One Corpus Christi.
“Flowers? Are they for a bride?” he said,
And wondered if that graceful head,
Now bent to catch the soft perfume,
Was soon to wear their tender bloom;
But when she raised her modest eyes,
And answered him in half surprise,
“No, they are for our Lord,” he smiled,
And thought: “This is indeed a child.”
“Give me the loveliest,” she said
“Delicate white and rosy red,
And heliotrope and mignonette,
All that you know and I forget;
And heap these crimson roses, so:
Yes, they are costly, that I know;
But what can be too fair or sweet
To strew beneath His sacred feet?”
The light was fading; broken flowers
Lay scattered through the aisles in showers;
For all their fragrant wealth that day
Had marked the Master's glorious way,
And now, before the altar-rail,
A girl knelt, motionless and pale.
A line of sunlight touched her hair,
Her slender hands were clasped in prayer;
In silent bliss the moments passed,
For she had lingered to the last,
Unconscious, in that holy spot,
Of eyes that watched and wearied not.
“How beautiful!” the whispered thought,
All human, all of earth, she caught;
And reading what that thought expressed
By the one key-note in her breast,
Uplifting her adoring head,
“Is He not beautiful?” she said.
A thrill of awe, a flush of shame,
He knelt, and named his Saviour's name.
Softly she glided from the place:
He never looked upon her face;
Low bent to earth his suppliant head,
“O Lord! make me a child,” he said.
Relatio Itineris In Marylandiam.
Narrative of a Voyage to Maryland. 1633.
By F. Andrew White, S.J.
The most beautiful chapter in the colonial history of North America is that setting forth the colonization of fair Maryland, Terra Mariæ, or, as she was pre-eminently called, the Land of the Sanctuary. And yet this is, strange to say, one of the least read and least known of the chapters of our early history. Every American knows all about the Puritan Pilgrim Fathers, and the Mayflower, and Plymouth Rock, and all the facts and fictions concerning the settlement of New England. Most Americans devoutly believe, upon the authority of New England orators and historians, that the Pilgrim Fathers aforesaid were the founders of the civil and religious liberty now organized in this great republic, mistaking a strife for sectarian ascendency and domination for a contest for the great principles of religious liberty. In point of fact, the Puritan Pilgrims held in intense horror the very principles now so generously assigned to them. They wanted, not equality, but supremacy. It was only in Catholic Maryland that religious equality was truly established, both by the design of the Catholic proprietary, Lord Baltimore, and by the legislative enactments of the freemen of the province, who cordially invited all persons persecuted for their religious belief to find not only a refuge in Maryland, but all the rights and privileges, civil and religious, enjoyed by themselves, the founders of the colony.
Here, and here only, then, do we see the first rays of true civil and religious liberty in the American colonies—a glimmer of light in old S. Mary's like Portia's candle:
“Portia—That light we see is burning in my hall.
How far that little candle throws his beams!
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.”
If now, indeed, the greater glory dims the less, we must not forget the light of the candle in the then surrounding darkness.
Everything connected with the early history of Maryland is, and ought to be, deeply interesting to every American of liberal culture or sentiment. We are pleased to see that the Maryland Historical Society is making earnest efforts to gather and save all the fragmentary lore pertaining thereto. The volume we now have in hand bears evidence of the fact. We give the title-page in full, as a summary of its substance:
“Fund Publication, No. 7.”—Relatio Itineris in Marylandiam. Declaratio Coloniæ Domini Baronis de Baltimoro. Excerpta ex Diversis Litteris Missionariorum, ab anno 1635, ad annum 1638. (Seal of Maryland Historical Society.) “Narrative of a Voyage to Maryland. By F. Andrew White, S.J. An Account of the Colony of the Lord Baron of Baltimore. Extracts from different letters of missionaries, [pg 538] from the year 1635 to the year 1677. Edited by the Rev. E. A. Dalrymple, S.T.D. Baltimore, February, 1874. Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. (Printers to the Maryland Historical Society).”
The Historical Society gives us a neat octavo volume of nearly 200 pages, issued in a style that would do credit to any publishing house in America, or, for that matter, in Europe either.
The learned editor, Dr. Dalrymple, tells us in the preface where and how these valuable documents were obtained: “About the year 1832 the Rev. William McSherry, S.J., discovered, in the archives of the ‘Domus Professa’ of the Society in Rome, the originals of the MSS. which are named on the title-page. He carefully copied these MSS., and placed the copies in the library of Georgetown College, D. C., of which institution (being at the same time the provincial of the society in Maryland) he afterwards became the honored president.”
Translations were made and printed of these manuscripts; but, copies being nearly exhausted, the Historical Society determined to make a new issue, accompanying the new translation with the Latin text, as far as that could be obtained, some pages of the original transcripts being unfortunately lost. The present volume is of the new issue, and it is little to say that its contents are intensely interesting.
It is quite charming to follow good F. White, missionary, saint, scholar, “vir non minus sanctitate vitæ, quam doctrina conspicuus,” in his humble and earnest and successful labors among the savage aborigines of Maryland. His great soul was given up to his holy mission. We follow the little fleet, the Ark and the Dove (what beautiful and significant names—the ark of Noah, and the dove sent forth by the patriarch!), over the waste of waters, where they had not only the dangers of the sea, but Turks and pirates, to dread, even from the British Channel onward over the whole Virginian Ocean.
On the 25th of March, a.d. 1634, the pious missionaries celebrated, as they believed, the first Mass ever said in Maryland. But it seems that some of their own order had preceded them on this field; for as early as 1570 F. Segura and other Spanish Jesuits from Florida were endeavoring to bring the Indian tribes on the shores of the Chesapeake into the Christian fold, when they were ruthlessly murdered before the rustic altar on which they had daily offered the Holy Sacrifice for the traitors who slew them (Woodstock Letters).
The colonists in S. Mary's soon made friendly relations with the Indians, and the missionaries had the inexpressible happiness of bringing many over to the true faith. The fathers would often-times leave the dwellings of the whites to abide entirely with the Indians, though the governor disapproved of remote excursions, on account of the treachery of hostile tribes, who were always hovering around the borders. The fathers, moreover, had no light duties in attending to the spiritual wants of the colonists themselves, who were largely, but by no means exclusively, good Catholics.
In those primitive days, when all the freemen of the province met in general assembly for the purposes of legislation, F. White and his colleagues were summoned to take part in the sessions; but they declined the honor, and, as “they earnestly requested to be excused [pg 539] from taking part in the secular concerns of the colony, their request was granted.” They could do their work more effectively, ad majorem Dei gloriam, in the rude Indian wigwam where they had established an altar, than in the hall of the legislative assembly.
