followed by a few strokes in his rear, intended to represent a city, though they were quite as much like an old comb:
“Der bei Leipsig laüft davon!”
(Tutti.) “Der bei Leipsig laüft davon!”
(Chorus.) “Napoleon, laüft davon”
“Monte Cavo, kleine Bravo”
“Ponte Molle, gar zü volle”
“Schnitzelbang, kürz ünd lang”
“Eine schöne, eine schöne”
“Eine schöne Schnitzelbang.”
and so on through a variety of similar illustrations, like a modification of “The house that Jack built,” until he had well nigh filled his board. These over, the chairman divested himself of a rat-catcher looking belt which he had worn throughout the evening, and giving a lusty tap upon the table with his hammer, knocked himself down for a song, of which he also acquitted himself admirably. Several others followed, one gentleman, a Swiss, favouring us with a genuine Vaterlander, in which the beautiful jodeln was charmingly introduced. On the whole, the harmonic portion of the Ponte Molle was by far the most gratifying, and I departed with my friend, much amused with what I had seen and heard, although almost at a loss to comprehend any portion of the evening’s exhibition.
ARTISTS ON THE PINCIAN.
Being most anxious to quit the comfortless four-pair-back of the “Hotel Cesarj,” I consulted with my friend Savill, and by him was recommended to some rooms in the Via Sistina, an airy street, near the Trinità de’ Monti, at one end of the Pincian hill. This neighbourhood had been chosen by Nicholas Poussin, whose house was next door to my new quarters, whilst that once occupied by Claude, was immediately opposite to me. Finding the apartment vacant, I engaged it forthwith, and my padrone undertook to get some old woman to make my bed, and bring me every morning a jug of hot water. The rooms proved very comfortable and sufficiently quiet, and I had moreover, the advantage of a shady garden, overlooking the street. Close to me on the right, was the Church of the Trinità de’ Monti, which contains the wonderful frescoes by Daniello of Volterra. A few minutes’ walk further on, would bring me to the Pincian, the favourite promenade of the Romans, who ride and drive round it in their badly-varnished, heavy carriages, with an assumption of ton, which often amuses their visitors. Here, however, there is no veto against hackney carriages, and the bracing air and fine prospects of the Monte Pincio, are common to the patrician and the basso-ceto. On Sundays the place is thronged with pedestrians of all classes. Groups of Trasteverini, the proud descendants of the ancient Romans, then venture hither, in their sky-blue pantaloons and short jackets, with low crowned white hats of the very longest nap. Their lasses accompany them, dressed in gowns of the gayest hues, their long hair plaited into all sorts of shapes, and secured by the silver spadino, sometimes a much less innocent instrument in the hands of the hot-blooded maidens of Rome.[24] These are attracted to the Pincian solely by the desire of seeing and being seen—their haunt after mass on the Sabbath being the Osterie, outside the gates of the city, where they will spend the whole day in dancing, and regale themselves on sour wine and uncooked ham.
On the Pincio stands the French Academy, whose beautiful gardens, replete with statues, fountains, and shady boschetti, are the delight of all romantic dispositions. From hence the eye ranges over the extensive grounds of the Borghese and Poniatowski, dotted here and there by an occasional villa, and thickly wooded with stone-pine and cypress, whilst the distance embraces views of the Soracte and Velino, and the broken range of the Sabine mountains.
I had now made the acquaintance of many artists, chiefly through the kind introductions of Bellamy and Savill, and began to feel an interest in the sublime arts, of which, until now, I had scarce believed myself capable. A great deal of my time was spent in their studii, or at the various galleries in their company, on which occasions, I was forced into the hearing of so many arguments and disquisitions upon “high art,” and “art” in all its ramifications, that I was at last fairly compelled to take up the pencil in self-defence; and the resolution was no sooner formed and expressed, than I got the offer of a table in the studio of a friend, and what was of far greater value to me, the opportunity of benefiting by his advice, during certain initiatory studies. Poor R——, who was so shortly afterwards taken away from us, will be in the remembrance of all who knew Rome and its English artists at the time of which I write. His career, though short, was a sufficiently brilliant one, the productions of his pencil being justly admired, and had he been spared, there can be little doubt, but that he would have risen to eminence in the profession. He it was who undertook, with the kindness for which he was remarkable, to guide my unpractised hand through the tedious routine of a commencement in what was to me almost a fresh career; and though at the time I frequently chafed at the monotonous detail it was necessary to wade through, I am satisfied that the system was a sound one, and ultimately repaid me the trouble.
As R—— mostly chose for his pictures, such subjects as were illustrative of the manners of the Roman peasantry, I had frequent opportunities of drawing from the best models. Grazia, Chiaruccia, and the Pifferari were among those who most suited his peculiar style, and as they were always willing to talk as long as we would sit to hear them, I soon picked up a tolerable smattering of Italian. The faces of these and other Roman models, must be familiar to most who frequent our modern galleries and exhibitions, and although the likeness may not in all cases be preserved, some one or other of their peculiar attributes is sure to reveal them to the practised eye. Who is there, for instance, that cannot claim acquaintance with the old Pifferaro, in the conical hat, and long white beard, whose face and figure have been made to play upon canvas nearly every rôle in the vocabulary. In one and the same apartment of a recent exhibition, I have seen that old man, jerking his bellows before a Madonna, and assisting his brother bandits to rifle a travelling carriage in the Pontine Marsh—casting his net into the Sea of Galilee, and playing at Morra in the Trastevere!