Skip to main content

Full text of "In the Abruzzi"

See other formats


IN   THE   ABRUZZI 


c     c      «    t 
ce       c     t/ 

(       c         *    «      ^ 


C         CCCC<«CUCC  «  t 


ly.  •!  "!«.:".«•■' 


I 


ffcii*l^'l4 


i 


<«• 


i 


CASTEI.    DI     SAXGRO 


IN  THE  ABRUZZI 
BY  ANNE  MACDONELL  :  WITH 
TWELVE  ILLUSTRATIONS  AFTER 
WATER-COLOUR  DRAWINGS  BY 
AMY  ATKINSON 


NEW  YORK 
F.   A.   STOKES   COMPANY 


PRINTED   BY 

WILLIAM    CLOWES   AND   SONS,    LIMITED, 

LONDON    AND    BECCLES. 


:-'';:t.. 


All  rights  reserved 


CONTENTS 

PART   I 
CHAPTER   I 

INTRODUCTORY 


PAGE 


wild  land — The  Abruzzi  as  playground  and  as  romantic  back- 
ground— Earlier  travellers' books — Struggle  'twixtold  and  new — 
The  reception  of  the  wandering  stranger— A  note  on  topography 
— The  shepherds  of  the  Abruzzi — The  peasants — The  Americani 
— Women  in  the  Abruzzi — The  future 


CHAPTER   H 

THE  ABRUZZI    IN   THE   OLD  TIMES   AND  THE   NEW 

Ancestry  of  the  Abruzzesi — The  Samnite  Wars — The  brilliant  Marsi 
— Latinizing  of  the  Italians— The  Marsic  War— Corfinium  as 
Italica — The  peril  of  Rome — The  Italians  Roman  citizens — 
The  Abruzzesi  in  face  of  the  invaders— Changing  djmasties — 
The  isolation  of  the  mountains — In  the  Risorgimento — The 
Carbonari— General  Pepe  in  the  Abruzzi — Growing  hopelessness 
of  the  Liberals — Bomba's  policy  :  "  My  people  have  no  need 
to  think"  ...  ...  ...  •••  •••  •••       26 


CHAPTER    III 

BRIGANDAGE   IN   THE   ABRUZZI 

Disappearance  of  the  brigands— Will  they  ever  come  back  ?— Nature 
and  causes  of  brigandage  in  the  Abruzzi— Marco  Sciarra — Tasso 
and  the  brigand — Eighteenth-century  brigands — Famous  bandits 
during  the  French  occupation— Paul-Louis  Courier's^  journey — 
General  Manhes— Bourbon  encouragement  of  banditti— Brigand 
and  guide— Brigands'  arrogance— Brigands'  songs — 11  Pkhiscito 
—Foreigners  in  the  bands— A  brigand  dandy— A  carabiniere_  of 
genius— The  Venti  Seitembre—T\\Q  Legge  /"/Va— Lingering 
memories  of  brigands        ...  ...  ...  •••  •■•       44 


2675iG 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER    IV 

RELIGION    IN    THE   ABRUZZI 

PAGE 

The  one  reality — A  home  of  hermits  and  mystics — B.  Thomas 
OF  Celano — Earthquakes — St.  Peter  Celestine — Rienzi  in 
the  Abruzzi — St.  John  of  Capestrano — St.  Bernardino  of 
Siena  —  The  Messiah  of  the  Abruzzi  —  "Representations"  — 
Talami — Madonna,  heiress  of  Ceres— Pilgrimages — The  hermits 
of  to-day  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...       70 

CHAPTER   V 

FOLK-LORE   AND   FOLK   TALES 

Pagan  survivals  —  Demons  —  Treasure-hunting  —  Witches  —  The 
Malocchio — New  Year,  Easter,  May  Day,  and  St.  John's  Day 
celebrations — The  Bond  of  the  Commare — The  iede  pagane — 
Evocation  of  the  dead — Folk  Tales  :  (i)  The  Land  where  Death 
is  not;  (2)  The  Creation  of  the  World  ;  (3)  Misery  ...  ...       95 

CHAPTER   VI 

A    NOTE   ON   ART 

No  museum  cities — Classic  remains — Christian  architecture — Sculpture 
— The  lovely  lady  of  Aquila — Present-day  aspect  of  the  churches 
^The  master-craftsmen  of  the  Abruzzi — Modern  painters  : 
F,  P.  Michetti    ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...     116 

CHAPTER  VII 

SINGERS   AND   IMPROVISATORI 

Folk-Song  in  the  Abruzzi — Love-Songs — "The  Shepherd's  Return  " 
— Songs  of  Labour — Songs  to  Madonna  and  the  Saints — A 
literature  of  improvisation — Serafino  Aquilano — The  "  plough- 
man poet  " — Gabriele  Rossetti — The  English  Rossettis — A 
forgotten  romantic — Gabriele  D'Annunzio     122 


PART   II 

CHAPTER   VIII 

tagliacozzo 

The  Valerian  Way — The  earliest  Tahis  Cotium — The  body  of  the 
Blessed  Thomas — The  Orsini  and  Colonna — The  Valerian  Way 
within  tlie  town — The  Soccorso — The  Calvario — The  gests  of 
(jii)rgi — Jose  Borjes — A  mild  scent  of  brigandage — Benvenuto 
Cellini  at  Tagliacozzo — The  Castello — Home  from  the  hills — 
The  Madonna  dell'  Oriente — The  Battle  of  Tagliacozzo — 
Young  CoNRADiN — Santa  Mari.i  della  Vittoria         ...  ...      14^ 


CONTENTS  vii 

CHAPTER   IX 

ROUND   ABOUT   FUCINO 


PAGE 


Ancient  FuciNUS — The  Claudian  experiment— The  Claudian  pageant 
— Success  of  the  modern  scheme — High  cultivation  and  vanished 
beauty — Mythical  origin  of  the  ancient  Marsi — Marsi  enchanters 
and  serpent-charmers — Avezzano — The  ruins  of  Albe  (Alba 
Fucentia) — Santa  Maria  in  Valle  ...  ...  •••     I75 


CHAPTER   X 

CELANO 


A  splendid  ruin — Old  disasters— The  story  of  the  castle — The  Churcn 
as  hospice — St.  Francis  in  Celano — Our  padrona — Deserted 
Ovindoli — Roccadi  Mezzo — A  nightmare  of  light  and  of  stones — 
Wolves — Bettina  Serena   ...  ...  ...  ...  ...     199 


CHAPTER   XI 

SULMONA 

Hortus  inclusus — Mellow  Sulmona — A  stormy  past — Legend  of  San 
Panfilo— Market-day — The  Badia  of  Pope  Celestine — The 
Santone  in  the  Abruzzi — San  Spirito  in  Majella — Sant'  Onofrio 
— RiENZi  as  hermit — Ovid's  villa — OviD  as  magician — Celestine 
and  the  treasure — Corfinium  to-day — Rajano — The  iratiuro      ...     215 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE   VALLEY  OF  THE   SAGITTARIO 

A  wild  glen — Scanno — The  beautiful  Scannese — The  beginning  and 
the  end  of  life  at  Scanno— Santa  Maria  del  Lago— The  hermits' 
Rule — San  Domenico  di  CocuUo,  serpent-charmer — Tasso  in  the 
Valley — Anversa  and  its  memories — Italy  again  !        ...  ...     239 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE    ROAD   TO   CASTEL   DI    SANGRO 

Pacentro  and  Pettorano— The  Caldora  and  the  Cantelmi — Roccaraso 
— Pescocostanzo — A  weary  plain — A  village  of  optimists — 
Suspicion  of  the  stranger — Castel  di  Sangro  ...  ...     265 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   XIV 

FROM   SULMONA  TO  THE   SEA 

PAGE 

SanClementediCasauria — Chieti — Cast ellamare  the  sordid — The 
pageant  of  Pescara — Sforza — Gabriele  D'Annunzio  Pescarese — 
Francavilla,  the  high  town— The  lovely  Sultana — Francavilla- 
al-Mare — St.  John's  morning  by  the  sea       ...  ...  ...     278 

Bibliographical  Notes     ...  ...  ...  •••  ..•    296 

Index        ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  ...  .••    299 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

CASTEL  Dl  SANGRO  ...             ...  ...             ...          frontispiece 

VILLALAGO          ...             ...  ...             ...             ...    to  face  p.  5 

A   SHEPHERDS'  VILLAGE            ...  ...                ...                       „         i6 

ROCCARASO            ...                ...  ...                ...                ...              „        69 

A  SANCTUARY   IN   THE   ABRUZZI  ...                ...                       ,»        94- 

PASTORAL              ...                ...  ...                ...                ...             ,,      122 


TAGLIACOZZO 


147 


CELANO                   ...                ...  ...                ...                ...             „  201 

IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  SULMONA                  ...                ...                       „  215 

SCANNO                   ...                ...  ...                ...                ...             „  240 

PETTORANO                     ...                ...                ...                ...                       „  266 

ROCCACINQUEMIGLIA         ...  ...                ...                ...             „  275 


IX 


IN    THE    ABRUZZI 


PART    I 

CHAPTER   I 

INTRODUCTORY 

A  wild  land— The  Abruzzi  as  playground  and  as  romantic  background- 
Earlier  travellers'  books — Struggle  'twixt  old  and  new — The  reception 
of  the  wandering  stranger— A  note  on  topography— The  shepherds  of 
the  Abruzzi— The  peasants— The  A  mericani— Women  in  the  Abruzzi 
— The  future. 

Looking  out  from  Rome  due  eastward,  beyond  the 
nearer  heights  that  bound  the  Campagna,  vague  shapes 
rise  in  the  bkie  of  the  distance,  cloudHke,  part  of  the 
atmosphere  that  encircles  the  City  that  is  a  world,  or,  if 
the  day  so  decree,  clear  and  defined,  like  frontier  sentinels 
on  the  watch.  These  masses  and  peaks  are  the  rough 
edges  of  a  wall  that  shuts  in  a  land,  strange,  uncouth, 
primitive,  little  distant  from  Rome  in  mileage,  incal- 
culably distant  in  everything  else.  To  cross  its  rugged 
frontier  is  to  find  yourself  at  but  the  first  of  its  many 
defences  against  the  life  of  to-day — the  life  of  the  plain. 
Penetrate  but  a  little  way,  and  from  the  higher  slopes  of 
triple-peaked  Monte  Velino  you  will  descry  the  wonder 
and  the  terror  of  this  land — the  range  upon  range,  the 
barrier  on  barrier,  shutting  off  one  high-pitched  plain 
from  another,  making  the  folk  of  the  narrow  valleys  and 
the  lofty  townships  strangers  each  to  each.  The  ranges 
and  their  spurs,  snow-capped  for  more  than  half  the  year, 


2  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

with  peaks  that  never  lose  their  crest  of  white,  run 
parallel,  or  meet,  or  intersect  in  a  mazy  net  of  obstacles 
thrown  up  by  Nature  in  her  sudden  cataclysms,  in  her 
moods  of  defiance.  Here  man  has  never  conquered,  but 
only  clung,  with  patient,  obstinate  persistence.  Yet  this 
land  of  peak  and  pit,  of  range  and  gully,  red-brown  as 
from  the  fires  of  a  still  kindled  furnace,  full  of  unquiet 
shapes  and  of  great  silence,  has  its  surprises  for  us. 
After  all,  we  are  in  the  South ;  and,  sudden,  the  wilder- 
ness blossoms  like  a  rose,  and  what  seems  like  a  hillside 
in  the  Inferno  may  prove  the  wall  that  guards  an 
exquisite  flowering  cloister  garden  ;  or  above  some 
valley  of  uttermost  desolation  a  cloud  lifts,  and  we 
descry  the  hills  of  heaven.  Many  a  time  do  we  climb 
up  and  are  hurled  down  ere  we  stand  on  the  last  height, 
some  crag  of  the  Majella,  and  look  over  the  narrow  strip 
of  plain  to  the  eastern  sea. 

This  is  the  wild  land  of  the  Abruzzi,  set  apart  from 
the  rest  of  Italy  by  its  untamable  configuration  and  the 
rigour  of  its  winter  climate.  Recently  it  has  been  opened 
up,  and  is  now  criss-crossed  by  a  network  of  excellent 
roads,  some  of  them  only  remade  after  many  intervening 
centuries  ;  while  its  few  railroads  are  veritable  world- 
wonders  in  the  way  they  round  the  mountains,  and  scale 
the  mountains,  and  burrow  the  mountains,  the  trains 
seeming  to  hang  on  by  their  eyelids.  From  Rome  to 
Pescara  on  the  Adriatic,  you  need  no  longer  foot  a  step 
of  the  way,  nor  trust  to  the  old  shaky  diligences  ;  and  if 
you  would  see  railway  enterprise  in  a  sublimely  audacious 
aspect,  travel  by  the  line  from  Terni  to  Aquila  and 
Sulmona,  still  better  from  Sulmona  to  Castel  di  Sangro, 
the  latter  section  being,  I  believe,  one  of  the  highest  in 
Europe.  But  in  the  main,  the  railroads  follow  the  ancient 
traditional  routes  of  communication,  and,  save  for  a  month 
or  two  in  summer,  seem  only  to  serve  a  few  market-folks 
and  for  the  transport  of  soldiers.     Even  the  newer  roads 


CH.  I.]  INTRODUCTORY  3 

leave  great  regions  untouched,  their  virgin  solitudes  still 
intact.  The  modern  Italian  knows  less  of  the  Abruzzi  than 
did  the  ancient  Roman.  To-day  only  the  richer  Italians 
travel  ;  and  to  these  the  far  countries  call.  France, 
Switzerland,  our  own  Highlands,  promise  them  more  of 
the  new  and  the  romantic  than  do  the  mountains  over- 
looking their  own  homes  ;  and  in  this  they  but  follow  an 
instinct  none  obey  more  than  ourselves.  Besides,  the 
average  Italians  of  the  north,  or  even  of  the  centre, 
whether  surfeited  by  beauty  or  indifferent  to  it,  would 
rather  see  Manchester  than  the  sublimest  scenery  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Moreover,  the  Abruzzi  is  to  them  only 
a  part  of  that  poverty-stricken  and  troublesome  South, 
which  presents  so  many  anxious  problems  to  the  poli- 
tician and  the  economist.  Pay  it  too  much  attention, 
and  it  will  come  knocking  at  the  doors  of  Rome  for  a 
larger  share  in  the  growing  heritage  of  the  nation.  As 
if  the  claims  were  not  too  numerous  and  too  harassing 
already  ! 


t> 


But  it  is  a  little  wonderful  that  the  hardy  Northerner 
in  Italy,  with  time  on  his  hands,  should  not,  after  his 
fashion,  make  of  this  wild  land  a  playground  more  often 
than  he  does.  Hardy  he  should  be,  and  of  a  humour  to 
wander  off  the  main  tracks,  a  good  walker,  something  of 
a  climber,  and  of  unluxurious  habits.  Those  to  whom 
travelling  resolves  itself  into  collecting  comparative 
statistics  of  hotel  menus  and  the  getting  up  of  linen 
had  best  keep  away.  The  sincere  Alpinist  despises  the 
Apennines.  A  German,  who  had  done  all  the  usual 
Swiss  peaks  with  Teutonic  thoroughness,  expressed  to 
us  freely  his  annoyance  that  the  Abruzzi  had  nothing 
big  enough  to  try  his  mettle  ;  but  mountaineers  of  a  less 
professional  spirit,  to  whom  eight  or  nine  thousand  feet 
seem  not  so  trifling,  may  be  content  with  the  Gran  Sasso, 
the  highest  peak  peninsular  Italy  can  offer  him,  or  Monte 


4  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Majella,  or  Monte  Velino  rising  out  of  the  lovely  Marsian 
land. 

Moreover,  to  the  hardy  Northerner  there  is  another 
attraction.  I  should  have  named  it  first.  There  is  no 
art.  Switzerland  is  in  the  same  case,  of  course ;  in  fact, 
in  much  better  case — or  worse,  according  to  the  point  of 
view.  But  think  for  a  moment.  Italy,  an  Italian  sky, 
an  Italian  climate — for  summer  here  on  the  heights  is 
divine — and  no  art !  Italy  without  art !  Can  the  honest 
Briton,  at  his  honestest,  conceive  of  anything  more 
delightful .?  I  see  a  load  fall  from  his  mind  at  the  very 
thought.  Of  course,  this  is  not  strictly  true,  but  it  is  true 
for  the  tourist.  In  the  Abruzzi  are  the  relics  of  great 
art,  well  worth  the  travelling  for  ;  but  most  of  them  have 
to  be  sought  out  in  unfrequented  valleys,  in  little  dead 
townships,  or  on  remote  mountain-sides.  The  passer-by 
will  miss  nearly  all.  There  are  no  concentrated  collec- 
tions, no  centres  of  this  school  or  of  that ;  and  cultivated 
disciples  of  Mr.  Ruskin  or  Mr.  Berenson  will  here  be 
guideless  and  rudderless.  The  gems — which  are  mostly 
chipped  and  reset  in  lamentable  fashion — they  must  find 
for  themselves  or  not  at  all. 