Lord Baltimore obtained lands from the Indians by purchase, and not by conquest, and colonists and Indians and missionaries were usually upon the most friendly terms together. The Indians treated the strangers to their dishes, to pone and omini, and roasting ears, and game, and fish, and oysters; and, in return, during a season of famine, the Indians were supplied from the not over-abundant stores of the colonists. The natives then were not inclined to strong potations: “They are especially careful to refrain from wine and warm drinks, and are not easily persuaded to taste them, except some whom the English have corrupted with their own vices.” Alas! from that day to this how many untold thousands of the children of the forest have been sent, body and soul, to perdition by the infusion and diffusion among them of English vices!
The missionaries give accounts of their labors with a naïveté that is charming. We can see them starting on the broad river in a little boat—a father, an interpreter, and a servant-man of all work, with their supplies of bread and cheese, and dried corn and beans, with a bottle of wine for religious purposes, a casket with the sacred utensils, and a table as an altar for performing sacrifice, and another casket with trifles for the Indians—bells, combs, fishing-hooks, needles and thread, and other such commodities. They take a tent to cover them when beyond the reach of English residents, and, after a weary day's work, they lie down by the open fire to take their rest. “If fear of rain threatens, we erect our hut, and cover it with a larger mat spread over; nor, praise be to God, do we enjoy this humble fare and hard couch with a less joyful mind than more luxurious provisions in Europe.” In fact, they are so happy in their work that they think God gives them already a foretaste of the blessed life of the future.
Upon one of these excursions a friendly Indian was pursued by enemies and transfixed with a spear; they “pierced him through from the right side to the left, at a hand's breath below the arm-pit, near the heart itself, with a wound two fingers broad at each side.” Some of the man's friends were converts, and they called in F. White to prepare him for death. The missionary gave him suitable instructions, taught him short prayers, and received him into the church, and, touching his wounds with relics of the most holy cross, took his leave, directing the bystanders, when he should breath his last, to take him to the chapel for the purpose of burial. The next day this same Indian, with a companion, followed the father in a boat, showed him the red spots where the wounds were of the previous day, exclaiming “that he is entirely well, nor from the hour at which the father had left yesterday had he ceased to invoke the most holy name of Jesus, to whom he attributed his recovered health.”
The people of the lower counties of Maryland have always had a reputation for culture, refinement, and good manners. They appear to have these traits by inheritance. “The Catholics who live in the [pg 540] colony,” writes a missionary (a.d. 1640), “are not inferior in piety to those who live in other countries; but in urbanity of manners, according to the judgment of those who have visited the other colonies, are considered far superior to them.”
We find we are extending what was intended for a brief notice into a regular article, for which the reader may or not thank us; an abiding and essential interest in the cause must be our apology. We will say but little more, though the theme admits of vast expansion.
In Lord Baltimore's Declaratio, or account of the colony—which, by the way, is very much couleur de rose (“It is sad to contrast the glowing accounts of Maryland in the Declaratio and the painful experience of the missionaries,” says the editor with great justice)—we find him inviting his countrymen to go to his colony, not only to better their material interests, but also to spread the seeds of religion and piety—a work, he says, dignum angelis, dignum Anglis. This recalls to mind the happy witticism of the great pontiff who sent Augustine to perform the same work with the English themselves.
There is scarcely a page of this new issue of the Relatio, and the accompanying letters, that does not invite special interest. Surely those missionaries were men of God, living and dying to serve him only. “I would rather,” writes F. Brock, laboring in the conversion of these Indians, “expire on the bare ground, deprived of all human succor, and perishing with hunger, than once think of abandoning this holy work of God from fear of want.” Within a few weeks after writing that letter, worn out with privations, he went to rest from his labors.
Good F. White, seized by Claiborne's rebel soldiers, was sent in irons to England, where he died like a saint, as he had lived. “His self-denial, privations, and sufferings,” says Dr. Dalrymple, himself a Protestant minister, “and the touching patience and cheerfulness with which they were all endured, move our profound respect and admiration. F. White deserves a high place of honor amongst the many heroic missionaries of the Society of Jesus.” What wonderful men they were indeed, the old Jesuit missionaries! We of the present day could scarcely believe their lives possible but for the F. De Smets and kindred spirits who repeat them even in our own day. Laudamus viros gloriosos.... Omnes isti in generatione suæ gentis gloriam adepti sunt.—Eccles. cap. xliv.
We may repeat that the Maryland Historical Society has done a good work in bringing out this volume anew; and its agents, editor, translator, and publisher have all done their work in the most creditable manner. We observed in the translation, excellent as it is, some few points open to criticism; as, e.g., p. 10, “To the Very Rev. Father, General Mutius Vitelleschi.” The comma is misplaced between father and general. On p. 11 it is said, speaking of S. Clement, “who, because he had been tied to an anchor and thrown into the sea, obtained the crown of martyrdom.” A man is not a martyr because of his execution in any fashion, but because of the principles for which he suffers. We find, on p. 12, the word Sabbatum rendered Sabbath, instead of Saturday, which would convey the true idea in this case. [pg 541] There may be some other slight inaccuracies of the same or a similar kind, but, upon the whole, they are unimportant, and the translation is a fair and creditable rendering of the text.
Finally, we would say that if the reader would wish to spend a few hours, safely, profitably, and pleasantly in field and camp, with true soldiers of the cross, let him obtain and read the Relatio Itineris, with the accompanying documents.
On The Wing. A Southern Flight. IV.
“De Fil En Aiguille.”[119]
By the time we had been a fortnight at R—— R——, the sentiment of the dolce far niente[120] of the Italians seemed gradually to take possession of Mary and myself. I sketched a little, and Mary sat in the loggia, reading occasionally, and dreaming a great deal. Frank was still absent; having, in the most unjustifiable way, undertaken a complete tour in the Abruzzi, accompanied by his friend, Don Emidio Gandolfi, who had given him rendezvous at Monte Casino. One day, however, when I came home from a delightful ramble all over the gardens of the Villa “Mon Caprice,” Mary greeted me with the exclamation:
“Frank will arrive the day after to-morrow, and Don Emidio is coming with him.”
“I thought it had been settled Don Emidio was to go back to Rome.”
“Settled by whom, my dear Jane? I conclude he has changed his plans.”
“Well! I know how it will be: we shall have none of Frank's society; he will for ever be making excursions with Don Emidio where we cannot go.”
