
tears, her father to save her; but he said that his
honour was concerned ; and — will you believe it ? —
both he and the old Canossa insisted on her keep
ing her promise, made under a mistake ! Through
a mistaken sense of duty,* which one must respect,
* The mind of the modern upper classes in city life may be
broadly divided into that which has no sense of duty, and that
which has a mistaken one. And the Laws of the Natural Heavens

198 CHRIST'S FOLK.
she yielded; and having done so, made the best wife
she could to her unworthy husband, whom she sur
vived for many years, a sad, saintly, broken-hearted
woman, avoiding company as far as possible, and de
voting herself to pious and charitable works. Young
Canossa, to save himself and her from a position
which would have been intolerable, went to Eome
and entered a convent. He led a saintly life, rose
high in the Church, and finally was made cardinal;
and she lived to see him come back to Yerona as
bishop. She died nine or ten years ago, and he is
very old. But it is growing dark, and I must write
no more. Some day I will tell you more of Marina's
stories. Good-bye for now. Love from Mammina and
Your affectionate Sorella.
have no mercy on mistakes. The poor mourning Bishop could not
save the cloisters of "Verona from being made stables for the
Austrian cavalry; the young Marchese Canossa, happy in love,
would have done so — or died a knight's death.

LIETI ANDIAMO. 199
vrn.
LIETI ANDIAMO.
To-day I have principally to tell you about my
minister's "going home." His name was Eossetti,
and he was a cousin, I think, of that Mr. Eossetti
whom you spoke about in one of your Oxford Lec
tures last year ; and he preached in a little Italian
Protestant church, composed almost entirely of very
poor people, where we have been now for a great
many years. He was a powerful preacher, because
he always spoke from experience, and a dear good
Christian man, whom everybody loved in the church.
He was the one who said those words that were such
a comfort to Mamma in her great affliction, and that
she has quoted to me a hundred times since, — " There
is no use in anyone trying to obtain consolation for
himself : consolation is the gift of God, and one
must pray for it, as for any other blessing." She
could not remember any more of the sermon, as she
was in too great distress at the time to listen much
to anything, but she says that those words have al-

200 CHRIST'S FOLK.
ways stayed by her, and been a help to her more than
she can say. For some time before his death he had
been poorly, but had that wonderful peacefulness
which I had seen in Ida, and in some others whose
time was near to go. I remember always the last
time that he ever spoke to me. We were all coming
out of church, when he passed near me, and seeing
that he looked feeble I asked him how he was. He
answered, with a bright happy smile, " Nel Signore si
sta sempre bene." And then added, lifting his eyes
and speaking as if to himself, " Ed il bene cresce sem
pre." On that last Sunday that he was with us I
noticed he looked very pale, and that his step was
less firm than usual ; his sermon was on the words,
"In my Father's house are many mansions; I go
to prepare a place for you." (And it was a comfort
to us, afterwards, to think that so much honour
was laid upon him, that his parting words to us
should have been those of our Lord to the disciples !)
And he spoke as he had never spoken before in all
the years that he had been with us : he spoke of
our home on the other side, of the Church already
assembled there and of its union with the Church on

LIETI ANDIAMO. 201
earth, as if he saw it all in a vision. We had never
had the things of the other world brought home to us
in such a way, — all the little congregation were in
tears. As he ended his discourse, and we regained
our breath, which had all gone away with listening,
I could not help whispering to the woman next me
what a wonderful discourse we had heard, and she
and I both agreed that we had never heard him, nor^
anyone else, speak in that way. He read the hymn,
but nobody began to sing at first : (as I said, it is a
very poor little church, and we had neither organ nor
choir,) so after a minute he started the tune himself,
and sang the whole hymn in a clear and beautiful
voice, tbe people joining.
The last words of the hymn were:
" Alleluia! abbiam la grazia,
Alleluia! il Cielo abbiamo,
Alleluia! lieti andiamo,
A Dio padre del Signor.''
And with those words his ministration in the church
ended ; he rose to pray, but though his lips moved we
could hear no sound ; he trembled, and fell back into
his seat insensible. The people pressed about him ;

202 Christ's folk.
one ran for a doctor, another brought water from the
well in the cortile to bathe his forehead, thinking that
he had fainted. After a few minutes he opened his
eyes, and seeing his poor wife bending over him in
tears, he pressed her hand and tried to speak, but
we could only distinguish the words, " Gesu, Sig
nore!" Then he seemed to fall asleep, breathed for
a little while, and then was gone. They laid him in
the church just where he used to stand to preach to
us, until he was carried to the Campo Santo ; and all
that night, and the next day, his wife sat there by his
side, very gentle and resigned, but wanting to see his
face as long as she could. When I went back on
Monday to take my last leave of him, he was lying in
the same dress which he had worn when he preached,
and in which he was afterwards buried, and his face
had no look of death in it, but only its usual peace
ful expression. The different Church members were
passing in and out, shedding many tears, but quiet
ones: some of them had laid flowers about him. The
very little children went up close to him, and seemed
as if they did not want to leave him. And so that
is all; but was there ever such a grand departure?

LIETI ANDIAMO.

203

Nominal Index to Part VI.
(The names given alphabetically in this index will usually be the Chris
tian ones simply, surnames and distinctive titles taking their
chance afterwards.) Page
. 180
. 177

Alexander, Mr. (Francesca 's father)
Angelina ....
Boni, Giacomo
Bortolo Zanchetta, Signor
Canossa, Cardinal .
Canossa, Marchese .
Casciana, flowers and children of,
Cesira 
Clorinda ....
Edwige ....
Giannina Milli (the Improvisatrice)
Letizia 
Marina 

Bosa, Santa ....
Bosita .....
Eossetti, Signor, — his going home
Sandrina (Cesira's daughter) .
Silvia 

Virginia (Bice's daughter)

181, 183
. 181
. 195
. 196
. 173
173, 178
. 174
176, 187, 193
. 185
. 173
. 182
. 189
181, 182
. 199
. 176
. 182
. 186

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RUSKIN'S CHOICE WORKS,
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MODERN PAINTERS. By John Ruskin.
New and beautiful edition. Containing fine copies
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original London edition.
Vol. 1.— Part 1. General Principles. Part 2. Truth.
Vol. 2.— Part 3. Of Ideas of Beauty.
Vol. 3.— Part 4. Of Many Things.
Vol. 4. — Part 5. Of Mountain Beauty.
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Spiritual. 5 vols., 8vo, extra cloth  30 00
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STONES OF VENICE. By John Ruskin.
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Vol. 1.— The Foundations.
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SEVEN LAMPS OF ARCHITECTURE.
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