If  the  treasures  of  art  are  thus  scattered  and  broken, 
by  war,  and  earthquakes,  and  neglect,  and  restoration  at 
diabolic  hands,  the  picturesque  is  everywhere,  and  to  an 
extravagant  degree.  Were  we  back  in  the  romantic 
period,  we  might  be  finding  half  the  backgrounds  for  our 
novels  and  dramas  and  epics  here  in  this  region,  where 
Nature  in  her  convulsions  does  shuddering  things,  where 
man  is  very  much  alone  with  his  own  soul  or  his  passions, 
a  shivering  pigmy  beneath  towering  rocks,  or  very  proud 
because  he  moves  ever  in  the  companionship  of  great 
hills.  And  when  she  conspires  with  him,  his  slightest 
efforts  at  building  a  shelter  for  his  hearthstone  are 
crowned  with  beauty.  Of  his  hill-towns,  rude  and 
sublime,  Nature  more  than  man  has  been  the  architect. 


3      '  J     3   !>  5 


VILLALAGO 


^>r'.;  '" 


CH.  I.]  INTRODUCTORY  5 

Move  under  them,  looking  up  at  their  airy,  craggy  heights, 
where  tower  and  rock  are  one  ;  and  when  next  you  read 
of  fairy  castle  or  knightly  keep  of  the  old  fighting  days, 
you  will  say,  "  Yes  ;  I  saw  the  place.  It  was  Taglia- 
cozzo" — or,"  It  was  Roccacasale  " — or, "  It  was  Villalago." 

English  travellers  used  to  come  here  in  less  con- 
venient  days — in  days  when  it  was  necessary  to  have  an 
armed  escort  through  the  country.  Then  inns  were  not, 
or  they  were  impossible  ;  but  the  houses  of  the  hospitable 
native  nobility  were  opened  eagerly  to  the  stranger. 
Among  those  who  set  down  their  impressions  of  the 
country  were  Henry  Swinburne,  whose  "  Travels  in  the 
Two  Sicilies"  appeared  in  1783-85;  Sir  Richard  Colt 
Hoare,  whose  "  Classical  Tour  through  Italy  and  Sicily," 
1 8 19,  was  designed  as  a  continuation  of  Eustace  ;  and 
the  genial  Edward  Lear,  who,  besides  his  famous  rhyme 
on  the 

"  old  man  of  th'  Abruzzi, 
So  blind  that  he  couldn't  his  foot  see," 

wrote  a  delightful  account  of  his  wanderings  in  the 
province  in  his  "  Illustrated  Excursions  in  Italy,"  in 
1846.  But  my  prime  favourite  among  them  all  is  the 
Hon.  Keppel  Craven.  A  traveller  of  industrious  ob- 
servation, seventy  years  ago — his  "  Excursions  in  the 
Abruzzi"  appeared  in  1838 — he  is  also  a  perfect  specimen 
of  the  gentlemanly  English  tourist  of  former  days,  who 
turned  a  haughty  eyeglass  on  the  barbaric  human 
creatures  with  whom  he  was  brought  in  contact,  and 
found  them  mostly  beneath  his  approbation.  He  saw  a 
great  deal ;  and  if  he  did  not  altogether  understand  the 
mountaineers,  at  least  he  painted  Mr.  Keppel  Craven  to 
perfection. 

Leading  a  life  apart  for  countless  generations — save 
when  hustled  by  invaders — the  people  of  these  provinces 


6  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [ft.  i. 

have  resisted  the  inroads  of  the  modern  world  longer 
than  anywhere  else  in  Italy.  They  resist  them  still. 
The  shepherds  of  the  Abruzzi  are  nearly  as  primitive  as 
the  shepherds  of  Thibet.  The  cultivation  of  the  soil  is 
carried  on  by  the  methods  and  the  implements  described 
in  the  Georgics.  Paganism  is  still  a  hardy  plant ;  and 
the  Christian  faith  has  a  wild  fervour  that  has  never 
been  tamed  and  pruned  by  Church  councils,  and  would 
surprise  the  Vatican.  Ancient  beliefs,  banned  by  the 
modern  world,  lurk  here  with  secret  potency.  With  a 
primitive  health  and  vigour  the  peasants  defy  hardships 
never  greater  than  they  are  now.  Ancient  songs  and 
melodies  echo  along  the  hillsides.  Legend  and  song, 
indeed,  are  still  the  sole  culture  of  the  old.  The 
traditional  dress  has  by  no  means  disappeared,  nor  have 
the  manners  and  the  courtesies  of  a  more  formal  age. 
But  alongside  these,  you  may  watch  the  sproutings  of  a 
new  cynicism  among  the  bourgeoisie,  the  first-fruits  here 
of  the  worship  of  the  new  goddess  Prosperity  ;  the  inroads 
of  utter  banality — for  new  things,  ugly  and  undesired,  are 
pressing  in  on  the  wreck  of  the  old  ;  the  clumsy  imitation 
of  a  free-and-easy  bearing  imported  from  America,  which 
sits  ill  on  a  people  of  naturally  grave  and  formal  habit. 
These  contrasts  will  sorely  wound  an  jesthete  in  manners 
or  art ;  but  they  render  the  land  curiously  interesting  to 
a  student  of  humanity.  Every  year  the  old  retreats 
farther  and  farther  to  the  inaccessible  places.  Some  of 
it  had  best  die  as  soon  as  possible ;  but  the  new  as  yet 
offered  in  its  place  is  here  an  alien  thing.  It  cannot 
flourish  on  this  soil,  which  nevertheless  it  can  turn  sour. 
What  the  future  has  in  store  for  a  people  of  hardihood 
and  vigour,  but  limited  ambitions,  who  can  prophesy  .-* 
Young  Italy  stands  in  the  magnificent  valley  of  the 
Sagittario,  his  scornful  back  turned  on  the  sentimentalist 
rapt  in  the  wonder  of  the  towering  crags,  of  the  human 
aeries,  of  the  snowy  horizon.     But  Young  Italy's  eyes 


CH.  I.]  INTRODUCTORY  7 

are  glowing,  too,  as  he  calculates  the  tonnage  of  the 
roaring  torrent  that  rushes  down  the  cliff.  He  hears  the 
smiting  of  many  mighty  hammers  and  the  whirr  of  giant 
machines,  and  dreams  of  a  time  when  the  shepherds  will 
come  down  from  their  pastures  and  the  peasants  from 
their  fields,  and  make  a  bonfire  of  their  crooks  and 
wooden  ploughs,  and  when  all  of  them  will  be  "  hands  " 
to  feed  a  mammoth  engine  for  the  enrichment  of  some 
captain  of  industry  from  Milan. 

Or  is  the  Abruzzo  to  grow  into  a  vast  region  of 
health  resorts  ?  Is  the  wild,  pure  air,  the  dazzling, 
whirling  light  that  makes  the  blood  dance  in  the  veins, 
that  casts  out  fog  and  taint  from  the  spirit,  to  be 
transmuted  into  gold  ?  There  is  talk  of  it  now  and  then, 
and  some  hope  ;  though  only  at  Roccaraso  is  there  any 
serious  beginning.  Outside  enterprise  may  do  some- 
thing ;  but  the  Abruzzesi  will  be  much  less  easily  turned 
into  a  nation  of  hotel-keepers  than  the  Swiss, 

Whatever  the  future  may  be,  as  yet  the  shepherds 
keep  their  flocks  as  of  old,  and  the  peasants  till  their 
mountain  fields  as  of  old.  Or  they  cross  the  ocean,  and 
recross  it  with  a  little  pocketful  of  American  money  to 
keep  the  old  home  going.  They  have  no  far  expecta- 
tions. A  little  more  bread,  a  little  less ;  a  fuller  flask 
one  year,  an  emptier  the  next.  So  has  it  ever  been.  In 
the  meanwhile  they  lead  safer,  quieter  lives  than  they 
were  wont  to  do,  if  their  stomachs  are  rather  worse  than 
better  filled.  But  it  is  not  the  contadini  in  the  Abruzzi 
who  are  the  unhappiest.  I  have  never  anywhere  seen 
people  with  such  a  look  of  waiting  in  their  faces  as  the 
bourgeois.  They  who  longed  and  strove  for  the  new 
time,  now  that  it  has  come  look  on  it  with  a  quiet,  half- 
despairing  cynicism.  Not  the  child  of  their  dreams,  this 
world  that  rushes  past.  What  will  the  next  hour  bring  ? 
The  inquiring  stranger  desiring  to  know  something 
of  the  Abruzzi  below  the  surface  will  often  be  baulked. 


8  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

This  mountain  people,  courteous  and  dignified,  have  none 
of  the  expansiveness  we  are  wont  to  think  of  as  ItaHan. 
They  are  proud  and  diffident,  not  given  to  explaining 
themselves,  and  not  at  all  ready  to  believe  that  a  stranger 
can  be  interested  in  them.  They  are  more  curious  about 
you  than  they  can  possibly  conceive  you  to  be  about 
them — though  their  curiosity  is  mainly  limited  to  one 
point,  namely.  What  have  you  come  for  ?  Your  presence 
in  their  midst  is  a  perpetual  surprise.  Courteous  they 
are,  but  such  wonder  as  theirs  must  have  an  outlet ;  and 
this  it  finds  among  the  middle  classes  only  through  the 
eyes.  The  long,  slow  stare  of  the  Abruzzesi  is  an 
experience  to  remember.  It  is  without  impertinence  ; 
but  it  is  frank,  direct,  prolonged,  unflinching  ;  and  in 
smiling,  sunny  Sulmona  it  was  very  formidable  indeed  to 
the  "  milordies  " — so  were  we  called  there.  Among  the 
peasants  the  curiosity  finds  vent  in  questions.  "  Where 
have  you  come  from  }  "  England  and  London  are  but 
names.  "  Cosa  c'^,  Londra  } "  said  our  hostess  at  Rocca 
di  Mezzo.  They  know  of  America.  It  is  the  place 
letters  and  postal  orders  come  from.  If,  tired  of  prosaic 
reality,  you  suggest  Constantinople,  they  will  receive  it 
with  little  incredulity.  London,  Milan,  Constantinople, 
— are  all  places  beyond  their  utmost  fancying.  But  they 
forestall  your  answer  at  times,  and,  towards  the  centre  and 
in  the  east,  will  give  you  Naples  for  your  home.  Nearer 
the  western  frontier  they  will  put  you  down  as  Romans  ; 
and  your  faulty  Italian,  which  at  least  is  not  theirs,  will 
be  attributed  to  your  distinguished  and  favoured  birth. 
Rome,  too,  is  far  away.  But  the  question  of  questions 
is,  "  What  have  you  come  for  }  "  To  see  their  country  ? 
Che,  che  !  Their  little  paese  !  They  look  at  each  other 
and  smile,  and  do  not  believe.  Their  village  is  a 
little  village,  and  broken  down  at  that.  And  the 
country  }  There  are  only  hills — and  hills — and  hills 
again.     No,  no ;   there   must   be   other   reasons.     It    is 


CH.  I.]  INTRODUCTORY  9 

further  complicated,  too,  if  you  are  women,  by  your 
beino-  on  foot.  "  Dove  la  carrozza  ?  Dove  il  marito  ? " 
The  Abruzzi  women  are  hardy  of  the  hardiest,  and  we 
mention  their  own  powers.  Ah,  but  signore  !  And  now 
you  realize  what  you  sometimes  forget  in  these  regions, 
that  you  are  in  the  South,  where  signore  never  walk. 
But  what  have  you  come  for  }  There  are  only  three 
reasons  that  will  generally  be  accepted  as  satisfactory. 
Perhaps  you  have  something  to  sell.  For  signore  to  sell 
things  would  be  an  eccentricity,  but  an  eccentricity  with 
some  reason  in  it.  And,  after  all,  these  walking  women 
may  not  be  signore.  In  Rajano,  on  market-day,  the 
artist's  satchel  was  the  talk  of  the  piazza  ;  and  she  roused 
some  animosity  in  one  person,  whose  dress  betokened  a 
much  better  worldly  station  than  a  peasant's,  because 
she  could  produce  nothing  purchasable  from  it.  Wasn't 
their  market  good  enough,  then  t  To  go  on  pilgrimage 
is  also  a  highly  respectable  occupation,  and  one  with  which 
they  have  complete  sympathy.  They  have  their  famous 
local  shrines — the  Madonna  dell'  Oriente,  the  Madonna 
del  Lago,  and  the  Sorrowful  Lady  of  Castellamare.  It 
would  be  to  insult  these  to  doubt  the  possibility  of 
pilgrims  to  them  from  London  or  from  Constantinople. 
But  most  general  satisfaction  is  given  by  the  common- 
place statement  that  you  have  come  to  take  the  air. 
Disparage  all  their  other  birthrights  and  possessions  if 
you  will,  but  good  air  they  have,  and  good  water.  They 
modestly  claim  nothing  else.  "  Per  pigliar  I'aria,"  then  ! 
So  you  pay  your  toll.  You  are  accounted  for,  labelled, 
docketed,  pronounced  almost  safe.  "  They  have  come  to 
take  the  air.  These  signore  have  come  to  take  the  air." 
The  word  is  echoed  from  one  to  the  other  up  and  down  the 
hill,  and  in  their  next  smile  to  you  there  is  some  relief. 

They  are  no  vaguer  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  London 
than  are  we  about  their  country,  unless  we  happen  to 
have   travelled   there  ;    and   so    a   word   concerning   its 


lo  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

position  is  perhaps  not  superfluous.  The  Abruzzi  pro- 
vinces form  a  rough  oblong  lying  diagonally  north-west 
and  south-east.  On  one  of  the  long  sides,  towards  Rome, 
are  the  Sabine  and  Hernican  mountains,  and  the  other 
is  the  Adriatic  coast-line.  Umbria  and  the  Marches  lie 
to  the  north,  and  to  the  south  the  Terra  di  Lavoro  and 
the  Molise,  or  province  of  Campobasso,  which,  admini- 
stratively, is  counted  along  with  them,  and  which,  ethno- 
logically  and  historically,  is  very  much  akin.  The 
greater  portion  of  the  country  consists  of  a  lofty  plateau, 
traversed,  mainly  from  north-west  to  south-east,  by 
chains  of  the  Central  Apennines.  In  the  eastern  branch 
rises  Monte  Corno,  9673  ft.,  belonging  to  the  group  of 
the  Gran  Sasso,  the  highest  point  in  peninsular  Italy. 
There  are  no  great  rivers.  The  longest,  the  Aterno, 
rising  in  Monte  Capo-Cancelli,  known  beyond  Popoli  as 
the  Pescara,  falls  into  the  Adriatic  at  the  port  of  that 
name,  after  a  course  of  less  than  a  hundred  miles.  Nor 
are  there  any  great  lakes.  The  picturesque  Lago  di 
Scanno,  a  few  miles  in  extent,  is  the  largest.  Lake  Filcino, 
or  the  Lake  of  Celano,  once  the  greatest  in  Southern 
Italy,  is  now  drained,  and  its  bed  highly  cultivated. 

In  modern  times  the  province  has  been  divided  into 
three  departments.  Abruzzo  Ulteriore  Primo  extends 
to  the  Adriatic  seaboard  on  the  east,  and  has  the  range 
of  the  Gran  Sasso  for  a  western  boundary.  Its  chief 
towns  are  Teramo  and  Penne.  The  Pescara  river  divides 
it  from  Abruzzo  Citeriore,  lying  likewise  along  the 
Adriatic,  the  principal  towns  of  which  are  Chieti,  Lanciano, 
and  Vasto.  West  of  both  lies  the  largest,  the  most 
mountainous,  and  most  picturesque  of  the  three,  the 
inland  department  of  Abmzzo  Ulteriore  Secondo.  Here 
is  Aquila,  the  capital  of  the  province,  lying  under  the 
Gran  Sasso  ;  and  here,  too,  is  Sulmona,  in  the  shelter  of 
Monte  Morrone  and  Monte  Majella. 