“Their distant excursions are over; and we want them for all the places we have to visit near Naples. Up to now we have been so taken up with the Vernons that I have not cared for much more than the walk backwards and forwards to their house and our own. But we have a great deal to see, and I am longing to begin.”
“Oh! Don Emidio has seen it already a dozen times. It would only bore him to go over it again.”
I cannot conceive what made me say this to Mary. I think I was cross. I know I was tired and hot with my walk. She made no answer for a few seconds; but I felt she was looking at me. And so I did that stupid thing which one always hates doing and cannot the least prevent—I blushed. Having thus made myself look like a fool, I glanced at Mary, and our eyes met.
“Do you dislike Don Emidio, Jane, that you speak in that way?”
“Dear me! no, not at all. I only did not suppose he would care to go over all the old places again.”
“It is not always the places; it is sometimes the company that is the chief attraction.”
“Oh! yes; I know Don Emidio is devoted to Frank.”
“I think he likes us all, Jane.”
“No one can help liking you, Mary; and I dare say he does not dislike me.”
“Is that all you think about it, my dear?”
“Of course it is. What more is there to think about it?” And then, as I knew I was blushing again, I went out of the room to take off my hat. But I did not care to go back to Mary directly, for fear she should say anything more to make me cross. So I ran down to Villa Casinelli to have a chat with the Vernons. I found them all in a state of very great excitement. Ida was looking anxious, her eyes glistening like diamonds, and a bright, hectic spot on each cheek—which I never like to see, knowing how delicate she is. Elizabeth, who is always calm and gentle, and rather slow in speaking and moving, was sitting opposite Ida, with her large, dark velvet eyes full of tears. As I entered, Ida started up, exclaiming:
“O Jane! what do you think those dreadful Casinelli have done now? This morning, before anybody was up, they cut down the chapel bell, which was hung outside the door on our floor, near the servants' rooms, so that Lucia might ring it every morning. And now, to-day, a feast-day, on which the congregation was sure to be numerous, when Lucia went to ring the bell for the first time (you know we always ring it thrice), she found that the rope was left dangling, but no bell. After hunting about everywhere, one of the Camerota, the father of your Paolino, found it tied to a fig-tree on the terrace just above the chapel. The contadini[121] are in a wild state of indignation, and I really am at a loss to imagine what will happen next; for what with the insult to religion, the annoyance to Padre Cataldo, and the constant anxiety to ourselves, I begin to think we shall have to throw it all up, and leave this place.”
I had already heard a great deal about the Casinelli and their extraordinary conduct. Indeed, ever since we had been near neighbors to the Vernons, the ins and outs of this intricate and truly Italian intrigue had formed one of the chief themes of our daily conversations. But to enable my readers to follow the plots and stratagems of this Macchiavelian family, I must give an account of the whole group. My story will represent a state of things not, I imagine, to be found anywhere out of Italy. Every nation has its characteristics, its qualities, and their corresponding defects. The peculiar finesse and acuteness of the Italians make them the best constructors of a plot that imagination can conceive, and give them a proportionate facility for carrying it on and working it out. They are natural born actors. And they can so identify themselves with the character they wish to assume that not only is it exceedingly difficult for the most diligent observer to detect the false from the true, but I doubt if even they themselves do not end in interiorly confusing the two so [pg 543] absolutely as to efface all moral lines of demarcation. They can make themselves a false conscience on a gigantic scale, and end in themselves believing the lies they have invented.
The Casinelli are a numerous family, consisting of seven daughters and two sons, all equally endowed with the faculty, of assuming a part, not for days or weeks, but for years or for a whole life. The one fixed and determinate object of the nine persons is, as is usual with Italians, to make money. To obtain wealth, and always more wealth, all means seem lawful to them, and no stratagem too low. The house, garden, and vineyards of Casinelli make altogether a nice and profitable little property, and, of course, it belongs to them all—that is, each has a share in it. They have wisely agreed that more will be gained by their all holding together, as regards the property, than by any division, especially as it is but small. They reserve a few rooms on the ground floor of the house for their own use, though their residence is principally in Naples. The other two sets of apartments in the house they let to strangers. But in order to make sure of all the fish that may come to the net, the elder brother is stated to be the owner of one of the suites of rooms, and one of the sisters of the other. The sister professes to be a very dragon of virtue, and will receive no tenants who do not bear an unspotted reputation, and who cannot also give evidence of a more than merely respectable position of life—they must be well, and even highly, connected. The brother, on the contrary, is quite ready to part with his rooms to anybody who pays his rent. “What does he care about who they are, or what they do, so long as he gets his money?” And in the case of the honest man happening to have a preference for the brother's rooms, while the gay Lothario has set his heart on the spinster's domain, ho! presto, the proprietorship is quickly changed; the brother owns the sister's side of the house, while the sister is the fair possessor of the brother's portion. If you are so ill advised as to look dubious and express an impression that it had been otherwise, you are met with a calm, indulgent smile at your evident deficiency of intelligence: “Dear me! no. Were you not aware it was nothing of the kind? Some repairs necessary to be made in my brother's rooms had led to his holding mine for a time. He wanted them for a friend of his. I regretted the fact; but I was not acquainted with the character of the tenant when I conceded my rooms to my brother, because I was myself called from home” (or some such reason), “and was unable to attend to the letting. I deeply regretted the fact; but it was done without my knowledge.” And thus they turn about; always contriving to run with the hare, and hunt with the hounds. As a rule, it is the sister who comes forward and acts as padrona[122] when the parties wishing to hire either set of rooms are evidently respectable. If they are the reverse, the rooms are let nevertheless, but then it is the brother who meets the storm. And thus they enact the little man and woman who come out of the clock: the lady in fair weather, the gentleman in great-coat and umbrella when it is wet.
