But better than this was the ingenious argument of a Frate, whom I met on board a steamer in going from Leghorn to Genoa, and who, having pumped out the fact that I was an American, immediately began to "improve" it in a discourse on Columbus. So he informed me that Columbus was an Italian, and that he had discovered America, and was a remarkable man; to all of which I readily assented, as being true, if not new. But now a severe abstract question began to tax my friend's powers. He said, "But how could he ever have imagined that the continent of America was there? That's the question. It is extraordinary indeed!" And so he sat cogitating, and saying, at intervals, "Curioso! Straordinario!" At last "a light broke in upon his brain." Some little bird whispered the secret. His face lightened, and, looking at me, he said, "Perhaps he may have read that it was there in some old book, and so went to see if it were or no." Vainly I endeavored to show him that this view would deprive Columbus of his greatest distinction. He answered invariably, "But without having read it, how could he ever have known it?"—thus putting the earth upon the tortoise and leaving the tortoise to account for his own support.
Imagine that I have told you these stories sitting under the vine and fig-tree of some villetta, while Angiolina has gone to call the padrone, who will only be too glad to see you. But, ecco! at last our padrone comes. No, it is not the padrone, it is the vignarualo, who takes care of his grapes and garden, and who recognizes us as friends of the padrone, and tells us that we are ourselves padroni of the whole place, and offers us all sorts of fruits.
One old custom, which existed in Rome some fifteen years ago, has now passed away with other good old things. It was the celebration of the Fravolata or Strawberry-Feast, when men in gala-dress at the height of the strawberry-season went in procession through the streets, carrying on their heads enormous wooden platters heaped with this delicious fruit, accompanied by girls in costume, who, beating their tamburelli, danced along at their sides and sung the praises of the strawberry. After threading the streets of the city, they passed singing out of the gates, and at different places on the Campagna spent the day in festive sports and had an out-door dinner and dance.
One of these festivals still exists, however, in the picturesque town of Genzano, which lies above the old crater now filled with the still waters of Lake Nemi, and is called the Infiorata di Genzano, "The Flower-Festival of Genzano." It takes place on the eighth day of the Corpus Domini, and receives its name from the popular custom of spreading flowers upon the pavements of the streets so as to represent heraldic devices, figures, arabesques, and all sorts of ornamental designs. The people are all dressed in their effective costumes,—the girls in busti and silken skirts, with all their corals and jewels on, and the men with white stockings on their legs, their velvet jackets dropping over one shoulder, and flowers and rosettes in their conical hats. The town is then very gay, the bells clang, the incense steams from the censer in the church, where the organ peals and mass is said, and a brilliant procession marches over the strewn flower-mosaic, with music and crucifixes and Church-banners. Hundreds of strangers, too, are there to look on; and on the Cesarini Piazza and under the shadow of the long avenues of ilexes that lead to the tower are hundreds of handsome girls, with their snowy tovaglie peaked over their heads. The rub and thrum of tamburelli and the clicking of castanets are heard, too, as twilight comes on, and the salterello is danced by many a group. This is the national Roman dance, and is named from the little jumping step which characterizes it. Any number of couples dance it, though the dance is perfect with two. Some of the movements are very graceful and piquant, and particularly that where one of the dancers kneels and whirls her arms on high, clicking her castanets, while the other circles her round and round, striking his hands together, and approaching nearer and nearer, till he is ready to give her a kiss, which she refuses: of course it is the old story of every national dance,—love and repulse, love and repulse, until the maiden yields. As one couple panting and rosy retires, another fresh one takes its place, while the bystanders play on the accordion the whirling, circling, never-ending tune of the Tarantella, which would "put a spirit of youth in everything."
If you are tired of the festival, roam up a few paces out of the crowd, and you stand upon the brink of Lake Nemi. Over opposite, and crowning the height where the little town of Nemi perches, frowns the old feudal castle of the Colonna, with its tall, round tower, where many a princely family has dwelt and many an unprincely act has been done. There, in turn, have dwelt the Colonna, Borgia, Piccolomini, Cenci, Frangipani, and Braschi, and there the descendants of the last-named family still pass a few weeks in the summer.[1] Below you, silent and silvery, lies the lake itself,—and rising around it, like a green bowl, tower its richly wooded banks, covered with gigantic oaks, ilexes, and chestnuts. This was the ancient grove dedicated to Diana, which extended to L'Ariccia; and here are still to be seen the vestiges of an ancient villa built by Julius Caesar. Here, too, if you trust some of the antiquaries, once stood the temple of Diana Nemorensis,[2] where human sacrifices were offered, and whose chief-priest, called Rex Nemorensis, obtained his office by slaying his predecessor, and reigned over these groves by force of his personal arm. Times have, indeed, changed since the priesthood was thus won and baptized by blood; and as you stand there, and look, on the one side, at the site of this ancient temple, which some of the gigantic chestnut-trees may almost have seen in their youth, and, on the other side, at the campanile of the Catholic church at Genzano, with its flower-strewn pavements, you may have as sharp a contrast between the past and the present as can easily be found.
[Footnote 1: On the Genzano side stands the castellated villa of the Cesarini Sforza, looking peacefully across the lake at the rival tower, which in the old baronial days it used to challenge,—and in its garden-pond you may see stately white swans oaring their way with rosy feet along.]
[Footnote 2: The better opinion of late seems to be that it was on the slopes of the Val d'Ariccia. But "who shall decide, when doctors disagree?">[
THRENODIA.
ADDRESSED TO ALFRED TENNYSON, P.L., IN RESPONSE TO VERSES OF HIS "ON A LATE EVENT IN ENGLAND."
I heard you In your English home,—
I read you by my little brook,
Thousands of miles from British foam,
Hid in my dear New England nook:
But heard you with a sullen look;
But read you with a gloomy brow;
And thus unto my Muse I spoke:—
Who is there to write history now?