The  mountainous  nature  of  the  country,  and  the  fact 


CH.  I.]  INTRODUCTORY  ii 

that  along  its  ninety  miles  of  coast  there  is  not  one  good 
harbour — Pescara  only  sheltering  a  few  fishing-boats, 
while  Ortona  and  Vasto  would  need  immense  capital 
for  their  development — have  meant  that  commerce,  out- 
side the  wool  industry,  has  never  engaged  the  energies  of 
the  people.  Traces  of  iron-working  are  to  be  found  in 
the  Majella  and  elsewhere  ;  but  the  mineral  wealth  was 
probably  soon  exhausted.  If  there  is  to  be  an  industrial 
future  it  will  be  brought  about  by  the  abundance  of 
"  white  coal "  ;  and  already  the  mountain  torrents  serve 
as  power  to  light  with  electricity  the  remotest  villages, 
which  shine  upon  the  mountain-side  like  wonderful  new 
constellations  in  the  night.  On  the  high  levels  there  is 
excellent  pasture,  and  so  destiny  has  made  the  Abruzzesi 
shepherds.  v,^ 

The  shepherds  of  the  Abruzzi,  who  form  a  large  part 
of  the  population,  crave  special  notice.  They  are  entirely 
apart  from  the  peasants.  The  contadini  despise  them  ; 
and  this  scorn  is  amply  repaid.  I  am  not  speaking  here 
of  the  keepers  of  the  little  stationary  flocks  and  herds 
you  meet  on  the  plains  or  the  lower  slopes :  old  men 
these,  or  boys  and  girls.  Such  flocks  are  for  home  use 
during  the  winter,  and  in  most  places  hardly  suffice  for 
that.  Often  as  late  as  the  beginning  of  June — if  the 
past  winter  has  been  long — you  can  get  no  butter  in  the 
mountains,  if  you  refuse  the  kind  made  months  before 
and  preserved  in  skins.  Winter  sets  in  early,  and  the 
great  flocks  are  all  gone  by  the  beginning  of  October — 
earlier  than  that  sometimes.     Says  the  song — 

"  La  luna  de  settembre  ha  ju  cierchie  tunne 
A  revederce,  bella,  tra  maggie  e  giugno." 
["The  September  moon  is  round.     Adieu,  fair  one,  till  'tween  May 
and  June."] 

The  sheep  and  cattle   are  driven  down  from    their 
mountain  pastures  by  the  real  shepherds,  the  shepherds 


12  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

de  race,  and  make  their  slow  way  by  pass  and  glen  to 
the  coast,  along  which  lie  their  main  roads,  the  grassy 
trattiiri,  and  thence  to  the  plains  all  about  Foggia  in 
Apulia.  The  journey  is  three  weeks  or  a  month  long, 
and  thousands  and  thousands  of  sheep,  with  their  several 
mandriani,  fare  thus  to  their  winter  quarters.  From  the 
north  of  the  province,  and  from  the  Marsica,  they  go 
mainly  to  the  Roman  Campagna,  but  in  fewer  numbers. 
At  one  time  as  many  as  two  million  sheep  alone  were 
transported  every  year.  This  number  is  now  greatly 
reduced  since  the  invasion  of  the  Apulian  plain  by 
cereals. 

Tradition  says  it  was  King  Alfonso  of  Aragon  who 
first  granted  this  plain  for  pasturage,  and  framed  the 
laws  that  governed  the  flocks  and  herds ;  but  long 
before  Alfonso's  day — indeed,  from  a  dateless  period  that 
backs  into  a  mist — the  sheep  have  come  there  from  the 
mountains.  What  Alfonso  did  was  to  re-establish  good 
breeds  and  the  ancient  oviary  system  and  laws,  and  to 
fix  a  tribunal  at  Foggia,  which  became  a  department  of 
Government.  From  time  to  time  war  menaced  and 
ruined  the  shepherds'  polity.  It  had  fallen  low  when 
Charles  of  Bourbon  restored  it  to  its  antique  vigour. 
The  Apulian  plain  forms  a  great  amphitheatre  with  its 
front  open  to  the  Adriatic,  and  the  rest  of  it  enclosed  by 
Monte  Gargano  and  a  spur  of  the  Apennines,  which 
protect  it  from  the  worst  cold.  It  goes  by  the  name  of 
the  Tavoliere  (i.e.  the  chess-board),  from  its  arrangement 
in  squares  for  cultivation  and  pasture.  These  lands  were 
crranted  to  the  Apulians  on  condition  of  their  being  let 
out  in  winter  to  the  shepherds  and  herdsmen  of  the 
Abruzzi.  In  ,  course  of  time,  however,  the  Apulians 
turned  shepherds  too,  and  demanded  the  right  of 
summer  pasture  in  the  Abruzzi  mountains.  In  the 
arrangement  that  followed,  the  Government,  which  de- 
rived a  huge  revenue  from  wool,  favoured  the  Abruzzesi, 


CH.  I.]  INTRODUCTORY  13 

recognizing  that  their  mountains  were  only  fit  for  pasture, 
while  the  Apulians  had  land  that  could  be  profitably 
cultivated.  Also,  further  to  protect  the  revenue  from 
wool,  distinct  limitations  were  placed  on  the  cultivation 
of  the  Tavoliere.  These  restrictions,  however,  were 
removed  gradually,  and  chiefly  under  the  French  occu- 
pation ;  and  this,  along  with  the  general  demoralization 
of  all  trades  and  industries  during  the  wars,  towards  the 
end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  brought  about  the  ruin  of 
the  Abruzzi.  Ferdinand  I.  made  some  efforts  to  restore 
the  old  condition  of  things,  but  in  vain  ;  and  less  and 
less  capital  has  been  put  into  the  pastoral  trade.  Great 
fortunes  are  no  longer  made,  and  the  condition  of  the 
shepherds  has  probably  never  been  worse. 

To  Apulia,  however,  they  still  resort  from  November 
till  the  end  of  May,  and  live  there  mainly  in  patriarchal 
fashion,  as  of  old.  A  traveller,  writing  in  1833,  describes  a 
night  spent  with  them,  and  how  he  found  them  courteous 
and  hospitable.  The  fireplace  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
large  hut.  There  was  no  chimney,  and  the  smoke  swayed 
about  the  great  dim  place.  They  supped  on  Indian  meal 
and  bread  and  onions,  with  a  little  wine  ;  but  better  fare 
was  found  for  him.  After  supper  the  patriarch  read  the 
prayers  and  said  the  Ave  Maria.  A  boy,  carrying  a  large 
brass  lamp,  said,  "  Good  night,  all  the  company.  It  is  the 
hour  for  sleep."  There  were  bunks  against  the  wall  with 
sheep-skins  for  the  privileged,  himself  amongst  them  ; 
and  by  the  head  man's  berth  hung  firearms.  All  the  rest 
slept  on  skins  on  the  floor,  and  the  huge  dogs  with  their 
faces  to  the  fire.  What  a  picture  was  there  for  a  painter 
of  chiaroscuro !  In  the  morning,  when  he  left,  he  would 
have  paid  for  his  lodging,  but  they  would  take  nothing 
from  a  guest. 

In  May,  just  after  the  close  of  the  great  fair  at  Foggia, 
begins  the  homeward  journey.  There  are  many  halts, 
for  cheese-  and  butter-making  ;  and  in  hot  weather  they 


14  IN  THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

travel  a  good  deal  by  night.  This  is  the  traditional  order 
of  march :  A  shepherd,  in  his  sheep-skin  coat,  and  with 
his  crook,  heads  each  division  of  cattle.  He  is  followed 
by  the  vmnso,  an  old  ram  with  a  bell  {jnanso  means 
''the  instructor").  After  each  flock  come  the  dogs — the 
huge,  beautiful,  shaggy  white  things,  so  docile  to  their 
masters,  and  to  them  alone  !  Next  come  the  goats.  The 
cows  and  the  mares  travel  in  separate  bodies.  Afattore, 
on  horseback  and  armed,  has  charge  of  the  flocks  and 
herds  of  each  proprietor.  Behind  follow  the  mules  laden 
with  the  baggage,  the  milking  utensils,  etc.  Mr.  Keppel 
Craven,  the  gentlemanly  traveller,  had  his  lofty  nil 
admirari  mood  broken  into  by  the  sight.  "  I  own,"  he 
says — note  that  it  cost  him  an  effort — "  I  own  that  I 
never  beheld  one  of  these  numerous  animal  congregations 
plodding  across  the  flats  of  Capitanata,  or  the  valleys  of 
the  Abruzzo,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  without  expe- 
riencing a  sensation  of  a  novel  and  exciting  kind,  nearly 
allied  to  that  of  enjoyment^  but  which  I  shall  not  attempt 
to  account  for."  Neither  shall  I  attempt  to  account  for 
the  eerie  thrill  as  one  lay  and  listened  to  the  ceaseless 
patter-patter  through  the  night,  and  to  the  strange,  low 
calls  in  the  darkness  ;  but  neither  need  one  apologize  for 
it.  Some  echo  of  an  earlier  world  was  in  the  sound ; 
and  Man,  the  Wanderer,  was  passing  to  his  restless 
destiny. 

There  is  one  short  and  joyous  festa  when  fathers  and 
husbands  and  children  come  back  to  their  villages  ;  and 
then  off"  they  set  again  up  to  the  mountain  pastures.  In 
the  shepherd's  year  there  is  no  summer ;  and  sheep-skin 
is  his  wear  nearly  the  whole  year  round.  Even  when  he 
is  near  home  he  comes  down  but  once  a  fortnight  for  a 
night  or  two.  Then  what  a  serenading  of  wives  and 
sweethearts !  The  sindaco,  good  man,  turns  in  his  bed, 
wakened  by  the  sound  of  "  The  Shepherd's  Return,"  sung 
in  various  keys  up  and  down  \\\q  paese,  at  an  hour  when 


CH.  I.]  INTRODUCTORY  15 

an  orderly  village  should  be  quiet  and  at  rest.     But  there 
— "  Povera  gente ! "  he  mutters,  and  turns  to  sleep  again. 

These peciirai,  nomads,  virtually  homeless,  are  naturally 
a  race  apart.  That  they  are  wild-looking  and  uncouth 
is  not  surprising.  For  company  they  have  their  sheep, 
their  fellow-nomads,  the  wolves,  and  their  dogs,  hardly 
less  fierce.  They  have  been  called  by  every  bad  name. 
The  peasant  laughs  at  them  for  their  ignorance,  their 
uncouthness,  their  paganism.  The  scornful  songs  about 
the  shepherds  are  many.     Says  one — 

"  Ru  pecurare,  quanne  va  a  la  messa, 
Dice  a  ru  sacrestane  :   '  Qual  e  Cristo  ? ' 
Quanne  ce  arriva  'mbaccia  a  I'acqua  sanda : 
'Che  belle  coppa  pe  magna'  lu  latte  ! ' 
Quanne  ce  arriva  'mbaccia  a  gli  altare : 
'  Che  bella  preta  pe  pesa'  lu  sale  ! ' 
Quanne  ce  arriva  dent'  a  la  sacrastia: 
'Che  belle  capemandre  che  sarria  ! '  " 

["  When  the  shepherd  goes  to  Mass,  he  says  to  the  sacristan,  '  Which  is 
Christ  ? '  When  he  is  in  front  of  the  holy  water,  says  he,  '  What  a  fine 
bowl  for  milk  ! '  When  he  is  before  the  altar,  he  says,  *  What  a  fine  stone 
for  weighing  salt  ! '  When  he  goes  into  the  sacristry,  '  What  a  fine  stable 
this  would  make  ! '  "] 

And  of  civilization,  as  our  world  knows  it,  they  have 
little  chance  of  knowledge,  for  there  are  no  School  Board 
officers  to  drive  them  as  children  to  school,  to  do  even 
their  meagre  three  classes.  Many  acts  of  vandalism  are 
put  down  to  their  count — ruin  of  classic  remains  in  the 
mountains,  and  of  the  sanctuary  of  San  Spirito  on 
Majella.  Does  one  expect  nomads  to  protect  the  arts, 
and  show  an  interest  in  archaeology .''  They  are  not 
always  ingratiating  in  manner ;  and  in  former  days  they 
were  suspected,  and  sometimes  not  unjustly,  of  complicity 
with  the  brigands.  Truly  their  condition  is  hard,  and  as 
hard  now  as  ever  ;  but  theirs  is  not  the  most  demoralizing 
life  in  the  world,  in  spite  of  the  groans  uttered  over  them. 
"  La  pastorizia  errante  e  una  delle  piaghe  piu  verminose 


i6  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

e  altrettanto  nocive  che  vergognose   pe'    popoli   civili." 
The  writers  of  that  style  of  thing  do  not  know  the  "  black 
countries  "  of  richer  lands.     They  are  the  oldest  of  all  the 
communities,  and  have  inherited  a  code  not  quite  degene- 
rate yet,  which  demands  the  exercise  of  some  fine  ancient 
virtues — hardihood,  courage,  faithfulness.     The  shepherds 
of  the  Abruzzi  made  magnificent  cavalry  soldiers,  Murat 
found.     But  they  do  not  like  soldiering.     It  is  none  of 
their  business,  and  they  would  always  be  back  to  their 
sheep.     Now  and  again,  excited  by  some  fanatic  mission- 
aries, they  have  rushed  down  from  their    mountains  to 
burn  and  ravage,  in  the  name  of  a  king  who  was  nothing 
to  them  but  a  name,  or  the  dim  representative  of  some- 
thing stable  in  that  strange  outside  world,  which  was  ever 
shuffling   and   changing,  or  the   guardian  of  the  Faith. 
Their  life  turns  them  to  churls  or  poets.    And  there  have 
always  been  shepherd-poets  in  the  Abruzzo.     Benedetto 
de'  Virgilii,  the  favourite  of  the  Jesuit  fathers  and  of  the 
Pope,  was  neither  the  first,  nor  the  last,  nor  the  best.     The 
themes  of  the  poems  which  they  set  down  in  writing,  aided 
in  their  style  by  Tasso  and  the  Bible,  are  mainly  God,  the 
Madonna,  and  the  saints.  But  they  have  been  the  makers, 
too,  of  much  of  that  love-poetry  that  wanders  about  the 
hills  and  dales,  owned  by  all,  owned  by  none,  songs  with 
infinite  regrets  in  their  burdens,  for  parting,  for  lonely 
distance.     There  are  special  regions  where  the  shepherd- 
poets  grow.     Barrea   is   one  of  these,  and   Leonessa  is 
another. 

Some  of  the  modern  shepherds'  poetry  came,  about 
fifty  years  ago,  into  the  hands  of  a  certain  good  Dr.  Bruni, 
who  was  interested  in  the  lot  of  the  ^oor  pecurai.  It  had 
been  jotted  down  in  dialect ;  but  dialect  was  not  in  vogue 
then,  and  Bruni,  whose  heart  was  better  than  his  style, 
turned  it  into  rather  sophisticated  and  stiff  Italian.  So 
these  Canti  del  iMandriano  ha\-e  wandered  far  from  their 


,  J      )      )    )      ) 


J         J    -^    •>      ,     •>     ; 

5 ''  ^  ?•'>•''?  ^,''\ 


'■>       t        o    ' 


^ 


w 
o 

< 


C/3 


0- 


•J5 


CH.  I.]  INTRODUCTORY  17 

native  simplicity.  They  are  all  dolorous.  Parting,  home- 
sickness, the  love  of  the  absent  one,  horror  of  "  the 
desolate  plain  "  of  Apulia,  are  their  only  themes — though 
the  good  doctor  may  have  selected  those  that  illustrated 
his  theory  that  the  shepherds'  life  is  always  wretched. 

"  Dost  thou  drink  there  of  the  silvern  water  of  the 
Abruzzo  ?  Dost  hear  the  echo  from  the  homesteads  of 
thy  native  valleys,  the  sweet  melodies  of  the  shepherd's 
pipe,  lonely  and  sad,  the  rare  bark  of  the  faithful  dog, 
mingled  with  the  keen  sound  of  ringing  bells,  and  the 
meek  bleat  of  the  woolly  people,  fast  in  their  fold,  and 
all  the  songs  in  which  we  are  wont  to  speak  our  love .'' 
Nay,  there  [in  Apulia]  the  music  is  silent.  Not  there 
does  the  shepherd  make  his  songs." 

And  here,  too,  among  the  mountains  the  pipes  are 
being  put  aside  ;  and  perhaps  one  day  the  shepherds  may 
come  to  think  of  singing  as  we  do,  not  as  the  breath  of 
life,  but  as  an  entertainment,  and  thus  absurd  amid 
strenuous  occupation  and  hardship. 