I am not aware of what the Casinelli family motto is; but it ought [pg 544] to be, “Divide and govern.” For they adopt the same double-surface process as regards politics. One brother is a staunch Bourbonist, the other a fervent Liberal. In public each bewails the opinions of the other. And thus, between the two, they catch the favor of both parties, and divide the spoils between them. If circumstances call for extreme measures in order to gain some end in view, the whole family will combine together to fall upon one particular member who, for the time being, represents some political view at that moment discredited. Their lamentations over the one black sheep are long and loud. Everybody's sympathy is appealed to; everybody must lend an ear to the terrible calamity which has befallen their illustrious family, inasmuch as one of the race has been, or is, guilty of—, whatever the crime in question may be. Such grief, such indignation, expressed on the highest moral grounds, attracts attention, procures small favors from compassionating friends, creates at least an interest, and adds to their importance and consideration; while all the time the black sheep himself is privy to the whole affair, and receives, in the secrecy of the domestic circle, his full share of indemnification for having stood as whipping-boy for the rest of the family. He keeps quiet for a little while, as being under a cloud. Then presently he reappears to enjoy the results of his own condemnation. The elder brother and sister, who are the prima donna and tenor of the domestic comic opera, are always said to be on bad terms with each other; not that they are so in reality, but because, if one has made a bad bargain or inconveniently offended anybody, the other can immediately step forward, pretending severely to blame the delinquent, and offering his or her services to repair the injury, or, in the case of a bad bargain having been made, insisting on a readjustment of the case; not from personal motives, having, as he or she states, no interest in the matter, but solely from a sense of justice. In short, they “hedge” in a way that would make their fortune a thousand times over at Epsom or Ascot. No matter what horse loses, they are sure to have made up their book in such a way that they must win something out of whatever happens. And, meanwhile, the member of the family who appears to the outsider to take his part against all his own kith and kin obtains the eternal gratitude of the deluded individual, who is not aware that he has been assisting at a family intrigue, based upon his own misfortune, and intimately and minutely combined by the whole set of them. When the Vernons wished to rent one of the suites of apartments, it was the elder sister who came forward with expressions of the warmest delight. What she had long desired had been that some family should reside there who had a chaplain, and that thus their pretty little chapel, entirely cut out in the tufa rock on the sands of the sea-shore, which rock forms the foundation of the house, would again come into use. She was eloquent in describing how that formerly that chapel had been so useful to the numerous vignaiuoli and their families living on and near the premises. They themselves, she stated, were no longer rich enough to afford themselves so great a consolation, now that the one brother who had been in the priesthood was dead. She was quite certain [pg 545] that Padre Cataldo was a saint; and, for her part, no one but the Vernons should inhabit that part of the house, for their mere presence would bring a blessing on all the rest. She even talked of restoring whatever was wanting in the chapel, and doing it up. It had been sadly neglected, and the cobwebs hung in festoons from the rude but effective carving above the altar on the coved roof and the walls. The subject of the bas-reliefs was the Assumption, and, though roughly done, it had a very good effect, scrolls and angels' heads being intermixed with the principal figures, and the whole distempered in white picked out with bright blue. A great deal was said about the reparations, and the Vernons, who did not then know what sort of people they had to deal with, imagined all that was required for the use of the chapel would be found. They soon discovered their mistake, and, beyond a little cleaning done, they had to provide almost everything. As soon as the Vernons had prepared it, the eldest Casinelli brought all her friends to look at it, that they might admire the piety of her family, and learn the sacrifices they had made in order to afford this consolation to the neighborhood!
But wisely judging that unforeseen circumstances might occur which would show their interests and the way to make more money might lie in another direction, the eldest brother was directed to assume quite another tone. He was therefore deputed to act the sceptic on the occasion, and make supercilious remarks about his sister's excess of piety, and the inconvenience and folly of these extremes of devotion. He shrugged his shoulders about it, and lamented that, not being master, he could do nothing to refrain her from so rashly committing herself to possible expenses, and even to probable difficulties with the present government, from the presence of a zealous and hard-working Jesuit father. At the same time, he gave no handle against himself in the matter, but preserved an outwardly civil manner towards the Vernons, and a cold regret towards Padre Cataldo. As time went on, the Vernons discovered that there was an ever-increasing difficulty about all that was requisite for the altar. The altar linen was withdrawn, and they had to find their own. The vestments were borrowed one day, and never returned. By the time we arrived, almost everything for the service of the altar was the property of the Vernons; and Ida's active fingers had achieved the happiest results from very limited materials.
Meanwhile, there could be no doubt of the good that was being done in the neighborhood from the reopening of the little chapel and the active piety of Padre Cataldo. The parish church is a long way off, and up a very steep hill. The result is that few of the little children and women could get to church at all. There is a chapel, dedicated to Our Lady of Dolors, by the roadside at Posilippo, but it is very small. And there is another built by the Minutoli when, for love of the poor, they left their beautiful villa of “Mon Caprice,” and raised an asylum for the aged poor, and a house to which they themselves retired, giving away all they could spare from their own modest requirements. But this also is somewhat at a distance; and, moreover, the population is large, and the accommodation altogether but scanty.
I have seldom seen more fervor and devotion than in the little chapel at Casinelli, hewn out of a rock, with its simple decorations and a few natural flowers on the altar. There was no music, and I cannot for a moment pretend that there was the slightest approach to harmony in the loud, harsh, powerful shouting which the Italian peasantry are content to mistake for singing. But, at least, there was real devotion, as they sat with eyes fixed on the preacher, who so beautifully and so earnestly discoursed to them as a father might to his children. I have often seen the tears streaming down their cheeks; and then from time to time we would hear of first this and then that hardened sinner who came creeping back to his or her duties, and making us all glad. Several small boys served at the altar; and as the honor was highly prized, they had been made to come in rotation to obviate quarrels. One small creature of about four years of age, and who had quite the most marvellous eyes and the longest lashes I ever saw, was specially pertinacious about his rights. In short, there was something touchingly primitive and real about the whole thing which could not fail deeply to impress us who came as strangers into this little seaside sanctuary. As we sat waiting for the priest to arrive, or in the silent parts of the Mass, we could hear the waves lapping the yellow sands just outside the half-closed door. This was the public entrance; and sometimes, in rough weather, I think it must have entailed a little sprinkling of salt water on the worshippers. We entered the chapel by a flight of marble stairs, in a tower which led from the inner court of the Villa Casinelli, and which stairs brought us into an aisle of the chapel, cut further in the rock, and consequently always somewhat dark. I remember Mary's going to Mass before breakfast, and having desired Paolino to bring her coffee, and put it in one of the niches of the marble staircase; which he did, greatly amused and pleased at so unusual a proceeding. It was never, however, repeated, for the wind blew fresh and cold, and the Vernons were almost hurt at what might look like a mistrust of their ever-ready and abundant hospitality.
There was altogether something about the arrangement and position of the chapel so unlike the beaten ways of everyday life that, united as it is with the memory of the beautiful short addresses of the father and the devotion of the people, it remains in our minds heightened by a tinge of romance. And now there was the fatal apprehension that all this was to be destroyed.
It was some little time before Mary and I could quite make out what this suddenly-developed though long smouldering hostility to Padre Cataldo and the Vernons could mean, the Casinelli had appeared so anxious to be civil to the latter, and had professed such delight at first that the chapel should be reopened. At length we learnt the facts of the case, which were as follows: The Vernons had been residing at Casinelli for about two years, and doing a great deal of good in their immediate neighborhood, when an Italian gentleman, a strong Liberal, and openly professing infidelity, applied for the set of apartments corresponding to those occupied by the Vernons. In this case it was the brother who appeared as the owner, and who, careless of all save his rent, let it at [pg 547] once to the Martorelli, as we will call the gentleman in question and the lady who accompanied him.
