The Abbess of the monastery of San Cesimato told us, after making many apologies for fear of scandalising Père Jacquier, who was with us, that she had dreamt that morning that the three years for her being abbess had terminated, and that all the nuns came to desire her to continue in that office. Upon which she was in such a passion that she wished them all at the devil, and so loud that the whole dormitory heard her. She was very lively, and said that she took the veil at the age of fifteen, when she was so thin that everybody thought her in a consumption. She is now upwards of sixty, and blessed with quite sufficient “en bon point.”
The coachman of Monseigneur Gregori, who was about to be made a Cardinal, wounded his wife in a quarrel, and the poor woman was carried to an hospital. He insisted upon going in to see her—a thing never permitted in the part of the building allotted to women. Having a knife in his hand he tried to get in by force, but one of the people of the house picked up a big stone and frightened him away, at the same time calling to the sbirri to take him up. They were afraid, however, to do so when they heard that he was Monseigneur Gregori’s coachman, until the directors of the hospital told them that they would be answerable. They then carried him off to the prison at the Governo. Monseigneur Gregori sent immediately to the Governor, to say that he was going out and wanted his coachman, but the Governor returned for answer that he, too, wanted him.
Count Scutellari being with the Pope, his Holiness, to give more weight to an assertion, said, “Da galantuomo è vero.” The Count assured his Holiness that he need not have used so strong an expression, as he was obliged to believe him on half a word.
When the Governor (Spinelli) was very ill, a physician was sent for from Naples, who had been recommended as the head of the profession in that city. He said he wanted a man who was not afraid to deal with the Roman doctors. When he came they began, as usual, to give him an account of all the bleedings, &c., with which they had treated their patient. The Neapolitan, without waiting to hear the end of their story, ran up, caught Monseigneur Spinelli by the hand, and exclaimed, “Séi vive ancora!” The physicians, disconcerted at the expression, left the case in his hands, and the Governor has himself told us that he believes he owes his life entirely to this man. The Princess of Palestrine went to see him one day when he was at the worst, and as she was going out his people asked her what she thought of his state: “Why,” said she, “he appears to me beyond all hope of recovery; but he is Spinelli, and till you give him the last blow on the nose, like the cats he will escape.”
The learned and excellent Abbate Cunich was a native of Ragusa, and entered at an early age into the order of Jesuits; after the extinction of which he was Professor of the Greek language at the Roman College for a long series of years. His translation of Homer’s Iliad into Latin verse is esteemed as one of the most faithful, and, at the same time, one of the finest, versions as to style and purity of language which it is possible to imagine. He also translated many beautiful Greek epigrams from the Anthologia with equal success, and composed several himself, remarkable for their elegance, and chiefly encomiastic. The purity of mind, sanctity of manners, and innocent cheerfulness which were conspicuous in the character of Cunich, rendered him universally beloved and respected. He had warm feelings, and naturally great quickness of temper; but the deep sense of religion which influenced his life and behaviour gave him great power of self-government, which was further strengthened by his unaffected humility and singular moderation. At the advanced period of life when I knew him, his form and features were still beautiful, and his imagination as active and poetical as it could have been at twenty-five. He died, as far as I recollect, in 1796, of a long and painful illness, which he had concealed and borne with the greatest patience and resignation, not being confined to his room till within a very short time of his death. His affections, being by his profession confined to friendships, were, in their warmth and sincerity, more like those of ancient than of modern times; and he was so disinterested that, although he counted amongst his friends many persons of high rank and considerable influence, he never solicited, or even wished, for riches or distinctions. He associated only with worthy characters, and, not having the desire of celebrity, rather withdrew from the world than encouraged the advances of new acquaintances who admired his talents. But this retirement from the world in general was not owing to any dislike of it. He was singularly candid, charitable in his opinion of others, and really, I believe, imagined that others possessed the same virtues, or, perhaps, greater than those which his serenity of mind must have made him conscious of possessing.