The  sheep-dogs  of  the  Abruzzi  are  very  formidable — 
huge,  white,  shaggy  creatures  that  look  as  if  they  had  in 
them  equal  parts  of  bear  and  wolf,  unmatched  for  strength 
and  ferocity  too.  As  they  rise  slowly  on  the  path,  their 
eyes  gleam  red,  and  their  ominous  growl  sends  one's 
heart  into  one's  mouth.  Lucky  if  the  master  be  near  to 
call  them  off,  though  if  they  are  not  on  guard  they  are 
generally  harmless — but  never  ingratiating.  On  the  road 
to  Pettorano  we  were  suddenly  surrounded  by  six  of  the 
great  creatures.  One  or  two  showed  their  teeth,  and  six 
pairs  of  red  eyes  glowed  like  coals.  But  slowly  the  circle 
they  made  relaxed,  and  they  went  their  ways.  Their 
flocks  were  not  by,  else  perhaps,  as  suspicious  strangers, 
we  should  have  received  closer  attentions  than  a  mere 
warning.  They  are  trained  to  fierceness  from  the  first, 
and   by   cruel    methods.      Says    De   Nino :    "  A    lui    si 

C 


i8  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

tagliano  gli  orecchi,  e  dopo  che  si  son  bene  abbrustolite, 
si  danno  per  pasto  al  sanguinante  animale,  che  deve  cosi 
diventare  piu  feroce." 

Life  is  not  to  be  play  to  them.  Round  their  necks 
they  wear  a  wide  collar,  with  sharp  spikes  as  long  as 
your  finger.  In  the  winter  plains,  as  in  the  high  pastures 
of  the  summer,  wolves  are  the  constant  enemy.  If  they 
can  be  kept  off  his  throat,  the  great  white  beast  may  be 
a  match  for  two  or  three. 

Quite  apart  from  the  shepherds  are  the  peasants 
tilling  an  ungrateful  soil.  There  are  favoured  spots,  of 
course.  Certain  portions  of  the  Adriatic  seaboard  have 
a  vegetation  almost  tropical,  and  everywhere  along  the 
coast  the  olive  and  the  vine  flourish  luxuriantly.  There 
are  rich  and  fruitful  inland  places  too.  The  winter  snows 
keep  warm  the  roots  in  the  pleasant  valley  of  Sulmona, 
and  spring  comes  with  a  great  bursting  of  bonds,  hangs 
garlands  on  myriads  of  orchard  trees,  and  works  in- 
numerable flower  fantasies  all  about  the  vineyards.  And 
within  the  last  thirty  years  the  space  that  once  was 
Fucino  has  been  subjected  to  scientific  and  intensive 
culture  by  the  aid  of  Roman  capital.  But  outside  these 
favoured  spots  the  peasant's  life  is  a  desperate  struggle 
to  win  bread  from  barren  rock,  frost  and  snow-bound  for 
more  than  half  the  year.  The  Irish  peasant's  and  the 
Highland  crofter's  lots,  for  at  least  seven  months  out  of 
the  twelve,  are  light  by  comparison.  "  The  land  is  going 
out  of  cultivation,"  groaned  a  Scanno  man  to  us.  We 
pointed  to  tilled  patches  at  an  altitude  and  on  a  slope 
fitter  for  the  feet  of  goats  than  labourers  with  their  tools. 
"  Ah,  but  once,"  he  said,  "  it  reached  much  beyond  "  ;  and 
his  eye  went  up,  up,  till  it  seemed  that  eagles  must  have 
dropped  the  seeds  that  were  reaped  there. 

The  poorest  have  always  been  driven  out.  The 
son  of  the  shepherd   nomad   is    not  immovable.      The 


cii.  I.]  INTRODUCTORY  19 

Abruzzesi  have  been  among  the  most  patient  and 
enduring  enlisters  in  the  gangs  of  the  Campagna  and 
the  Pontine  Marshes.  Down  from  the  pure  air  of  their 
mountains  they  have  gone,  and  for  a  pittance  to  take 
back  to  wife  and  children  in  the  highlands,  have  sucked 
in  the  poison  of  the  Maremma.  Many  have  died.  Many 
have  taken  back  such  maladies  as  their  own  good  air 
could  never  cure.  The  Veronese  poet  Aleardi,  wander- 
ing one  day  in  the  Pontine  Marshes,  near  Terracina, 
heard  a  passer-by  say  to  one  of  the  labourers,  "  '  Come  si 
vive  costi  .'' '  A  cui  I'Abruzzese  :  '  Signore,  si  muore.'  " 
['  How  does  one  live  in  such  a  place  .-' '  '  Sir,  one  dies.'] 
And  Aleardi,  haunted  by  the  sight  of  the  sick  reapers, 
sang  in  his  Monte  Circello  of  those — 


"  Che  vanno 


Dolorosi  air  esiglio 


£>' 


consoled  by — 

"  Niuna  canzone  dei  natali  Al^ruzzi 
Le  patetiche  bande.     Taciturni 
Falcian  le  messi  di  signori  ignoti, 
E  quando  la  sudata  opra  e  compita, 
Riedono  taciturni,  e  sol  talora 
La  passione  dei  ritorni  addoppia 
Col  domestico  suon  la  cornamusa. 
Ah  !  ma  non  riedon  tutti." 

["  No  song  of  their  native  Abruzzi  consoles  the  piteous  bands.  Silent 
they  reap  the  harvests  of  unknown  lords  :  and  when,  by  the  sweat  of  their 
brows,  their  task  is  done,  silent  they  go  back.  Only  from  time  to  time 
does  the  bagpipe  with  its  home  sound  double  the  passion  of  the  return. 
Ah,  but  not  all  return  !  "] 

They  still  join  the  gangs.  But  there  is  another  outlet 
now — America.  From  the  towns  and  villages  that  I 
know  best  almost  every  young  man  of  health  and  vigour, 
belonging  to  the  artisan  or  peasant  class,  has  crossed  the 
ocean.  They  cross  and  recross — the  steamship  com- 
panies make  it  easy  ;  and  the  commonest  decoration  of 
an  Abruzzo  village  is  the  emigration  advertisement  of  the 


20  IN   THE    ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Transatlantic   liners.      They  come  back  saying  America 
is  "  a  very  fine  place,"  "  a  place  made  of  money,"   "  oh, 
a  very  good  place,"  and  grumbling  a  little  over  home 
conditions.     But  they  come  back — with  a  little  pocketful 
of   money  which  goes  into  the  rocky  farm  and   keeps 
the   household   going ;    and    perhaps  they   cross   again 
till  the  boys  are  grown  and  ready  to  adventure  out  on 
their  own  account.     But  in  spite  of  their  stock  phrase 
— "  a  fine  place,"  "  ver'  fine  place  " — I  believe  most  of 
them  hate  it.     "  A  goddam  dirty  hole  !  "  was  the  mildest 
comment  of  an  intelligent  young  tailor  on  a  great  city 
of  the  West,  which   I  will  not  name.     "  Yes  ;  there  is 
some  money  there  ;  but  I  get  the  same  price  for  a  coat 
here  which  I  make  on  my  own  account  as  my  master 
gave  me  there.      There  are  more   coats   wanted  there. 
But  here — I  breathe  clean."     On  the  long  broad  track  of 
greensward — the    trattojo — that    runs    from    Rajano    to 
Sulmona,  I  saw  a  young  peasant,  gallant  and  brave,  with 
a  feather  in  his  hat,  and  mounted  on  a  sorry  old  mule, 
which  he  was  urging  to  the  pace  of  a  fiery  steed.     As  he 
rode  he  was  singing  out  his  heart  aloud  in  joy,  and  the 
theme  of  his  song  was  his  happy  return,  its  burden,  "  All' 
America  maladetta  non  ritorneremo  piu."    Nowadays  we 
are  wont  to  applaud  lustily  a  peasant's  love  of  country. 
None  the  less  do  we  shove  him  out  to  love  it  elsewhere. 

As  yet  very  rarely  do  the  women  go  ;  and  when  they 
begin  to  go  in  great  numbers  it  is  all  over  with  the 
Abruzzo,  for  they  are  the  sap  of  its  life.  You  have 
always  to  take  the  woman  into  account.  One  gathers 
from  old  tales  and  old  records  of  the  country  that  she 
has  ever  been  prominent  as  chief  organizer  and  coun- 
sellor. To-day,  however,  a  great  deal  more  of  the  bread- 
winning  falls  to  her  share.  You  may  say,  indeed,  that 
all  the  careers  are  open  to  her — especially  the  hard 
ones.  As  a  rule,  she  is  better  developed  physically 
than   her  men-folk,  and  handsomer,  too,  which   is  rare 


CH.  I.]  INTRODUCTORY  21 

among  a  poor  and  laborious  population.  There  are 
places  where  one  is  hardly  aware  of  the  men.  Woman 
fills  the  picture.  Household  work  and  child-bearing 
form  only  a  part  of  her  life.  She  gathers  the  winter 
fuel — a  formidable  task  that  lasts  the  summer  through  ; 
she  bakes  the  bread ;  she  spins  the  wool  and  the 
flax  ;  she  dyes  the  cloth  ;  she  makes  the  clothes ;  she 
keeps  the  home-flock  ;  she  builds  the  houses  even — 
or  does  the  most  arduous  part  of  the  masonry  ;  she  is 
an  astonishing  porter,  and,  with  majestic  gait,  will  carry 
anything  you  like  on  her  head,  from  your  heaviest  luggage 
to  a  plough  or  an  iron  bedstead.  As  yet  I  have  seen  no 
woman  blacksmith,  but  should  not  be  surprised  to  hear 
there  were  many.  In  certain  villages  she  is  still  an 
accomplished  lacemaker.  And  she  is  reputed  wise.  If 
ever  her  sex  is  lightly  spoken  of,  it  will  be  by  some  one 
who  has  learnt  his  scorn  away  from  home  among  aliens. 

It  is  not  only  her  present  capability  that  has  won  her 
this  position,  but  the  tradition  of  past  valour  in  the  time 
of  war,  and  inspiration  in  the  time  of  peace.  The  woman 
warrior,  the  woman  saint,  the  woman  prophetess,  the 
woman  brigand,  have  all  been  familiar  in  the  Abruzzi. 
They  have  been  almost  too  sufficient  for  their  men-folk, 
who  have  depended  on  them  overmuch,  and  perhaps  lost 
some  of  their  adventuresomeness  thereby.  Here  is  a 
significant  story  out  of  old  time. 

In  1557,  the  French,  under  the  Duke  of  Guise,  laid 
siege  to  Civitella  del  Tronto,  a  little  town  already  terribly 
damaged  in  the  war.  Many  of  the  fighting  men  were 
dead  or  incapacitated,  and  it  was  ill  guarding  walls  so 
broken  with  a  handful  of  starving  men.  Then  the  women 
volunteered  for  the  defence.  In  the  night-time  they  went 
down  to  the  trenches,  gathered  stones  and  beams  and 
faggots  and  mud,  and  with  these  they  mended  the  gaps 
in  the  walls.  When  day  came,  they  donned  the  helmets 
of  the  dead  or  the  wounded  and  armed  themselves,  and 


22  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

what  they  lacked  in  force  they  more  than  made  up  for 
by  their  power  of  acting  ;  for  they  moved  about  constantly, 
now  here,  now  there,  and  made  the  enemy  believe  the 
place  was  still  full  of  busy,  strong  defenders.  When  a 
ball  knocked  one  down,  the  next  took  the  vacant  place, 
yet  contrived  to  defend  her  old  one.  They  kept  the 
enemy  at  bay,  and  Alva,  after  the  retreat  of  the  French, 
rewarded  the  heroines,  exempting  their  husbands,  or  those 
who  should  be  their  husbands  in  time  to  come,  from 
tribute. 

Ever  since,  in  the  Abruzzi,  woman  has  been  repairing 
breaches  in  broken  walls,  and  making  herself  into  a 
multitude.  To  hear  the  children  talk  of  their  homes, 
you  might  believe  that  matriarchy  existed.  Their  intro- 
duction of  themselves  to  you  is  never  complete  till  they 
have  given  full  information  as  to  the  Christian  name  and 
cognomen  of  their  mother,  sometimes  even  of  their 
grandmother.  The  father  may  be  quite  creditable  and 
even  useful ;  he  may  have  paid  for  the  boots  on  the  little 
feet ;  more  often  he  is  the  man  who  sends  strange 
/'  postage  stamps  from  across  the  sea.  But  the  mother  is 
to  be  obeyed.  She  rules  at  the  hearth,  and  shapes  the 
young  lives.  She  is  the  guardian  of  the  faith,  and  of  the 
old  lore  that  will  long  compete  with  the  newer  science  of 
the  schoolmaster. 

So  the  emigrant  comes  home  for  a  wife,  and  if  he  goes 
out  again  there  are  the  little  ones  to  draw  him  back. 
"  Yes,  I  was  in  Chicago,"  said  the  saintly-faced  sacristan 

of  P to  us.     "  Ma  pensava  sempre  alia  famiglia." 

Not  the  stuff  to  make  a  colonist  of,  perhaps,  but  the  man 
was  a  good  possession  for  his  own  home.  "  If  you  liked 
America  so  much,  why  did  you  come  back  .'' "  we  asked 
of  a  labourer  in  a  stony  waste  one  day.  "  I  had  one 
leetle  boy,"  was  all  his  answer. 

But  the  emigration  has  been  so  universal,  and  so 
incomplete — resolving  itself  into  a  series  of  trips  to  and 


cii.  I.]  INTRODUCTORY  23 

fro — that  the  language  of  the  younger  male  inhabitants 
is  English,  or  rather,  American,  not  uncommonly  with  an 
Irish  accent. 

We  have  craned  our  necks  to  look  at  craggy  villages, 
so  high-pitched  and  so  silent  that  we  have  thought  of 
them  as  tombs  of  some  ancient  people  long  since  vanished. 
But  did  we  venture  up  the  toilsome  mule-path  that  led 
there,  then  hardly  had  we  passed  the  gate  into  the 
mouldering  place  than  we  were  greeted  by  the  "  Ameri- 
cani " — so  are  they  always  called,  the  returned  exiles — 
in  a  language  that  was  approximately  our  own.  In  that 
we  did  not  hail  from  New  York  or  Boston  we  were  dis- 
appointing. 

Only  when  we  had  crossed  into  the  Terra  di  Lavoro, 
at  Sora,  did  we  find  London  to  be  a  place  of  fame. 
One  acquaintance  there  wished  to  treat  us  to  drinks 
without  limit,  because  he  had  made  his  fortune  selling 
ice-cream  to  little  London  urchins.  His  fortune,  ;^40, 
he  brought  back  to  Sora,  where  he  swaggered  like  a 
millionaire.  But  do  not  credit  the  Abruzzesi  with  poison- 
ing the  youth  of  London.  They  are  all  for  the  West — 
for  the  brickfields  and  the  mines  and  the  factories. 
Then  back  to  their  hills  again.  The  emigration  com- 
mittees are  now  speaking  of  Australia  as  a  field  for  them. 
That  will  be  a  longer  exile,  with  fewer  returns.  Has 
Italy  no  work  yet  for  these  hardy,  frugal  peasants  to  do — 
Italy  that  is  growing  rich,  and  that  breeds  the  best 
scientists  of  Europe  ?  Will  the  North,  that  has  had 
the  lion's  share  of  the  national  resources,  stand  back 
awhile  and  give  a  chance  to  the  troublesome  South — the 
neglected  South,  rather,  that  needs  the  generous  expendi- 
ture of  genius  and  of  capital  in  the  organization  of  its 
labour  and  its  instruction,  if  ever  it  is  to  cease  from 
troubling  ? 

There  may  be  a  better  hour  dawning  ;  but  save  in 
the  matter  of  public  safety — and  there  the  benefit  has 


24  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

been  immense — even  enthusiasts  for  Italian  unity  cannot 
say  that  these  provinces  have  gained  very  much.  They 
have  got  some  roads  and  some  railways,  a  means  of 
leaving  a  country  that  cannot  support  them.  They  have 
got  secular  education,  but  it  is  in  a  backward  condition, 
and  it  is  not  rigidly  enforced.  Materially,  they  are  worse 
off.  The  people  eat  less  well,  and  are  not  so  well  clad. 
They  are  ground  by  taxes,  as  elsewhere  in  Italy,  but 
here  they  get  much  less  in  return.  The  damning  fact  is 
that  the  Abruzzi,  which  is  beyond  all  suspicion  of  malaria, 
— if  you  except  a  spot  or  two  on  the  coast — which  has 
air  as  pure  and  as  exhilarating  as  any  part  of  Switzerland, 
has  the  highest  death-rate,  for  its  population,  in  Italy. 
Ignorance  and  poverty  are  the  causes.  Were  it  not  for 
the  money  made  in  America,  the  people  could  not  live. 
Again  and  again  in  the  books  of  travellers  written  during 
the  Bourbon  regime,  I  have  met  passages  describing  a 
prosperous  condition  of  things  in  places  which  to-day  are 
ruined  and  dead.  Modern  life  has  killed  the  home  crafts, 
and  given  nothing  in  their  stead.  Native  capitalists 
hardly  exist.  Encouragement  in  industries  must  come 
from  without,  and  it  delays  too  long.  Yet  there  might  be 
good  returns  among  a  people  of  traditional  skill  in  handi- 
crafts. There  may  not  yet  be  enough  money  in  Italy  to 
go  round  all  the  time,  but  the  North  has  taken  the  lion's 
share  of  the  booty.  It  takes  it  still,  and  then  calls  out 
on  the  South  because  it  is  backward  and  recalcitrant. 