This, of course, was a grand opportunity for the sister to come forward in the family comedy, and enact her part. So with loud bewailings and great disturbance of the whole household, she took to her bed, and sent for all her acquaintances to come and bewail with her the wickedness of her brother, who had let the apartments to such people—not even respectable!—and so brought a slur on his father's house. Everybody was entreated to pray that the brother's hard heart might be touched and his conversion effected.
But, in the meanwhile, nothing was done by any member of the family to prevent the Martorelli from taking quiet possession, as tenants, of a property which belongs to all the Casinelli, and about the letting of which, therefore, every one had a voice. This case was so glaring a one, and was so likely to bring the Casinelli into disrepute, that it was found necessary to drill all the members of the family to act the part of outraged propriety. Therefore all the seven sisters refused acquaintance with the new-comers, while they redoubled their attentions to the Vernons, wearying them with reiterated invectives against the Martorelli, and ostentatiously going the whole round of the garden, rather than run the risk of meeting them in the avenue which leads to the principal entrance.
Six months elapsed, and during that time the brother was a constant guest at the Martorelli's, while more and more he evinced a marked absence of civility towards the Vernons, and especially towards Padre Cataldo. On one occasion, as the brother returned from dining with the Martorelli, he said something positively insulting to the Vernons, whom he met in the garden. This was overheard by some of vignaiuoli,[123] and was repeated to the seven sisters, who accordingly went in a body, the next day, to call on the Vernons, with redoubled regrets about their brother and about the vicinity of such objectionable people as the Martorelli, who, however, they rejoiced to add, would certainly vacate the apartment in another month. The Vernons, knowing no reason to doubt their statement, were naturally gratified to hear it, as the garden belonged equally to all the inhabitants of the house, except a very small portion assigned to each family, only sufficient for the cultivation of a few flowers. Time, however, wore on, and another six months had expired without making any difference as regarded the presence of the Martorelli.
Far from showing any signs of intended departure, Signor Martorelli was allowed to undertake several improvements in the house and garden at his own expense. About the same time some of the sisters called on Padre Cataldo, and, without making any allusion to the works that were being carried on by their tenant, they informed him, with every demonstration of zeal, that the lady who resided in the house with him had shown some signs of a better state of feeling than the gentleman; and that, in short, she was a very interesting person—one about whose welfare they could not but feel anxious. They added that, when she saw people going to and from the chapel, she was noticed to sigh deeply, [pg 548] and had actually expressed surprise that no one had ever invited her to enter the chapel; while, on the other hand, their brother was always taunting them with a want of real charity in having avoided any intercourse with this perhaps repentant sister. They had therefore, they asserted, after many misgivings, come in a body to consult his reverence as to what he would advise them to do. Personally, they could have no wish to know such people; but here, possibly, was a question of the salvation of a soul, and all selfish sentiments must be laid aside for that. Perhaps their knowing her might do good; did his reverence not think that, with such an end in view, they ought to sacrifice their natural aversion, and call on the interesting lady? Of course the only reply that a priest could make to such a question was that no consideration should stand in the way when any hope of doing good is in question. And then all the seven damsels, breaking forth in expressions of submission to his advice, and appearing to take it as if the initiative had come from him, with pious phrases and low courtesies, left his reverence's presence. From that day the greatest intimacy and constant intercourse sprang up between the two families. The seven sisters and the young lady were inseparable. Signor Martorelli's sentiments and principles were deeply bewailed; but if her husband, as he is called, and as we hope he is, showed so little religion, at least she was a promising subject; and whenever they saw the Vernons, it was always to relate the growing success of their happy manœuvre. Time, however, sped on his way, and no practical results followed. Signora Martorelli entered no church, while the man threw off the mask, and openly began to do the devil's work among the pious contadini[124] of the place. He would send for two or three of the young lads at the hour of Mass on Sundays and feast days, and promise them a trifling sum, if, instead of going to church, they would execute some commission for him. When they hesitated, he would laugh at their scruples, and ridicule their attachment to the Jesuit father, and their caring to have objects of devotion like a rosary or the picture of a saint. By degrees his discourses to them became impregnated with positive blasphemy; he grew bolder in his expressions of hatred against religion, and more virulent in his attacks on the ministers of the church. At length he had messages conveyed to the Vernons, to the effect that the bell for Mass (which was never rung before 8 o'clock) was an intolerable nuisance to him; and he threw out hints of revenge if it was not discontinued. Whenever it was rung, suddenly furious sounds proceeded from his part of the house. And really it would seem as if the wretched man were seized with the rage of the possessed, and that, when that bell sounded, the devil entered into him. The Vernons' servants became the objects of mysterious threats and of vile calumnies. A wretched peasant was bribed to frighten one of them at night; and a more daring sinner, but who afterwards repented with tears, was induced, by promises of money, to fire at Padre Cataldo one evening as he was entering the avenue where the man stood concealed.
At length the climax was reached which I have related at the [pg 549] beginning of this chapter, and the Mass bell was cut down in the night, and hung upon a fig-tree. I remained a long time with Ida and Elizabeth, discussing what would be the best course to pursue; and as I have got so far in the history of the Mass bell, I think I had better carry it on to the end, though it will lead me beyond many of the other incidents of our stay at Posilippo. It was decided that Ida should write very civilly but very firmly to the elder sister, remonstrating at the bell being removed. The sisters rose up in a body, and all together intoned a loud lamentation over the wickedness of the world. It was their desire the bell should be replaced, and that in all things the reverend father should do whatever he thought proper. It was impossible to say who had removed the bell; no one could so much as guess who could be at the bottom of so much wickedness; but as it was quite overwhelming, the eldest sister, true to her traditions and habits, retired to bed, informed her friends of the circumstance, and gathered them round her couch for two days of sympathy and condolence. The bell was, of course, replaced by the still trusting Vernons; but the atheistic Martorelli only escaped condign punishment at the hands of the indignant contadini through the remonstrances and commands of Padre Cataldo, who, in this instance, had unusual difficulty in getting his orders obeyed, and in preventing the insults that had been heaped upon him from being revenged by his loving but hot-headed Italian penitents.
