chemist's shop and the abode of ourselves. Two little
oil lamps, of the old Roman form, were placed in each
of our windows that faced on the square, in imitation
of those that filled the windows of all the surrounding
houses. Once more the ancestral garments were hung
out of the window. Fired by the enthusiasm of the
moment, I proposed to Signor Amato that I should
exhibit a shirt, an ulster, or my pyjamas from my
window ; but he suppressed my impulse, and gravely
told me that it was the custom to display only women's
di'aperies. In addition to these, the houses were all
covered up to the first floor with sheets and counter-
panes. The chemist's shop was no more, the ' cheap-
jacqvierie ' was invisible — the noble square looked for
the time being like a laundry-ground. Childish it is,
if you will, this meaningless displa}' of treasured frocks
and heirloom petticoats, — this arraying of one's bed-
clothes at the front door; but in its primitive en-
thusiasm, in its very na'wclc, it is not without a
certain refreshing charm in these daj's of hiixscr
faire.
From the church, and in the same order as before,
the procession wound under a dark archwa}', through
our square, and on to another, larger but less important,
being ungraced by the haunts of commerce, to a
chamber, for it is too small to be called even a chapel,
wherein was sung the Benediction.
The behaviour of the peasants during this little
service was most reverent. To a man they all knelt
down just where they were on the dusty road. It was
interesting to watch one of them who was with us —
a handsome young fellow who had but the week
before returned from Rome, where he had been a
model. For several minutes he stood doggedly by us,
while all the others were kneeling ; but at last habit
and old reverent association were too strong for him
and, under the pretext of stooping to pick up his hat,
he too knelt. The sight was impressive to a degree,
and would have been more so had the women's voices
been less discordantly nasal.
It is a trick they have all got — that of singing
through the nose — nor is it confined to their religious
chants. It permeates their love-songs also, robbing
them of half their beauty. For they are beautiful, these
sad, sweet songs of their own mountains, some of which
are absolutely of this country, and, so far as I can
gather, are unknown elsewhere. Nor have they ever
been written, but are handed down from generation to
generation. There is a strong pathos about one that
I enclose, and a cynicism and force that I find to be
most distinguished. Some of the words being rather
obscure, with an expression or two completely provin-
cial and idiomatic, I have added an approximate
translation, for which it would be idle to apologise,
while to the kind services of my friend M I am
indebted for the writing of the notes. To do justice
to this song, which is heard in every valley where the
reapers cut the corn, and is echoed back from the
hill-tops by the distant shepherd, it is necessary to
remember that the last note ought to be dwelt on
indefinitelj' : —
liigi^^^gii^gi
A mezza notte iii pun - to
As midnight chimes are strik - ing
Si sen - te sea - rio -
Still hear we sounds of
F— F=^-F-
=V-
I I ■ ■ I I
So-no li ca - rio - lanti lu
or weary .sons of la
1^131^^^^^^
Che st:m ■ no a la - vo - rar.
Till - ing ihe fruit - fill soil.
Quest' e la via del pome,
Dove quel traditor
Venne a tradire la bionda
Per un bacin d'amor.
L'amore e una gran cosa :
La fame e peggio ancor ;
Quando il trent'un cl batte '
.Si ricorre a ramor.
Over the bridge, down yonder,
There dwelt the fair-hair'd maid.
Whom, with a kiss, a lover
So faithlessly betrayed.
Love is a mighty monarch,
But hunger sits above :
When hunger's pangs are Iceene-st
'Tis then one turns to love.
Apropos to music, the young Italian whom I men-
tioned as having been a model in Rome is a great
player on the Sampogna, or national bagpipes — a sort
of music of which, like that played in Scotland, one
can have enough, though both are of a wild and mourn-
ful beauty, unsurpassed in their own place. Nothing
is more beautiful or more in harmony with its surround-
ings than this instrument when played on the moun-
tains. But one gets to dread it when it is played at
night under one's windows for an hour or two, just
when one is enjoying a first sweet sleep. And Gigi
Morganti (as this gifted youth is called) thinking to do
honour to those of us whom he had known in Rome by
serenading us on his return to his native village, inflicted
such terrible tortiu-e upon us for three successive
nights, that we all had the desperate idea of waler-
jiigs to quench his enthusiasm, and had at last to
beseech him to spare us. This was a delicate business,
as he thought lie was paying us the highest compli-
ment in his power. I know for a fact that when
he was in Rome he used to have an ' innaijiorata ' here
in Anticoli — because a friend of mine — an Englishman
— used to write his love-letters for him, beginning
' Carissima . . .' as he himself was ' no scholar.' But
I learn that since his return the aff'air is all over, and
she has jilted him.
I have heard no details, and I sought not to gather
them, when I understood that it was his habit here
to serenade her every evening in the same manner as
he had begun with us. I shall be accused of saying
more than the truth when I state that he is absolutely
paid by other young men of his acquaintance to
serenade their spose promessc. Can it be that they
are paying this rejected lover as a delicate means of
' Literally 'when thirty-one strikes,' a purely provincial idiom
expressing hunger.
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THE SCOTTISH ART REVIEW