In  the  moral  benefit  of  a  settled  government  there  is 
some  compensation,  of  course.  But  man  cannot  live  by 
political  theory,  nor  even  by  political  liberty,  alone — as 
is  being  found  out  all  over  Europe.  And  here  especially 
is  this  the  case.  As  the  economist  Signor  Nitti  says, 
"  Southern  Italy  is  neither  conservative,  nor  liberal,  nor 
radical.  It  has  no  politics  at  all."  Why  should  it  have  .-* 
It  has  had  no  political  education,  save  the  worst — that 
of  frequently  changing  tyrannies.     In   these  particular 


CH.  L]  INTRODUCTORY  25 

provinces  the  present  regime  excites  little  enthusiasm 
and  little  active  antagonism.  The  uniform  of  the 
carabinieri  is  its  most  commonly  known  symbol ;  and 
police,  however  efficient  and  upright,  are  poor  repre- 
sentatives of  the  beneficence  of  a  government.  Among 
the  middle-aged  there  is  a  vague,  hopeless  air  of  waiting 
for  they  know  not  what.  Definite  opinion  exists  only 
among  the  very  young  men  who  have  had  schooling  ; 
and  among  them  it  is  distinctly  socialistic,  I  should  say. 
At  all  events,  it  is  not  reactionary.  They  have  learnt  to 
love  liberty ;  but  in  its  name  they  will  soon  be  asking 
for  the  liberty  to  live  in  their  native  country. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE   ABRUZZI   IN   THE   OLD   TIMES   AND   THE   NEW 

Ancestry  of  the  Abruzzesi — The  Samnite  Wars — The  brilliant  Marsi — 
Latinizing  of  the  Italians — The  Social,  or  Marsic,  War — Corfinium 
as  Italica — The  peril  of  Rome — The  Italians  Roman  citizens— The 
Abruzzesi  in  face  of  the  invaders— Changing  dynasties — The  isolation 
of  the  mountains — In  the  Risorgimento — The  Carbonari — General 
Pepe  in  the  Abruzzi — Growing  hopelessness  of  the  Liberals — Bomba's 
policy  :  "  My  people  have  no  need  to  think," 

Who    are    these    people,    and    what    has    been    their 
history  ? 

They  had  a  glorious  past,  but  it  is  far,  far  back. 
Taking  no  account  for  the  moment  of  later  admixtures, 
they  are  of  the  true  ancient  Italian  stock,  of  the  non- 
Latin  branch  of  it.  Of  their  kindred  are  the  Umbrians, 
the  Sabines,  the  Oscans,  and  the  Samnites.  There  is  a 
legend— and  back  here  we  move  in  a  mist  of  legend — 
that  their  forefathers,  pressed  by  the  Umbrians  in  a 
season  of  famine  and  stress,  vowed  a  ver  sacniin,  about 
the  time  the  kings  were  reigning  in  Rome.  That  is, 
they  vowed  to  send  all  their  sons,  born  in  a  year  of  war, 
without  their  boundaries.  Forth  then  they  went  to  the 
fate  the  gods  had  in  store  for  them,  their  guide  an  animal 
sacred  to  Mars.  Thus  the  Samnites,  led  by  the  bull, 
journeyed  south,  and  settled  first  in  the  highlands  above 
the  valley  of  the  Sangro,  and  later  along  the  eastern 
side  of  the  Matese  chain.  Their  earliest  colonies  were 
to  the  south-east  of  the  present  Abruzzo,  in  what  is  now 
the  province  of  Molise.     But  these,  the  most  warlike  and 

26 


CH.  II.]  OLD   TIMES   AND   NEW  27 

the  most  brilliant  of  all  the  peoples  of  Southern  Italy, 
were  destined  to  spread  much  farther  and  to  richer  lands. 
A  second  band,  led  by  the  woodpecker  of  Mars — and 
so,  according  to  the  legend,  named  the  Piceni — settled  in 
the  Marches  of  Ancona,  Ascoli  Piceni,  on  the  northern 
frontier  of  the  Abruzzi,  being  one  of  their  chief  towns. 
Other  tribes  branched  off  this  way  and  that  among  the 
mountains  of  the  Central  Apennines.  The  Vestini  took 
possession  of  the  region  of  the  Gran  Sasso,  under  which 
Aquila  was  built  in  later  times.  The  Marrucini  went  to 
the  south  of  the  river  Pescara  and  east  of  the  Majella 
range  ;  the  Frentani,  seaward  of  these,  from  the  mouth  of 
the  Pescara  to  the  river  Trigno  ;  and  the  Peligni  to  the 
western  spurs  and  valleys  of  Majella.  Separated  from 
the  Peligni  by  the  Mte.  Grande  range,  were  the  Marsi, 
who  settled  about  the  Fucine  lake  ;  the  last,  with  their 
neighbours,  the  Aequi,  coming  into  contact  with  the 
Volscians  and  the  Latins.  There  are  famous  names 
among  these ;  and  the  Samnites,  the  Marsi,  and  the 
Peligni,  came  near  to  annihilating  Rome.  But  one  small 
kindred  tribe,  which  history  hardly  mentions  at  all,  the 
Pretutii,  that  fixed  itself  near  where  Teramo  is  to-day, 
was  destined,  for  some  never-explained  reason,  to  give 
its  name  to  all  this  mountainous  region.  Abruzzo  is  still 
in  the  peasant's  tongue  Apruzzo.  Its  old  name,  Aprutium 
means  the  country  of  the  Pretutii. 

The  Samnites,  the  most  ambitious  colonizers  among 
them,  spread  to  the  south  where  they  came  in  contact 
with  the  quickening  Hellenic  civilization,  and  westward 
where  they  won  riches  and  degenerated  from  their 
ancient  hardihood.  But  they  felt  their  kinship  with  the 
mountaineers  they  had  left  in  the  north,  and  in  its  name 
called  to  the  Marsi,  the  Peligni,  the  Marrucini  for  help 
in  the  great  struggle  against  treaty-breaking  Rome. 
These  mountaineers  had  settled  to  the  life  they  have  led 


28  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [ft.  i. 

for  the  most  part  ever  since,  to  the  keeping  of  flocks  and 
herds,  to  the  cultivation  of  the  lower  slopes  of  the  hills 
and  the  sheltered  valleys.  A  hardy  race,  they  prospered 
in  their  mountains  with  that  austere  and  limited  prosperity 
possible  in  their  climate  ;  and  lived  long  in  their  rocky 
fastnesses,  undisturbed  by  Etruscans  or  Latins  or  Greeks. 
Town  life  was  little  developed  among  them,  but  for 
purposes  of  defence  they  built  some  citadels,  round  about 
which  clustered  their  clan  villages.  There  were  loose 
confederations  among  them,  and  the  scattered  tribes 
acknowledged  their  kinship  on  great  occasions.  Had 
these  confederations  been  faster,  had  the  tribes  sought 
each  other's  continuous  friendship,  they  might  have 
changed  the  story  of  Italy  and  of  the  world.  But  the 
idea  of  local  independence,  so  strong  in  all  the  Italian 
peoples,  was  already  a  rooted  instinct  with  them.  Climate 
and  the  configuration  of  the  country  helped  towards  this  ; 
and  so  local  feuds  and  high  mountains  kept  them  apart 
till  the  great  Sabellian  fiery  cross  went  round.  Shut  up 
in  their  lofty  solitudes,  they  kept  their  hardihood  and 
frugality  ;  but,  after  their  famous  struggle,  exercised  little 
or  no  influence  on  the  rest  of  Italy.  In  their  isolation 
was  no  germ  of  political  training — and  hence  the  long 
tragedy  of  their  later  history. 

It  was  the  Samnites  who  earliest  resisted  the  aggres- 
sive policy  of  Rome,  and  the  struggle  began  in  the  valley 
of  the  Liris.  They  looked  all  round  for  allies,  but  at 
first  they  were  unsupported  save  by  their  kindred  of  the 
mountain  tribes.  True,  the  Etruscans  joined,  but  soon 
gave  ia.  The  Marsi,  the  Peligni,  Frentani,  Vestini,  Piceni, 
were  the  true  brothers-in-arms  of  the  Samnites,  of  the 
same  hardy,  fiery,  indomitable  stock.  But  Rome  was 
strong  enough  then  to  recover  from  the  defeat  of  the 
Caudine  Forks  ;  and  in  the  determined  march  of  the 
Roman  soldiers  through  to  the  Adriatic,  one  tribe  after 
the  other  had  to  surrender.     Even  the  Samnites  at  last 


CH.  II.]  OLD   TIMES   AND   NEW  29 

sued  for  peace.  The  victory  of  Rome  seemed  complete 
in  the  year  B.C.  303.  The  Aequi,  on  the  western  borders 
of  the  allied  tribes — their  territory  mostly  inside  our 
province— were  still  up  in  arms ;  but  their  rebellion  was 
ruthlessly  put  down,  and  all  the  Equine  and  ^quiculine 
territory,  save  the  strip  now  known  as  Cicolano,  passed 
into  the  power  of  Rome.  It  was  now,  B.C.  302,  that  the 
Romans  refortified  Alba — Alba  Fucensis— on  the  Fucine 
lake,  and  sent  there  a  colony  of  six  thousand  men  to 
form  a  bulwark  against  the  valiant  Marsi ;  while  two 
years  later  was  built  the  Roman  colony  of  Carsioli,  the 
^Equine  inhabitants  of  the  earlier  town  having  been 
scattered  to  right  and  left.  Near  the  modern  Carsoli 
to-day  you  enter  the  Abruzzi  from  the  west ;  but  the 
Roman  town  is  now  only  a  heap  of  stones  and  a 
memory. 

From  this  time,  and  for  long,  the  Romans  had  no 
braver  or  more  brilliant  allies  than  the  Marsi,  a  people 
of  great  gifts  in  war  and  peace — so  valiant  in  war  that 
the  saying  ran,  "Who  can  triumph  over  the  Marsi,  or 
without  them  } " — and  famous,  too,  for  their  skill  in  art, 
their  mystic  wisdom,  and  their  magic  powers. 

But  the  Samnites,  though  beaten,  had  not  given  in. 
Men  sprang  out  of  the  dust  in  their  territories  to  defy 
Rome  ;  and  if  only  Tarantum  had  helped,  they  would 
have  wrung  the  rights  and  privileges  they  demanded 
from  her,  or  extended  their  territory,  till  a  death-struggle 
had  ensued  between  genius  and  discipline.  But  Southern 
Italy  did  not  rise  at  their  call ;  and  Samnium  had  fought 
with  a  few  intervals  for  nearly  fifty  years  when  peace 
was  made  in  B.C.  290.  Rome  multiplied  her  colonies  in 
the  disaffected  districts.  The  strong  fortress  of  Atria 
was  built  in  B.C.  282  as  the  keystone  of  the  mighty 
wedge  separating  North  and  South  Italy.  This  is  Atri 
Piceno — if  not  the  birthplace  of  Hadrian,  at  least  the 
cradle    of  his    race — from    which,  and    not    from    Atria 


30  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Veneta,  the  Abruzzesi  will  have  it  the  Adriatic  took  its 
name. 

Now  set  in  a  deliberate  Latinizing  of  these  provinces 
by  military  means.  The  mountaineers  were  largely 
drawn  on  for  soldiers,  the  Celtic  invasions  giving  a 
pretext  for  this.  They  were  bidden  feel  what  a  privilege 
it  was  to  belong  to  the  togati.  But  Rome,  in  its  passion 
for  discipline  and  unity,  very  nearly  over-reached  itself. 
The  Latinization  was  never  more  than  skin-deep  ;  and 
Rome,  striving  after  a  political  unity — without  equality, 
moreover — only  contrived  to  create  a  national  unity 
deeply  hostile  to  itself.  The  name  of  Italian  given  to 
these  peoples  by  the  Greeks  of  the  South  began  to  have  a 
cohesive  meaning  for  them.     It  would  soon  be  a  war-cry. 

It  is  significant  of  their  character,  and  prophetic  of 
their  history,  that  in  the  Punic  War  they  were  not  eager 
to  fight  on  either  side.  They  had  far  less  aggressiveness 
than  their  Samnite  kinsmen  ;  and,  indeed,  they  have 
never  fought  willingly  save  for  one  thing — to  be  let  alone. 
But  Hannibal  had  some  allies  amongst  them ;  and  Rome 
felt  the  general  coldness  to  its  interests,  and  revenged  it. 
After  the  defeat  of  Hannibal  the  help  of  the  mountain- 
eers was  not  immediately  necessary.  Any  defections  on 
their  part  were  punished.  The  waverers'  lands  were 
confiscated.  Suspect  persons  were  banished.  New 
Roman  colonies  were  formed,  into  which  strangers  were 
brought,  and  they  alone  were  favoured.  The  judgment 
on  the  tribes  after  the  Samnite  War  had  been  milder 
than  now,  when  there  was  no  general  revolt.  In  fact, 
settlement  in  Latin  colonies  was  the  only  road  to  peace 
and  comfort,  and  that  became  daily  more  and  more 
impossible.  The  end  of  the  Punic  War  had  let  loose 
bands  of  lawless,  desperate  men,  who  found  in  the 
mountains  a  shelter.  Slave  labour  grew  the  most  profit- 
able to  the  few  large  landowners  left ;  and  slave  herds- 
men and  shepherds  soon  outnumbered  the  free  labourers. 


CH.  II.]  OLD   TIMES   AND   NEW  31 

Things  righted  themselves  to  some  extent  among  a 
hardy  and  industrious  people ;  and  the  farmers  of  the 
Abruzzi  maintained  a  sturdy  front.  But  the  political 
conditions  were  intolerable,  and  martial  law  reigned 
perpetually.  Yet,  on  the  surface,  there  was  peace  for 
nearly  two  hundred  years. 

But  the  voice  of  Caius  Gracchus  penetrated  into  the 
mountains.  And  Drusus  had  friends  there — Marsi  and 
Peligni — in  secret  league  with  him.  Rome  was  full  of 
tumults  and  revolts,  and  at  variance  with  herself  This 
was  the  opportunity  of  the  tribes,  and  especially  of  the 
Marsi — for  Rome  had  tired  out  her  best  allies.  The 
Social  War,  which  now  was  to  shake  Rome  to  its  founda- 
tions, was  called  the  Marsic  War.  The  fiery  cross  went 
out  again  to  the  old  confederation.  Arming  went  on  in 
secret  ;  and  the  great  Marsian  chief  and  hero  of  the 
war,  O.  Pompidius  Silo,  a  friend  of  Drusus,  had  it  in  his 
mind  to  march  to  the  city  at  the  head  of  his  men  and 
seize  it.  Nevertheless,  the  first  fire  was  not  kindled 
among  the  Marsi,  but  among  the  Piceni  at  Ascoli.  The 
Roman  praetor,  Gaius  Servilius,  learning  that  Ascoli  was 
in  league  with  neighbouring  towns,  went  there  with  a 
small  escort,  determined  to  browbeat  the  people  and 
stifle  any  resistance  by  prompt  executions.  In  the 
theatre  he  harangued  them,  scolding,  threatening,  his 
lictors  standing  by  with  their  axes.  The  multitude  rose 
like  one  man,  killed  the  praetor  and  his  underlings  then 
and  there,  and,  closing  the  gates,  left  not  a  living  Roman 
in  the  town. 

The  fire  was  kindled.  The  Marsi  were  ready.  So 
were  the  Peligni,  the  Vestini,  the  Frentani,  all  the 
mountaineers.  And  the  Samnites  joined  ;  till,  in  Central 
and  Southern  Italy,  only  Etruria  and  Umbria  stood  by 
Rome,  which  woke  up  to  recognize  its  peril.  It  still 
kept  the  officials  in  the  disaffected  regions  ;  but  all  the 


32  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

farmers,  all  the  substantial  middle-class,  were  in  revolt. 
And  not  even  the  colonies,  Alba,  Carsioli,  Atria,  Aesernia, 
were  safe.  But  the  impulsiveness  of  the  Ascolani  was 
not  imitated.  Envoys  were  sent  with  messages  to  the 
effect  that  the  confederates  would  lay  down  their  arms  in 
return  for  Roman  citizenship.  The  messengers  sued  in 
vain. 