The next Sunday morning Mary and I, who had far less faith in the possibility of any sincerity in the Casinelli than even the Vernons, listened anxiously for the first sound of the Mass bell. My watch was, I suppose, in advance of the right time; for it was five minutes past eight, and I had not heard a sound, when Mary came running in with the joyful exclamation that it was all right, and that the bell was pealing loud. The good Posilippians looked out of their cavernous houses, and peeped from their windows; and as we stood at our garden door, we could hear them calling to each other just as Mary had done to me—that the bad man had not dared again to cut down the bell in the night.
It was not long, however, before Martorelli, whose rage knew no bounds, began to express his threats against the Vernons, and especially against their chaplain, too loudly to escape notice. The father himself was well aware of these threats, because they never failed to be repeated by the people about the place, who were all devoted to him. Of course he avoided telling the Vernons, for three girls and one aged lady could do little in the matter, except feel very anxious for his safety. On the other hand, he was not the man to avenge, or even protect, himself. But as he was constantly out till late in the evening, preaching at different churches, giving retreats, and visiting the sick, several of the men who formed part of the congregation decided that he was never to be allowed to go down that treacherous winding path which leads from the Strada Nuova through the vineyards and garden to Casinelli, except accompanied by one of them. The terraces are admirably adapted for shooting down upon your enemy, as he passes just beneath you, while you lie concealed amongst the beans [pg 550] above. At length some of the wiser and more authoritative of the men, disgusted at the annoyances to which the females of the Vernon household were exposed, and at the threats against Padre Cataldo's life, had Martorelli summoned before the magistrates as a disturber of the peace. This strong measure kept him quiet for some time; and it was during this happy interval that Frank and Don Emidio Gandolfi returned from their long wanderings, Frank, of course, to take up his abode with us, and Don Emidio to return to his Neapolitan villa, his principal residence being in Rome.
The day of their return we were all sitting in the loggia together watching the evening light, which, falling on the rocks of Sorrento and on the island of Capri, seemed to turn them into pink topaz set in a sapphire sea. I was eagerly relating the history of the bell to our two gentlemen, and, forgetting that Don Emidio was an Italian, I launched out in strong expressions against the cunning and intrigue of the whole nation. In the midst of my harangue I suddenly looked up, and there was Don Emidio leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped, his deep, calm eyes fixed on my eager face, and a slight, sly smile curving his well-defined mouth. I stopped dead short, and blushed to the eyes. We were so used to seeing him with us, and to hearing him talk in his perfect English, that, in the heat of my discourse, I forgot I was abusing his countrymen. Frank laughed outright when, looking at Don Emidio, he saw the expression which had so suddenly arrested me, and Mary alone looked sorry for me.
“O Don Emidio!” I exclaimed, “I forgot you were not one of us. I forgot you were an Italian.”
“It needs no apology, signorina. I agree with a great deal that you say. In the first place, you spoke chiefly of Neapolitans. I am only half a Neapolitan. And, secondly, whatever you may think of Italians you are too just not to believe there are many honest men amongst them.”
“You are very kind to let me off so easily. No one who knew Padre Cataldo, who is a Neapolitan, could fail to believe in the possibility of honest Italians.”
“Excuse me, signorina, if I say that you would be nearly as far wrong in taking Padre Cataldo as a guarantee for there being honest men amongst us as you would be in believing us all rogues because you have met with people like the Casinelli.”
“Why so?”
“Because saints are as much an exception to the generality as are accomplished Machiavellians like the Casinelli.”
“You are right,” said Mary. “But do you not think that just as the French are specially addicted to vanity, so the Italians are to intrigue?”
“I do. It is the reverse of the medal. The French are sanguine, and the drawback to that is self-conceit. The Italians are astute, and the corresponding defect is cunning.”
“As Emidio is too sensible to be thin-skinned at our speaking out our thoughts,” interrupted Frank, “I must say that I have always thought the Italians great in duplicity.”
“The Italian does not care to tell you an untruth about a trifle. If he did so, it would be from carelessness rather than from purpose. But when [pg 551] once he sees his way, or thinks he sees it, to accomplishing some distant and important end, then the full strength of his close-knit mind and his marvellous faculty of mental investigation are brought to bear. He is unscrupulous because he is passionate. Not passionate only as a sudden burst, but condensed, sustained passion. The object he has in view, no matter what it be, becomes the object of his passion, and gradually he weaves around it the web of his whole being. With fixed, undeviating purpose, he bends all things to one point. If truth will serve him, he will employ truth; where that fails, deceit will be as readily adopted. He overlooks mountains and valleys, walls and barriers, in pursuit of his end; or rather he sees through them, as if they were merely a mist, and fixes his unflinching gaze on what he is resolved to obtain beyond them. So long as his purpose is unchanged, nothing will stay his progress. Once that changed, no matter how or why—out of his own will or through the will of others—and the whole fabric of deceit passes from him like a mantle loosely draped from his shoulders, only to be resumed when next required.”
“You seem to me to have made it out very clearly, Emidio,” said Frank. “Now, what is the good side of this disagreeable picture?”
“The good side is the strength of will and the power of sustained and concentrated thought and purpose. Turn all that in the right direction, and you will find it leads you to a long list of heroic saints, surpassed in no country, and equalled only in Spain, where some of the like characteristics exist.”
“But surely,” said I, “France also is a great land of saints.”
“No doubt. But, generally speaking (of course there are exceptions), they belong to a different category. The greatest contemplatives have been Italian or Spanish.”
“But, Don Emidio, I don't like to think that nationality, which seems to include temperament, and even climate, can have anything to do with the making of God's saints.”
“And why, signorina, should you object to it when He who makes his saints makes also the climate and the temperament? He has linked the outer and inner world too closely together for us to have any reason to be astonished that he should observe certain general laws in connection with the gifts of his highest graces.”
Mary started forward from the depths of her arm-chair, and said eagerly: “Then do you really think that the slower temperament and depressing climate of England, for example, have prevented, and will prevent, our country from being honored by great saints?”
“I am very far from thinking it. On the contrary, and strange as it may appear at first sight, there are certain characteristics amongst the English which assimilate them, in my mind, to the Italians in a way I never could assimilate the French. I allude to your steadiness of purpose and to your reserved and silent habits. These qualities, when laid hold of by grace, tend to lead to contemplation and mystic holiness, much as do the qualities we have spoken of among Italians.”
“Then, I suppose, the extraordinary energy and versatility of the French are likely to make them more active than contemplative.”
“Just so, signorina, and yet there have been wonderful exceptions; and I should be wrong in making out anything like a rigid rule. In the first place, ‘the wind bloweth where it listeth’; [pg 552] and, in the next, the demarcations of national character are not sufficiently strong to necessitate any given development of even mere natural qualities, much less of spiritual qualities.”