Then  they  defied  Rome,  B.C.  90.  They  would  have 
their  own  Rome,  a  centre  of  the  new  national  unity. 
For  this  they  chose  Corfinium  of  the  Peligni.  (Look 
for  its  meagre  ruins  to-day  near  little  Pentima,  about 
eight  miles  from  Sulmona.)  Citizenship  on  a  Roman 
model  was  granted  to  all  the  burgesses,  drawn  from 
many  tribes,  and  to  all  the  insurgents.  Strong  walls 
were  thrown  up.  A  senate  house  was  built.  A  senate 
of  five  hundred  members  was  elected,  and  supreme 
authority  in  peace  and  war  was  given  to  two  consuls  and 
twelve  praetors.  The  old  Samnite  language,  then  spoken 
by  all  save  the  Piceni  and  the  Marsi,  was  officially 
recognized,  and  money  was  coined.  Slow  of  incubation, 
the  movement  was  now  whole  -  hearted,  essentially 
national.  It  was  no  mere  question  any  longer  of  winning 
a  political  franchise  they  were  debating.  They  re- 
nounced Rome.  They  were  a  separate  state — Italia. 
Corfinium  was  Italica. 

Rome  knew  its  danger  at  last ;  tried  to  set  its  house 
in  order,  mended  its  walls,  and  sought  everywhere  for 
recruits,  near  home  and  far  off,  among  Celts,  among 
Numidians  ;  and  collected  a  fleet  from  the  cities  of 
Greece  and  Asia  Minor.  It  was  able  to  put  about  ten 
thousand  men  in  the  field.  The  Italians  gathered  as 
many.  The  Roman  Rutilius  Lupus  and  Lucius  Julius 
Caisar  were  great  generals.  But  Ouintus  Silo,  the 
Marsian,  was  a  leader  of  consummate  genius,  and  Gaius 
Papius  Mutilus,  of  the  Samnites,  hardly  less  so. 

The    insurrection    spread,  and  the  first  events  were 


CH.  II.]  OLD   TIMES   AND    NEW  33 

disastrous  to  the  Roman  arms.  Silo  was  throwing  him- 
self on  the  colony  of  Alba,  and  Mutilus-  on  yEsernia, 
which,  after  a  desperate  struggle,  capitulated  to  the 
Italians.  All  Campania,  except  Nuceria,  was  lost  to 
Rome  ;  and  the  strangers  in  the  Roman  army  were  won 
over.  The  Numidians  deserted  to  the  insurgents  when 
they  saw  Oxyntas,  Jugurtha's  son,  clad  in  purple  among 
the  Samnites,  There  were  ups  and  downs  ;  but,  on  the 
whole,  success  was  with  the  Italians.  Caesar  was  routed 
by  the  Samnites  and  Marsi  under  P.  Vettius  Scato. 
Strabo,  with  a  great  force,  was  sent  to  Picenum,  but  the 
main  part  of  the  Roman  troops  remained  under  Lupus 
on  the  Marsian  border,  to  guard  the  passage  to  the 
capital.  Here  a  great  battle  was  fought,  Scato  again 
the  victor.  The  river  Turano  ran  red  with  Roman 
blood,  and  Lupus  met  his  death.  Marius  hastily  came 
to  the  rescue  and  saved  a  remnant  of  the  legion. 

What  were  they  like,  those  mighty  warriors  that 
defied  Rome  .''  Here  is  a  portrait  by  Silius  Italicus  of  a 
Vestino :  "  Tall,  handsome,  strong  of  body,  with  long 
flowing  locks,  his  face  covered  with  thick  black  hair. 
Over  his  great  broad  shoulders  he  wears  a  rough  bear's 
skin.  He  is  armed  with  a  light,  crooked  spear,  and  with 
a  sling  to  bring  down  birds  on  the  wing." 

Fortune  wavered.  Now  the  Peligni  were  cut  down 
by  Servius  Sulpicius  ;  now  the  Marsi  and  Vestini,  under 
Silo,  had  their  revenge.  Marius,  the  wily,  pla}'ed  with 
Silo,  egging  him  on,  yet  refusing  battle  till  he  could 
administer  a  terrific  defeat — when  the  chief  of  the 
Marrucini  fell — and  following  this  up  by  a  rout  of  the 
Marsi.  But  the  Roman  forces  were  taxed  beyond  their 
strength  ;  and  the  supply  of  Italians  seemed  inex- 
haustible. The  contentions  within  the  city  were  so 
many  and  bitter,  that,  had  the  enemy  knocked  at  the 
door,  they  might  have  bestowed  the  name  of  Italica  on 
Rome  itself.     In  desperation,  the  Senate  offered  terms  at 

D 


34  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

last,  but  terms  which  satisfied  nobody ;  and  the  war 
continued,  Lucius  Porcius  Cato  succeeding  Marius  in  his 
command,  and  Strabo  still  endeavouring  to  hold  the 
Picenian  territory  for  Rome.  A  determined  movement 
to  divert  the  Roman  attack  from  the  Abruzzi  by  sending 
fifteen  thousand  Marsi  to  Etruria,  was  defeated  by  Strabo. 
Few  ever  came  back  ;  but  Cato,  hoping  to  take  advantage 
of  the  drain  of  men  from  the  Fucine  territory,  advancing, 
there  met  his  death  ;  and  now  on  Strabo  fell  the  full 
burden. 

The  turning-point  may  be  said  to  have  come  at 
Ascoli  (taken  and  retaken  many  times),  where  the 
Italian  chief,  Judacilius,  forced  to  surrender,  died  by  his 
own  hand.  The  surrender  of  Theate  of  the  Marrucini 
(Chieti)  to  Servius  Sulpicius  was  not  long  delayed.  Bit 
by  bit  Rome  won  round  the  Fucine  lake  and  in  the 
country  of  the  Peligni ;  till  at  last  Italica  was  no  longer 
Italica,  but  Corfinium  once  again.  From  an  empty 
Senate  house  that  mocked  them,  the  remnant  of  senators 
fled  to  the  south,  whither  Silo  had  gone  to  hearten  the 
Samnites.  From  Samnium  the  flame  might  still  have 
spread,  had  not  Silo  fallen  at  Bovianum,  B.C.  88.  That 
was  the  end.  Roman  arms  had  prevailed  at  last  ;  but 
the  old  Rome  had  been  beaten.  Internally  weak,  and 
the  Mithridatic  War  begun,  she  needed  allies ;  and  the 
Italians  had  proved  superabundantly  their  worth.  Resist- 
ance to  their  demands  had  cost  her  dear,  at  one  time 
nearly  her  existence.  Their  demands  were  granted. 
All  Italians  were  made  Roman  citizens. 

On  the  Romans  the  Social,  or  the  Marsic,  War 
made  a  profound  impression.  Latin  writers  are  eloquent 
on  the  fiery  bravery,  the  splendid  qualities  of  these 
rebels,  who  had  proved  themselves  the  equals  of  their  l 
best  forces.  The  "  embattled  farmers  "  had  shaken  the 
ancient  world.  The  old  ideal  of  Italian  unity,  the  dream 
of  every  age,  so  hard  to  realize,  so  constantly  defeated. 


CH.  II.]  OLD   TIMES   AND    NEW  35 

was  made  for  a  brief  moment  a  reality  by  these  moun- 
taineers. 

From  such  heroic  tribes,  then,  come  the  main  stock 
of  the  Abruzzi  people.  They  have  not  forgotten  the 
glorious  pages  in  their  history.  The  Marsic  land  is 
Marsica  still.  Italians  ?  Yes.  Abruzzesi }  Yes.  But 
Marsi  first  of  all  are  the  people  there.  The  strip  of  wild 
country  behind  the  Sabine  mountains,  where  the  ^quiculi 
held  out  so  obstinately  in  the  Samnite  War,  is  still  Cicolano. 
Little  Pentima  in  the  Sulmona  Valley  will  not  let  you 
pass  through  its  sorry  streets,  each  called  after  one  of  the 
confederated  tribes,  without  directing  you  to  the  spot 
where  rise  the  meagre  ruins  of  Corfinium.  On  the 
neighbouring  railway  station  you  read  not  Pratola,  but 
Pratola  Peligna. 

Rome,  no  longer  the  mistress  but  the  capital  of  Italy^ 
yet  did  its  best  to  Romanize  the  provinces,  with  limited 
success.  The  tribal  characteristics  still  remained  strong 
as  ever.  Only  to  the  aristocracy  did  the  City  set  the 
fashion.  Of  course,  there  was  give  and  take.  Rome 
made  new  roads.  The  Romans  built  summer  villas  in 
the  high  pure  air  ;  and  the  country  was  much  better 
known  than  it  is  to-day.  Something  was  done  to  make 
up  for  all  that  had  been  destroyed  in  the  Samnite  Wars. 
Roman  culture  penetrated ;  and  in  return,  to  Roman 
literature  Amiterno — the  vanished  Amiterno  of  the 
Vestini — gave  Sallust,  and  Sulmona  Ovid.  Nor  did  the 
Marsian  and  Pelignian  valour  fail,  but  helped  to  give 
Rome  the  dominion  of  the  world.  Their  aid,  however, 
was  exercised  with  a  good  deal  of  independence,  and 
some  caprice,  especially  in  Roman  civil  strife. 

They  never  became  infected  with  Roman  aggressive- 
ness ;  never  identified  themselves  with  Rome,  as  they 
never  did  with  the  invaders  that  succeeded.  They  had 
fought  for  their  political  rights  and  dignity.  That  gained, 
they  laid  down  their  arms  and  went  back  to  their  sheep 


36  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

and  their  cornfields.  And  that  has  been  their  history 
ever  since.  They  have  loved  their  country,  and  have 
desired  to  be  let  alone  in  it.  They  have  not  been  let 
alone  in  it,  for  they  have  shared  the  common  fate  of 
Italy.  One  invader  after  another  has  come  to  their  land, 
the  gate — say,  rather,  the  stairway — into  Southern  Italy  ; 
and,  since  there  has  been  little  to  share,  has  taken  of  the 
best.  Goths  and  Lombards,  Franks  and  Swabians, 
Spaniards  and  French  and  Austrians,  have  come.  The 
Abruzzesi  have  sometimes  resisted,  and  then  let  the 
stranger  pass.  And  the  moral  of  their  political  experience 
has  been — Plus  cela  cha?ige,pl2is  c'est  la  mcme  chose.  Per- 
haps something  colder  and  more  apathetic  came  from  an 
infusion  of  Northern  blood  into  their  veins  to  temper 
their  fiery  valour  ;  and  their  poverty  under  every  dynasty 
has  bred  political  cynicism  in  them.  They  early  shrank 
into  themselves,  pursued  their  own  arts,  learned  their  own 
lore,  practised  their  own  austere  virtues.  Christianity 
found  a  welcome  in  a  land  that  had  always  been  a  great 
religious  centre  ;  but  it  had  to  consent  to  live  alongside 
the  older  faiths  ;  and  so  it  lives  still. 

Under  the  Swabian  rule,  especially  under  the  great 
Frederic  II.,  the  Abruzzo  had  its  best  chance  of  a 
generous  development.  Northerner  and  Southerner  in 
one  as  he  was,  he  was  well  fitted  to  understand  and  to 
use  this  race,  at  once  so  reserved  and  so  fiery.  And  if 
disaffection  he  treated  drastically,  as  at  Celano,  yet  his 
policy  was,  in  the  main,  munificent  and  far-seeing.  He 
had  a  clear  motive  in  strengthening  a  province  which 
could  be  a  natural  defence  against  the  states  of  his  arch- 
enemy, the  Pope.  It  was  Frederic  who  founded  Aquila, 
and  his  son  made  it  into  a  strong  citadel.  And  it  was  in 
the  Abruzzi  that  his  grandson,  the  gallant  young  Conradin, 
dared  his  fortune,  and  challenged  the  Angevin  Charles  to 
deadly  combat,  seeking  the  heritage  of  his  fathers.  Near 
Tagliacozzo  was   the  battle    fought   which    Conradin  so 


CH.  II.]  OLD   TIMES   AND   NEW  37 

nearly  won.  When  the  boy  was  beheaded  at  Naples, 
there  died  a  good  hope  of  the  Abruzzi.  From  the 
pietistic  Charles  the  province  got  nothing  save  some 
ecclesiastical  foundations.  He  flooded  it  with  his  French 
nobles,  who  got  all  the  fat  land  there  was.  For  one 
hundred  and  seventy- five  years  the  Angevins  ruled 
execrably.  The  kingdom  knew  no  unity.  Naples  was 
continually  disturbed.  The  mountains  had  only  neglect, 
and  were  trodden  under  the  heel  of  alien  barons.  Then 
came  the  Aragonese  dynasty,  five  kings  in  less  than 
sixty  years,  and  the  kingdom  sank  to  the  condition  of  a 
province.  After  the  struggle  between  the  Aragonese 
Frederic  with  the  Crown  of  Spain,  it  fell  to  Ferdinand  the 
Catholic  ;  and  Naples  was  now  only  the  seat  of  a  vice- 
royalty.  The  vice-royal  Government,  which  lasted  two 
hundred  and  thirty  years,  was  one  only  fit  for  slaves,  and 
it  bred  many.  Need  one  describe  the  rule  of  the 
Bourbons  ?  Think,  then,  of  the  lamentable  history  of  the 
kingdom  of  Naples  ;  modify  it,  or  intensify  it,  by  neglect, 
and  you  have  the  story  of  the  Abruzzi. 

That  story  is  but  an  aggravation  of  the  history  of 
every  mountain  people  that  love  their  mountains,  and 
are  not  aggressive,  or  greedy  for  the  riches  of  the  plain. 
There  have  flourished  the  hardy  virtues  and  the  love  of 
local  independence.  Tradition  has  been  a  great  power. 
The  home  arts  have  flourished.  The  strong  religious 
instinct  has  given  the  Church  a  special  hold.  Feudalism 
had  an  easy  growth  and  died  hard.  Isolation  forced 
their  culture  to  be  largely  home-made  ;  and  civilization, 
save  as  the  Church  brought  it,  penetrated  very  slowly. 

This  is  not  an  altogether  unhappy  picture.  The 
frugal,  self-contained  community,  forced  to  labour  in  the 
open  air,  and  with  aptitude  for  the  manual  arts,  is  per- 
haps the  happiest  the  world  has  ever  known.  And  so 
far  as  this  primitive  happiness  depended  on  themselves 
the    Abruzzesi    long   enjoyed    it.      But    that    instinctive 


38  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

craving  for  local  independence,  that  dislike  of  the 
meddling  stranger,  which  they  have  shared  with  every 
mountain  people,  has  been  continually  frustrated  and 
defied.  And  especially  in  later  ages  has  their  fate  been 
hard,  when  only  neglect  has  alternated  with  the  inter- 
ference of  the  worst  government  outside  Russia  that 
modern  Europe  has  ever  known. 

And  the  Abruzzi  in  the  Risorgimento  ?  Here  we 
have  a  very  divided  story.  There  are  chapters  full  of 
fiery  heroism,  others  of  long  apathy,  others  of  ineffectual 
struggle,  of  furious  reaction.  The  province  has  been 
called  the  La  Vendee  of  new  Italy  ;  but  that  is  only  one 
side  of  the  tale.  The  pity  that  there  should  have  been 
two  sides,  and  these  irreconcilable  !  but  that  is  just  what 
the  Bourbons  succeeded  excellently  in  producing.  "  La 
vergogna  di  essere  ultimi  mentre  fummo  i  Precursor!," 
cried  the  patriot  Poerio.  And  so  they  were,  the  pre- 
cursors, those  quick-witted,  quick-blooded  Neapolitans. 
The  victorious  North  has  had  its  meed  of  praise.  The 
South  has  rarely  had  its  due — the  South  that  should  have 
been  all  servile  and  degraded  from  the  policy  of  its  rulers, 
and  yet  bred  a  great  crop  of  heroes. 