“I suppose, in short, all you really mean, Don Emidio,” resumed Mary, “is that, when it pleases God to make a saint in the full acceptation of the term, he makes use of natural conditions blended with the supernatural.”
“God always works with a method, signora—by rule and measure. We cannot solve all the divine problems; but we know that they are according to truth and justice.”
Don Emidio's last words seemed to shut us all up in silent thought. Frank went on puffing at his cigar in a way which set my wicked imagination wondering how far smoking was conducive to meditation. But then I never heard of a saint who smoked. Perhaps if any very holy man, whose canonization was in progress, had been given to smoking, the devil's advocate would lay hold of it, and try to destroy the cause. I do not think tobacco was much in vogue when the great modern saints lived. S. Philip Neri, for instance, that large-hearted, “large-sleeved”[125] saint—I wonder if, in these days, he would have smoked? But then he was a priest. That makes a great difference. I think a layman might have an occasional cigar. There is that dear old Frank lighting his second. But Don Emidio has had only two tiny cigarettes. What nonsense runs in my head! And, meanwhile, the red lights have all died away. Capri lies like a large, dense cloud on the bosom of the sea; and though all the sunlight has faded from the sky, there is a strange color of mingled purple and orange that seems to flash upon the water, and that I never saw anywhere except in the Bay of Naples. Presently we are roused from our reverie by the sound of voices; and Ida's tall figure stands by the open window looking out upon us, while Elizabeth and Helen are behind.
“How silent you all are!” exclaims Ida with a laugh. “I am afraid we shall disturb you.”
“Oh! it is only that Don Emidio has been talking to us so much about heroic sanctity that we are all in a state of depression from the consciousness that we have no hope of ever reaching it.”
“I am quite sure you never will, if you set about it in this melancholy fashion. Besides, nobody is a saint till he is dead; and who knows but what you may live to pray at my tomb yet?”
“Yours, Ida dear?” said Mary quite gravely.
“Why not? There are so many kinds of saints; and I may yet come out as quite a new variety. But that is not what I am come about. Padre Cataldo is gone to see the poor man I told Mary of this morning. He has got the fever, and, when he is delirious, he keeps calling so piteously for the padre that this is the second time to-day he has had to toil up our hill to go to him, besides all his other toils. As soon as the man is pacified, he promised to come here. He told us at dinner that to-morrow will be a free day, and that for once he could make an excursion with us, if we liked to go to Baiæ.”
It was soon all settled. I thought it strange the two gentlemen did not wish to ride, but preferred coming in the carriage with us. For my [pg 553] part, I longed to be on horseback, and, in their place, I would have ridden. Padre Cataldo looked in for a moment to learn our plans, and then Don Emidio took leave of us. He had a long way to drive home.
“Your villa is on the Vomero, is it not?” I said.
“No, signorina; it is at Capo di Monte. Do you prefer the Vomero?”
“Oh! dear, no. I think Capo di Monte very beautiful.”
He was holding my hand, as he wished me good-night. I thought what an odd question it was to ask me. What could it matter which I liked best? I told Mary I thought Don Emidio was sometimes a little absent, and hardly knew what he was saying. But I suppose Mary did not agree with me, for she only smiled and made no answer.
The next morning I overheard Mary lamenting to Frank about the way in which Paolino disturbed her rest, beginning, as early as half-past four, firing at the little birds in the garden. I used to envy that lad his faculty for early rising. The first streak of light through his shutterless window saw Paolino on the alert. And then he would go strolling out into the garden, leaning over the low wall that divided our entrance from the main road, hailing all his comrades on their way to their work, whistling and shouting to his sisters, who lived in a portion of the villa where we had originally thought of taking apartments but for its dirty and miserable condition. These noises so early in the morning, and close to our windows, were bad enough; but when to these the constant firing of a gun was added, Mary's powers of endurance failed. It would have been a waste of feeling to compassionate the birds, who flew away from Paolino's aim with perfect impunity. It was therefore from no apprehensions for the few songsters of a garden in Southern Italy that we complained. But all day long Paolino was absent at inopportune moments, attempting a hopeless massacre of sparrows and finches. He had often been scolded about it, but the instinct of sport in the boy was superior to any fear of being found fault with. When at length it reached such a pitch that Mary even was induced to complain, Paolino had to endure a sharp scolding from Frank. The result of which was that, a few hours after, he took the gun, with tears in his eyes, to Monica, requesting her to carry it to his father, that through him it might be returned to the friend who had lent him the fatal weapon. He alleged that he had not the moral courage to have the gun in his possession, and yet refrain from inordinate use of it; and thus, as he said, the only way was to put the occasion out of his reach. The little birds enjoyed peaceful matins ever after, and Paolino rose wonderfully in our esteem.
The roomy landau and the impish coachman were ready early to take us on our long excursion; while Pascarillo, the coachman's master, and the owner of many carriages, provided another conveyance for the rest of the party. Don Emidio went with Mary, Ida, and myself; Padre Cataldo and Frank with Mrs. Vernon and the other girls. We took the Posilippo road, intending to return by the Grotto of Puzzuoli. Nothing can be more beautiful than the view which greets you at the top of the hill, and which, in a steep winding descent, brings you to the town of Puzzuoli. [pg 554] To the left is a high bank of verdure covered with flowering shrubs, and here and there a goat browsing on some almost inaccessible peak. The sea always seemed to me to be even bluer here than in the Bay of Naples. We drive past places bearing some of the grandest names of antiquity; Puzzuoli itself was once a “little Rome”; Cicero's villa was here; here Sylla died. Temples unrivalled in beauty covered those hill-sides, and villas with umbrageous trees were dotted all over those flat plains where the willows wave their long, yellow twigs amid rows of tall poplars, and here and there a plane-tree. Here are the market gardens that supply Naples, or rather a portion of them. But all the land is full of sulphur springs, and it is only in certain seasons of the year that Puzzuoli and its neighborhood is fit for habitation. Then Neapolitans and strangers come to take the sulphur baths, the hateful vapors of which catch our breath as we pass. I have a growing sense of everything being unreal around me; and no length of time or habit removes the impression. The sea has swallowed up one-half of the spots sacred to classic memories. But where are the trees of Cicero's villa that Pliny praises? What wild havoc or gradual but most obliterating change has availed to wipe away all but the faintest traces of what once was looked on as a paradise? Fire and water alike have combined to erase the last relics of that luxurious pagan time. The volcanic action in all this part of Italy and the encroaching ocean have sufficed to wipe out all but the faintest indications of a state of luxury, wealth, architectural beauty, and lavish decoration to which old Phœnicia, Greece, and Rome had lent their aid in the long course of ages. Never was ruin greater, perhaps, since the beginning of the Christian era. Sodom and Gomorrah, Nineveh and Babylon, have passed away more entirely. But in Puzzuoli, Misenum, Cumæ, and Baiæ the ruin is more pathetic, from the fact that enough remains to betray how vast those villas and baths and temples once were, and how absolutely the aggressive force of silent nature has overpowered and swept away or buried the proud achievements of man.