The  ideas  of  liberty  came  in  with  the  echoes  of  the 
French  Revolution  ;  and  if  the  French  invaders  were 
hated,  they  spread  free  opinions,  nevertheless,  and 
developed  them.  Then  came  Carbonarism,  and  its  birth- 
place was  the  Neapolitan  kingdom.  It  was  the  Carbonari 
who  first  denounced  the  foreign  yoke — all  foreign  yokes 
— on  Italian  necks.  The  movement  spread  through  the 
kingdom  like  wildfire,  and  the  Abruzzese  Gabriele 
Rossetti  gave  it  effective  voice.  All  over  the  Abruzzi  it 
took  deep  root.  An  intellectual  movement  at  first ;  outside 
its  native  boundaries,  in  Romagna,  where  Byron  joined 
it,  it  grew  fiercer.  Save  liberty  and  independence,  it  had 
no  other  binding  watchwords,  was  not  specially  republi- 
can, nor  did  it  specially  seek  the  unity  of  Italy. 


CH.  II.]  OLD   TIMES   AND    NEW  39 

Yet  an  Abruzzese  was  among  the  first  to  speak  of 
Italy  as  one — Melchiorre  Delfico,  who  sent  from  Turin, 
in  1 8 14,  a  message  to  Napoleon  in  Elba,  offering  him  in 
the  name  of  the  "  Congresso  constituente  dell'  impero 
romano,"  the  "  rinascente  impero  corona  "  in  return  for  his 
sword.  He  should  reign,  but  over  a  free  people.  "  Che 
Cesare  sia  grande,"  ran  the  message,  "  ma  che  Roma  si  a 
libera.  L'ltalia,  Sire,  ha  bisogno  di  voi  ...  la  natura 
vi  fece  italiano.  Dite  come  Dio  alia  luce  ;  si  faccia  ITtalia 
e  l'ltalia  si  fara." 

It  was  on  the  Carbonari  of  the  Abruzzi  that  General 
Pepe  counted  for  resistance  of  the  Austrian  invasion. 
His  campaign  in  the  province  began  with  high  hopes. 
Everywhere  he  was  received  with  enthusiasm,  and  at 
Chieti  forty  thousand  people  came  out  to  meet  him,  the 
youths  bearing  olive  branches  and  garlands.  But  for  all 
the  olive  branches  they  were  full  of  fighting  spirit.  Just 
when  he  was  preparing  to  turn  this  fervour  to  military 
ends  he  was  recalled.  Had  he  been  left  he  would  have 
been  fighting  against  tremendous  odds,  for  in  such  a  state 
of  neglect  was  the  country,  and  so  ridiculous  were  the 
fortifications,  that  Tagliacozzo  and  Popoli  would  have 
been  impossible  to  defend.  The  artillery  had  not  shot 
enough  for  a  single  fight.  It  was  Christmas-time,  deep 
snow  lay  on  the  ground,  and  the  men  had  neither  coats 
nor  shoes.  The  next  time  he  went,  in  1820,  the  Austrians 
were  preparing  to  throw  their  whole  force  into  the  king- 
dom, and  were  on  the  Abruzzi  frontier.  To  Pepe  the 
moment  had  come  for  effective  resistance,  and  he  counted 
on  the  mountaineers  to  aid  him — not  in  vain.  He  made 
his  way  to  Aquila  through  deep  snow,  his  men  falling 
and  groping  all  the  way,  without  food,  without  coats, 
without  provisions ;  and  no  appeals  could  rouse  the 
authorities  at  Naples  out  of  their  apathy  and  incapacity, 
though  it  was  well  known  that  the  whole  of  the  Austrian 
troops  were  at  the  gates.     His  men  had  come  so  far  by 


40  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

a  miracle  of  constancy  and  endurance ;  but  they  knew 
the  game  was  up,  and  Pepe  knew  it  too,  when  he  found 
the  Neapolitan  generals  under  him  in  secret  treaty  with 
the  enemy.  Naturally,  the  soldiers  began  to  desert,  and 
with  those  he  had  left  he  determined  to  give  battle  at 
Rieti.  It  was  a  hopeless  attempt,  for  he  was  out- 
numbered many  times.  With  a  sinking  heart  for  a 
frustrate  chance,  he  gave  in  ;  and  the  Austrians  poured 
over  the  frontier. 

There  were  many  readers  of  Gioberti  and  followers  of 
Mazzini  in  the  Abruzzi,  and  a  constant  propaganda,  open 
and  secret,  was  carried  on.  But  they  were  too  much 
isolated  from  each  other  and  from  the  rest  of  the  world. 
There  were  many  valiant  attempts  at  revolution — at 
Aquila,  Penne,  and  elsewhere.  Each  was  put  down  with 
an  iron  hand,  and  each  had  its  martyrs.  But  by  1848 
the  spirit  had  died  out  of  the  lovers  of  liberty.  It  was  not 
so  much  the  rebuffs  from  the  Government,  nor  the  perse- 
cutions of  the /«/^«<^^//// — some  of  them  ancient  brigands  ; 
but  a  cynical  scepticism  now  bound  their  minds.  The 
ideas  of  the  Revolution  and  of  Carbonarism  were  irreal- 
izable.  They  had  known  so  many  kinds  of  government 
since  the  name  of  liberty  began  to  be  whispered — the 
Parthenopeian  Republic,  and  Joseph  Bonaparte's  and 
Murat's,  and  reaction,  and  a  constitution,  and  reaction 
again.  Nothing  availed.  But  the  chief  cause  of  the  dis- 
couragement was  the  plain  fact  that  the  revolutionary 
leaders  could  not  speak  in  the  name  of  the  people.  The 
Bourbons  had  seen  to  that. 

Their  policy,  and  especially  that  of  Ferdinand  II.,  was 
to  harry  and  torment  the  middle-classes  and  such  of  the 
aristocracy  as  displayed  any  independence,  and  to  favour 
the  people.  This  favour  did  not  extend  very  far,  no 
farther,  indeed,  than  in  levying  few  or  no  taxes  on  them, 
and  ensuring  that  in  any  dispute  between  them  and  their 


cir.  II.]  OLD   TIMES   AND   NEW"  41 

social  superiors  they  should  have  the  preference.  The 
governors'  instructions  were  clear  on  that  point ;  and  it 
was  their  business,  as  well  as  that  of  the  priests,  to  teach 
the  doctrine  that  there  was  none  above  the  people  but 
the  king.  Not  that  the  priests  were  invariably  sub- 
servient to  the  Bourbons.  There  were  patriots  among 
them,  and  many  a  Franciscan  friar  was  a  missionary  of 
liberty.  Nothing  was  done  for  the  development  of  the 
country  ;  but  if  a  peasant  went  to  church  he  was  not 
meddled  with,  and  what  he  made  was  his  own.  A  brigand 
who  wore  an  amulet  and  cast  up  his  eyes  at  the  name  of 
the  Virgin  was  counted  a  better  citizen  than  any  middle- 
class  man  not  enrolled  definitely  among  the  defenders  of 
Church  and  Throne.  There  was  a  time  when  a  citizen 
of  standing  and  repute  might  not  leave  his  home  without 
the  consent  of  his  wife  and  parish  priest.  Had  he  not 
been  regular  at  mass,  as  likely  as  not  the  priest  would 
refuse  it.  He  might  not  send  his  sons  from  home  to  be 
educated  ;  and  the  local  education  was  just  what  the 
clergy  allowed  it  to  be.  He  might  receive  no  journals 
save  the  official  gazette,  which  the  police  had  edited. 
He  might  not  dress  as  he  liked,  nor  wear  his  hair  as 
he  liked.  A  little  busybody  of  Chieti,  Don  Placido 
Picerone,  a  ridiculous  personage,  but  well  seen  of  the 
authorities,  used  to  watch  for  citizens  with  an  unorthodox 
cut  of  beard,  and  drag  them  to  the  barber  forthwith ! 
Spies  were  everywhere.  Spying  was  the  only  industry, 
besides  brigandage,  that  the  later  Bourbons  encouraged 
and  paid  for  in  these  provinces.  According  to  Queen 
Caroline,  the  Austrian  wife  of  Ferdinand  I.,  it  was 
incumbent  on  priests  "  to  honour  spies ;  they  should 
make  use  both  of  the  pulpit  and  the  confessional  to  keep 
the  people  in  check."  But  spies  were  by  no  means  all 
clerical;  and  lay  informers  grew  so  dangerous  to  the 
liberty  of  reputable  citizens,  that  neighbours  practically 
gave  up  all  social  intercourse,  and  shut  themselves  fast 


42  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

in  the  little  circle  of  their  families.  And  the  father  might 
not  even  read  the  newspaper  in  the  cafe ! 

We  can  conceive  of  Ferdinand  II.  as  a  "bon  petit  roi 
d'Yvetot,"  if  Yvetot  had  never  learned  to  read  and  write. 
The  fantastic  imagination  of  the  Abruzzi  peasants  was 
perhaps  not  all  out  of  sympathy  with  him  when  he 
appointed  Ignatius  Loyola  a  marshal  in  his  army,  with 
a  salary !  In  his  early  days  it  was  his  ambition  to  reign 
over  a  docile  and  happy  people.  He  desired  to  be  the 
most  benevolent  of  autocrats ;  but  his  benevolence  was 
frustrated  by  wicked  persons  who  would  have  opinions  of 
their  own — and  he  became  Bomba.  No  need  to  remind 
English  readers  what  his  prisons  were  like.  The  fortress 
of  Pescara,  in  the  Abruzzi,  was  never  empty  of  chained 
victims.  Not  that  a  large  number  of  his  subjects  were 
actually  put  to  death  during  the  troubles.  His  advisers 
feared  the  outcries  of  the  Neapolitan  exiles  whose  voices 
sounded  through  Europe,  especially  the  exiles  in  London. 
But  the  number  will  never  be  counted  of  those  who 
suffered  in  dungeons,  or  by  constant  persecutions  outside, 
for  their  refusal  to  be  the  Bourbon's  creatures'  creatures. 

Perhaps  no  kings  have  ever  so  deliberately  waged 
war  with  human  intelligence  as  Bomba  and  his  venal 
son.  "  Mon  peuple  n'a  pas  besoin  de  penser,"  said  the 
former.  The  history  of  the  censorship  in  the  kingdom 
of  the  Two  Sicilies  reads  to  us  like  a  farce  ;  but  the  jest 
was  a  sorry  one  near  at  hand.  The  censor's  corrections 
were  those  of  an  illiterate  pedant.  A  work  on  galvinism 
was  rejected,  the  author  being  reminded  Calvin  was 
among  those  whom  no  decent  writer  would  name !  A 
grammar  "  for  the  use  of  Italians  "  was  passed,  with  the 
title  changed.  The  word  "  Italian  "  was  revolutionary ! 
Of  course  the  censorship  was  often  fooled  and  defied. 
An  attack  on  Ferdinand  himself  passed  under  the  title 
of  "  II  Cuore  Trafitto,"  and  Lammenais's  "  Paroles  d'un 
Croyant "  under  that  of  "  De  imviacniato  beaUe  Virgiiiis 


CH.  II.]  OLD   TIMES   AND   NEW  43 

Maries  conceptu."  There  were  clandestine  presses,  and 
the  name  of  Brussels  or  some  other  foreign  city  appeared 
on  the  title-page  instead  of  Naples.  Students  of  the 
history  of  the  Abruzzi,  or,  indeed,  of  any  of  the  Neapolitan 
provinces  in  the  early  nineteenth  century,  cannot  over- 
look one  nauseous  proof  of  the  censorship.  Not  only 
are  the  dedications  to  the  reigning  prince  of  a  servility 
rarely  equalled  before,  but  into  the  text  are  interpolated 
solid  chunks  of  fulsome  flattery,  having  no  reference  at 
all  to  the  subject  in  hand.  This  was  a  recognized  means 
of  gaining  an  impriniaULr. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  in  the  poor,  almost  roadless 
Abruzzi,  where  difficulties  of  education  were  greater  than 
elsewhere,  where  books  were  difficult  to  procure,  even 
apart  from  the  censorship,  they  read  and  thought  and 
printed.  Chieti  was  a  fiery  centre  of  propaganda.  When 
one  newspaper  was  suppressed,  two  sprang  up  in  its  place 
with  lightning  speed,  though  editors,  writers,  and  readers 
went  to  prison.  The  peasants  who  could  not  read  were 
for  the  Bourbons  ;  so  far  was  the  Abruzzi  the  La  Vendee 
of  new  Italy.  But  outside  the  circle  of  officials — and  the 
Government  multiplied  offices  great  and  little — nearly  all 
the  educated  persons  were  liberals.  There  was  the 
tragedy :  the  long-drawn  struggle,  the  want  of  cohesion 
that  made  it  so  fruitless,  and  gave  them  so  poor  a  share 
in  the  triumph  of  the  end. 

But  from  these  words  on  the  Abruzzi  in  the  Risorgi- 
mento  one  dark  feature  has  been  omitted,  and  that  is 
Brigandage. 


CHAPTER   III 

BRIGANDAGE  IN   THE   ABRUZZI 

Disappearance  of  the  brigands — Will  they  ever  come  back  ? — Nature  and 
causes  of  brigandage  in  the  Abruzzi — Alarco  Sciarra — Tasso  and  the 
brigand — Eighteenth-century  brigands — Famous  bandits  during  the 
French  occupation — Paul-Louis  Courier's  journey — General  ]\Ianhes — 
Bourbon  encouragement  of  banditti — Brigand  and  guide — Brigands' 
arrogance — Brigands'  songs — 11  Plebiscito — Foreigners  in  the  bands — 
A  brigand  dandy — A  carabiniere  of  genius — The  Venti  Scttcmbrc — 
The  Legge  Pica — Lingering  memories  of  brigands. 

We  were  warned  on  all  sides  before  starting  not  to  risk 
our  precious  lives  in  the  wild  solitudes  of  the  Abruzzi, 
the  "  home  of  brigands."  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  break 
it  to  the  young  and  adventurous  that  there  are  no 
brigands  left ;  that  while  Sicily  can  provide  some,  and 
Sardinia  still  boasts  a  few,  that  while  in  recent  years  a 
Musolino  has  ruffled  it  in  Calabria,  and  Ruffolone  round 
about  Viterbo,  you  may  wander  now  by  night  or  day  in 
the  Abruzzi  and  never  be  asked  for  purse  or  life.  The 
young  and  adventurous  must  be  content  with  chance 
meetings  of  wolves,  and  these  only  on  the  higher  levels. 
The  carabinieri  ride  the  mountains,  ubiquitous,  vigilant, 
efficient ;  and  were  they  less  so,  there  is  little  likelihood 
of  the  old  bandit  plague  cropping  up  again.  In  the 
Abruzzi  the  people  condoled  with  us  for  living  in  so 
dangerous  a  place  as  London  ;  and  when  we  came  to 
think  of  it  we  owned  (to  ourselves)  they  were  right. 
London  is  so  much  more  perilous  to  life  and  limb.  But 
this  safety  is  a  very  recent  thing  ;  and  the  middle-aged 

44 


CH.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE   IN   THE   ABRUZZI     45 

can  tell  you,  if  they  will,  of  a  very  different  state  of 
affairs.  They  do  not  pour  out  these  reminiscences  to 
the  first  comer  by  any  means.  Rather  will  they  give 
him  the  impression  that  they  hear  of  brigands  for  the 
first  time  from  his  lips.  They  are  not  proud  of  that 
chapter  of  their  history  which  ended  almost  entirely  in 
1870.  Till  that  date  there  had  always  been  more  or  less 
brigandage  in  the  Abruzzi,  and  generally  more  rather 
than  less. 

To  look  at  the  country  is  to  see  that  it  seems  destined 
by  nature  to  be  a  land  of  outlaws.  Even  now,  when  it  is 
cut  up  by  excellent  roads  and  railways,  and  when  most 
of  its  forests  have  been  cleared,  it  could  still  afford 
endless  shelter  for  raiding  bands.  On  its  heights,  in  its 
hollows,  its  trackless  wastes,  its  rocky  recesses,  a  Dold 
captain  and  his  men  might  defy  the  soldiers  as  of  old, 
and  dispersed,  as  they  would  be,  spring  up  again  and  yet 
again.  As  the  train  toils  painfully  up  the  tremendous 
heights,  say,  near  Campo  di  Giove,  or  Rocca  di  Corno,  it 
should  not  be  difficult  for  a  spirited  gang  to  board  it  and 
have  their  will  of  the  spoil.  I  hasten  to  add  that  no  such 
attempts  are  made  ;  and  the  spoil  would  often  consist  of 
but  a  few  old  market-women's  baskets.  Yet  I  cannot 
help  informing  the  youth  of  the  world,  kicking  over  the 
traces  of  a  tame  civilization,  that  here  still  in  Italy,  but  a 
short  and  easy  journey  from  the  Rome  of  the  tourists,  is 
a  wild  land  made  for  wild  exploits,  where  they  could  at 
least  give  the  police  many  a  pretty  chase  before  the  fun 
was  over. 