We proceed from one marvel of destruction to another. The Mare Morto is to our right, shrunk to a tiny lake; and yet this was to have been, when completed, the great port for Roman merchandise. The same melancholy feeling of utter destruction and radical change in the whole aspect of the country fills the mind wherever we turn; and through all the excursions we made in this neighborhood, I never found it less; while Mary, who had been here many years ago, recollected having experienced the same impression, and found that it returned upon her, if possible, with fuller force. It may be as well to remind my readers that the ancient name of Puzzuoli was Puteoli. And perhaps in no one place are crowded, within a circumference of about twelve miles around it, so many and such intimate associations with pagan Rome and the old classic life. The crumbling tufa-banks by the road-side are filled with rectangular Roman bricks, the remains of baths connected with the villa residences and temples of antiquity. Also, there are considerable remains of Columbaria and large tombs. We passed beneath the Arco Felice, and, clambering up a high bank, reached the cottage of a vignaiuolo, [pg 555] and rested beneath an elm-tree while I made a drawing of Lago Fusaro and part of the Elysian Fields. We saw the Lake of Lucrinus, but the oysters are gone. We shuddered as we approached Avernus. The dense forest which once flung its black shadows on the waters has long ago been felled or died away. The wholesome mid-day sun shot laughing beams on the clear surface, disarmed of all preternatural horror. The Elysian Fields are, indeed, a smiling plain of land partially cultivated, and partially covered with trees and brush-wood, the king's favorite hunting-grounds. We women refused to enter the Sibyl's cave, liking neither damp nor sulphurous smells. The horrors of the surroundings are all swept away. The little birds fly over the once deadly Lake of Avernus as safely as from Paolino's harmless gun; and as we look back through the dim avenue of misty ages, it is curious to reflect that what is a dream of the past to ourselves was hardly less so to others who are now but shadowy representatives of a world gone by to us; for it was Agrippa whose engineering robbed Avernus of many of its terrors, and probably disturbed even the placid oysters of Lucrinus. Thus the sense of unreality grows upon us, as we visit one spot after another, and find the green tendrils of the young vine, the blue-purple blossoms of the vetch, and bright scarlet poppies covering with gay garlands the few vestiges of a world that is dead and gone. Yet even here I am tempted to repeat, “Le passé n'est pas mort, il n'est qu'absent,”[126] and yet how far absent! How the old gods have died away from their own sylvan scenes, and the nymphs fled, shamefaced, from lakes no longer solitary! Victor Emanuel will scare no dryads from their leafy bowers, and is hardly the man to trace the small footprint of the chaste huntress on the yielding moss, as he pursues the wild boar through what were doubtless once her covers. No laughing Bacchante peeps behind the trailing vine, or dances, with light, flowing tresses and scanty tunic, to the trilling of double pipes. The goats are here, but the satyrs are absent. The vines show promise of rich grapes; but Bacchus, grape-crowned, with the skin of the spotted pard across his sun-bronzed chest, and the tragic melancholy of liquid eyes with sleepy lids, is nowhere found; for, be it remembered, the god of wine was no drunken lout, but rather one who, at least in his ripe youth, was but quickened and inspired by the blood of the red grape.
The myths and fables have long ceased. As myths, they held a divine truth, dimly shadowed forth. As fables, they degenerated, like all half-truths, into wholesale errors. Then human depravity swept over them, and left its poisonous slime o'er all. We go back to the memory of those times with mingled feelings of wonder and of pain. But amid the decaying fragments of classic lore there shines forth one little incident which quickens our pulse, and bridges over all the succeeding ages with a touch of feeling that obliterates time and space. The words are few, but they are dearer to us than the epics of Virgil, or the letters of Cicero, or all else that may grace the memory of this lovely land: “The south wind blowing, we came the second day to Puteoli, where, finding brethren, we were desired to tarry with them seven days.”
“Finding brethren!” Yes, even here, beneath the shade of marble porticos, temple, and fane devoted to an infamous religion, the Name that is above every name was whispered by a few. The sign of the cross was secretly made by quiet inhabitants of Puzzuoli's noisy streets, the Virgin Mother was revered, and the words of S. Paul and S. Luke listened to as a message from above. And how little the citizens of Puteoli knew of the divine mysteries which were going on among them! And now, as if the wicked city had been in every sense too near the gate of hell, the volcanic flames have penetrated the earth's thin crust on all sides, and flung down and devoured the traces of brilliant, triumphant, and overbearing vice, leaving in its place a handful of Christian peasants and a few relics prized by the scholar and the antiquarian.
I must own to my readers that I am chiefly repeating Don Emidio's words, and that, as we approached Baiæ, I with startling indecorum exclaimed: “But it must not be forgotten that we have come here to eat oysters, whether or not the Lake of Lucrinus produces them.” We did eat oysters. We alighted at the humblest little wayside inn close to the shore. We sat beneath the trellised vine that covered the vast loggia. The lemons were gathered, as sauce for the oysters, in the garden below; the ruins of the circular temple of Venus or Mercury shone, deep red, in the light of the setting sun. The merry landlord and a half-dozen nondescript servants, men and maids, proposed to dance the tarantella for us. The women happened to lack beauty, and the men youth. But that was not our reason for declining the pleasure. The dance was doubtless innocent enough; but it was not often we were favored with the company of “Nostro Zio Prete,” our uncle priest, and we thought it more decorous not to order dances in his presence. I must explain to my readers that the peasantry in South Italy call a priest uncle when they do not call him father; and that in some of our excursions, when Padre Cataldo bargained about carriages or refreshment (and which must always be done if you do not want to be scandalously overcharged), they always protested that for no consideration would they attempt to impose on their uncle priest! Happily for us, our reverend uncle was a Neapolitan, and too well acquainted with the true value of the services we received for us to have any apprehension of being cheated in any expedition organized by him. Perhaps our host himself surmised our reason for declining the tarantella, for he did not press it; and returning to our carriage, we drove home by moonlight through the Grotto of Puzzuoli.