And  since  of  old  the  harassed  and  unhappy  in  the 
Abruzzi  were  always  wont  to  take  to  the  hills,  and  plan 
and  work  reprisals  from  there,  one  wonders  will  the 
discontent,  which  smoulders  here  as  elsewhere  in  patient 
Italy,  but  here  with  special  justification,  ever  use  the  wild 
opportunities  at  its  doors  as  a  lever  to  force  some  relief, 
some  encouragement,  some   sustenance  for  energy  and 


46  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

industry,  out  of  the  middle-class,  lawyer-ridden  Govern- 
ment that  rules  at  Rome,  and  manifests  itself  in  the 
southern  provinces  mainly  in  the  pretty  and  well-kept 
uniform  of  the  carabinieri  ?  I  repeat  again,  there  is  no 
obvious  sign  of  this  ;  only  one  cannot  forget  the  history  of 
this  land  when  wandering  through  its  tameless  solitudes. 
Calm-minded  judges,  both  native  and  outsiders,  are 
generally  agreed  that  the  Abruzzesi  are  a  frugal,  hard- 
working, honest,  patient  race,  neither  predatory  nor 
rebellious  by  nature,  far  more  disciplinable  than  the 
Calabrians.  Yet  the  three  provinces  of  the  Abruzzi 
have  till  recently  never  been  free  from  brigandage  ;  and 
the  chronicle  of  the  bandits'  exploits  is  appalling  in  its 
length  and  extent.  Every  mountainous  country  has  had, 
of  course,  its  robber  bands.  There  have  been  special 
reasons  why  in  this  one  they  should  have  had  longer 
power  than  elsewhere.  Age  upon  age  passed,  and  all 
the  rulers  of  this  wild  land  were  strangers  to  the  people. 
They  came  and  went,  Romans  and  Goths,  Lombards 
and  Franks  and  Germans,  Spaniards  and  French,  each 
with  their  own  laws,  which  were  set  up  and  disappeared, 
all  of  them  arbitrary  and  accidental  in  the  eyes  of  the 
natives.  The  poor  land  had  little  to  give  the  invader  ; 
but  what  it  possessed  it  was  despoiled  of  pretty  equally 
by  all.  Isolated  in  their  mountains,  the  people  learnt 
in  the  course  of  ages  a  resignation  strongly  tinged  with 
cynicism,  content  to  keep  their  sheep,  to  pursue  their 
own  little  town  and  village  life,  glad  when  none  meddled. 
There  were  princes  and  powers  they  could  realize, 
strangers,  too,  for  the  most  part,  but  naturalized — the 
Caldora,  the  Cantelmi,  the  lords  of  Sangro,  and  near  the 
Roman  frontier,  the  Colonna  and  the  Orsini ;  and 
the  local  wars  of  these  princes  were  a  fine  school  for 
bandits.  So  when  the  Grand  Companies  roamed  the 
land,  the  people  saw  brigandage  legitimized  and  re- 
warded.    Sforza   and    Braccio  and    Piccinino   were   but 


CH.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE   IN   THE   ABRUZZI     47 

brigands  of  wider  range,  with  king  or  pope  at  their  back 
to  urge  and  recompense  them.  Even  when  order  ruled 
in  the  townships  there  were  ahvays  the  hills  in  sight, 
where  the  wild  life  could  be  lived,  after  which  the  heart 
of  man  hungereth  world  without  end.  Moreover,  not  a 
few  of  the  population  were  nomadic — as  they  are  to  this 
day — and  practically  homeless.  Down  in  the  Apulian 
plains  in  winter  they  were  far  from  their  own  hearths 
and  the  taming  influences  of  wife  and  babes ;  and  in 
summer,  camped  up  in  the  high  pastures,  they  were  but 
rare  visitors  to  their  homes  in  the  towns  below.  For 
lack  of  proper  means  of  communication  the  Neapolitan 
Government  enlisted  the  Abruzzesi  rarely  in  their 
regular  armies,  and  thus  they  missed  not  only  an 
obvious  means  of  discipline,  but  also  of  identification 
with  the  central  government.  Personally  brave  even  to 
recklessness,  hardy  and  frugal,  of  the  stuff  the  best  rough 
cavalry  soldiers  are  made  of,  born  in  the  saddle,  so  to 
speak,  they  have  known  remarkably  little  military  train- 
ing, and,  remembering  their  glorious  early  history,  have 
shown  themselves  peculiarly  little  belligerent.  They 
have  not  notably  withstood  the  invaders  who  menaced  the 
kingdom  from  their  frontier.  "  Only  another  stranger," 
they  said  ;  and  let  him  pass.  In  their  mountains  they 
would  be  little  better  off,  little  worse.  Hardly  have 
they  ever  been  given  anything  of  their  own  to  fight  for. 
Only  when  the  priests  preached  a  holy  war,  and  cried 
that  the  Faith  was  in  danger  at  the  hands  of  the  Gari- 
baldians,  did  they  join  with  the  Bourbon  bandits  to 
fight  for  what  was  indeed  real  to  them  and  very  dear. 
One  thing  more  they  have  loved,  though  with  an  in- 
effectual passion — their  independence.  They  let  the 
stranger  pass,  but  they  never  owned  him  in  their  hearts. 
Neglect  gave  them  a  measure  of  autonomy  which 
strengthened  their  proud  isolation.  And  some  of  the 
sporadic  brigandage  through  the  ages   may  be  regarded 


48  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

as  a  negation  of,  and  its  toleration  on  the  part  of  the 
orderly  population  as  a  half-conscious  protest  against, 
the  central  power.  The  Abruzzesi  have  never  identified 
themselves  with  any  of  their  Governments  save  the 
Bourbons',  even  with  that  very  partially  and  loosely,  and 
in  the  main  from  religious  motives.  And  it  was  pre- 
cisely the  Bourbons,  at  a  time  when  brigandage  had  else- 
where become  an  outrage  to  public  sentiment,  who  used 
it,  fomented  it,  paid  for  it,  gave  it  the  sanction  of  the 
Crown  and  the  Faith.  Not  all  the  later  brigandage  was 
political,  of  course  ;  but  it  existed  under  cover  of  political 
disturbance.  Moreover,  the  brigands  were  by  no  means 
all  native-born,  were  never  so  at  any  epoch,  and  especially 
was  this  the  case  in  recent  times,  when  the  Bourbon 
Government  over  and  over  again  emptied  the  galleys  of 
Southern  Europe,  and  poured  malefactors  into  the 
country  during  the  struggle  for  independence,  to  excite 
disturbance,  to  strengthen  the  party  of  "  law  and  order," 
and,  after  their  fall,  to  embarrass  the  Savoy  rule.  Then 
it  was  that  the  disbanded  royalists  of  all  countries  joined 
with  desperadoes,  with  wild  shepherds  and  ignorant 
contadini,  and,  under  the  name  of  Abruzzesi,  made  the 
last  stand  for  Francis  II. 

The  most  famous  brigand  of  old  days  was  Marco 
Sciarra.  He  has  two  traditional  reputations.  According 
to  one  of  these,  his  name  was  of  such  terror  that  mothers 
hushed  rebellious  children  by  whispering  it  in  their  ear. 
According  to  another,  he  enjoyed  a  wide  and  genial 
popularity,  hardly  less  than  our  Robin  Hood  ;  and  his 
title,  "  King  of  the  Country,"  was  more  real  than 
that  of  the  Viceroy  who  ruled  at  Naples.  Without 
any  doubt,  Sciarra  was  a  great  captain,  and  that  he 
was  a  brigand  chief  and  not  a  condottiere  honoured  by 
kings,  the  founder  of  a  noble  house,  was  not  so  much 
an   accident  of  fortune  as  due  to  a  personal  preference 


cii.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE   IN    THE   ABRUZZI     49 

for  independence — which  leaves  the  greater  romance 
with  him. 

This  is  how  Sciarra  took  to  the  hills.  When  a  young 
man,  his  sweetheart,  Camilla  Riccio,  gave  her  affections 
to  a  rival,  Matteo  de  Lellis.  Marco  surprised  Matteo 
singing  under  her  window,  Camilla  listening,  and  heard 
the  appointment,  "  A  domani."  The  morrow  never  came 
for  them.  Marco,  in  his  blind  fury,  slew  them  both  with 
his  knife.  He  laid  their  heads  together  on  the  same 
pillow,  says  the  story,  and  wrote  on  the  wall  above 
them,  "Thus  does  Marco  Sciarra  to  those  who  betray 
him." 

Now  for  the  hills.  The  outlaw  was  handsome,  quick- 
witted, and  of  boundless  energy — a  born  leader.  A  band 
gathered  about  him,  daring  and  skilful  depredators  from 
the  first.  In  1584  the  governor  of  Chieti  took  severe 
measures  to  repress  them.  He  ordered  all  the  horses  of 
private  persons  to  be  placed  at  the  disposition  of  the 
authorities,  under  heavy  penalties.  All  the  property  of 
the  bandits'  kindred  was  sequestered,  and  their  families 
banished  to  Salerno  if  at  the  end  of  eight  days  they 
had  not  prevailed  on  the  outlaws  to  surrender.  Such  of 
the  band  as  were  caught  were  tortured  or  hanged.  But 
always  and  everywhere  Marco  went  scot  free — re  della 
canipagna  in  real  truth.  When  the  soldiers  came  on  him 
they  got  the  worst  of  it,  till  the  Spanish  troops  of  the 
Viceroy  trembled  at  his  name  ;  and  the  great  captain. 
Carlo  Spinelli,  sent  by  the  Viceroy  with  four  thousand 
men,  owed  his  life  to  the  magnanimity  of  the  brigand 
chief,  who  ordered  his  band  to  let  him  go. 

Cruel  and  gallant,  infinitely  audacious,  he  scoured  the 
Abruzzi  and  Molise,  at  once  the  terror  and  the  pride  of 
the  country.  Tradition  says  he  respected  the  honour 
of  women,  and  restrained  his  men  rather  than  urged 
them  to  violence.  To  his  terrible  gests  there  are  pretty 
interludes.     One  day  at  Ripattone,  near  Teramo,  he  met 

E 


50  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

a  young  bride  going  with  some  companions  home  to  her 
bridegroom's  house.  Sciarra  invited  her  to  the  dance, 
his  men  invited  her  comrades  ;  and  then,  cap  in  hand,  he 
begged  through  his  band  for  money  to  dower  the  bride, 
tie  had  one  ally  of  exalted  rank,  Alfonso  Piccolomini, 
Duke  of  Monte  Marciano,  who  had  fallen  out  with  the 
powers  that  were,  notably  with  the  Grand  Duke  of 
Tuscany.  Piccolomini  and  Sciarra  rivalled  each  other 
in  audacity  ;  but  it  was  Sciarra  who  dared  to  go  as  far  as 
the  walls  of  Rome  and  skirmish  there  with  the  troops  of 
da  Monte  and  Virginio  Orsini ;  while  one  of  his  lieu- 
tenants, Prete  Guerino,  coined  money  with  the  sublimely 
insolent  device,  "  A  sacco  Roma."  Indeed,  he  was  for  some 
years  virtually  master  of  the  Campagna,  the  Abruzzi, 
and  the  Capitanata — which  was  very  annoying  to  the 
other,  to  the  legitimized,  brigands.  Sciarra  went  on  his 
merry  way,  the  soldiers  shyer  and  shyer  of  meeting  him 
and  his  men,  declaring  that  there  was  "  little  honour  and 
less  profit  in  warring  against  a  band  so  brave  and  so 
desperate."  But  in  time  he  met  reverses.  In  1591, 
Piccolomini  was  caught  at  Cesenatico,  and  hanged  at 
Florence  ;  and  a  price  of  four  thousand  ducats  was  set 
on  Sciarra's  head.  It  was  never  enough  to  tempt  a 
shepherd  of  the  Abruzzo  to  betray  his  hiding-place. 
Pursued,  however,  with  relentless  persistence,  he  yielded 
to  the  flattering  offer  of  the  Venetian  Republic,  and 
in  1592  entered  its  service,  with  all  his  men,  to  fight 
against  the  Uscocchi.  Careers  were  open  to  the  talents 
in  those  days  !  The  future,  with  wealth  and  power,  was 
his,  and  greater  spoil  than  he  would  ever  be  likely  to 
find  in  the  old  life.  But  Marco  was  of  the  true  breed. 
He  missed  his  mountains.  He  missed  his  freedom.  He 
had  no  quarrel  with  the  Uscocchi.  Let  those  who  had 
fight  them.  Even  the  short  time  he  remained  in  the 
service  of  the  Republic  he  was  still  at  his  old  game 
on    the    frontiers   of  the  Neapolitan  Kingdom  and  the 


CH.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE   IN   THE   ABRUZZI     51 

Pontifical  States.  It  was  then  that  Tasso  crossed  his 
path,  and  even  wished  to  cross  swords  with  him.  The 
poet  was  on  his  way  from  Naples  to  Ferrara.  When  he 
reached  Mola  di  Gaeta,  Sciarra  and  his  men  lay  there, 
near  them  the  Viceroy's  troops  under  Acquaviva,  Count 
of  Conversano,  and  another  contingent  under  Aldobran- 
dini,  sent  by  his  uncle  Clement  VIII.  The  two  generals 
were  waiting  for  the  bandit's  attack,  and  Sciarra  was 
letting  them  wait.  For  private  travellers  the  way  was 
blocked.  Manso,  Tasso's  Boswell,  says  that  the  brigand, 
hearing  that  the  poet  was  in  the  neighbourhood,  wrote 
to  him  offering  not  only  a  free  pass  and  safe  conduct 
along  his  route,  but  whatever  he  might  think  to  demand, 
he  and  his  band  being  Tasso's  most  humble  servitors. 
"  For  which  Torquato  rendered  his  thanks,  but  preferred 
not  to  accept  the  invitation,  peradventure  because  he 
judged  it  unbecoming  to  accept  it,  as  also  because  he 
would  not  have  conceded  the  same  to  him.  Where- 
upon Sciarra,  perceiving  this,  sent  to  him  saying  that  for 
honour  of  him  he  was  willing  to  retire — which  he  did." 
This  may  be  all  romance,  a  mere  imitation  of  Ariosto's 
veritable  adventure  with  the  brigands  of  the  Garfagnana. 
Solerti,  Tasso's  modern,  painstaking,  and  prosaic  editor, 
laughs  at  the  story,  as  he  does  at  most  of  Manso's  tales. 
But  the  imitation  may  have  been  on  Sciarra's  part.  He 
was  no  uncultivated  savage,  and  he  loved  to  play,  and 
knew  well  how  to  play,  the  beaiL  rule.  However,  it  must 
be  confessed  that  Tasso  does  not  speak  of  the  brigand's 
courtesy  in  the  letter  which  he  wrote  to  Feltro  at  the 
time.  Indeed,  he  mentions  only  his  own  desire  for 
prowess.  Amid  the  delays  and  skirmishes  he  grew 
impatient  and  angry.  "  I  wished  to  go  out  and  flesh  the 
sword  given  me  by  your  lordship."  And  at  this,  too, 
Solerti  laughs,  determined  to  strip  Tasso  of  all  romance, 
and  deny  him  all  instincts  of  manhood. 

Resolved,  then,  to  quit  the  Venetian  service,  Sciarra 


52  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

left  five  hundred  of  his  men  behind,  who  were  sent  to 
Candia  on  regular  soldiering  business,  and  with  a  small 
band  he  set  off  back  again  to  the  Abruzzi.  But  in  the 
band  was  a  Judas,  Batistello  by  name,  between  whom 
and  Aldobrandini,  the  Pope's  nephew,  there  was  a 
treacherous  understanding.  Ere  ever  they  reached  their 
own  mountains,  on  their  way  through  the  Marches, 
Batistello  killed  the  chief,  and  by  favour  of  Aldobrandini 
lived  an  "  honest  man  "  ever  after. 

There  has  never  been  another  Marco  Sciarra.  But 
in  the  long  line  of  Abruzzi  brigands,  among  the  cut- 
throats, the  savages,  the  gallows-birds,  the  legitimist  and 
religious  fanatics,  the  poor  harassed  wretches  in  trouble 
with  local  magnates  or  the  police,  and  forced  to  the 
mountains, — among  all  these,  native  and  foreign,  there 
have  been  formidable  persons,  and  some  men  of  great 
talent  and  resource.  Brigandage  was  always  there,  a 
menace  and  an  opportunity ;  but  on  a  great  scale  it 
came  in  waves.  Of  political  disturbance  it  was  both 
symptom  and  result.  At  the  time  of  the  Revolution, 
and  of  the  French  occupation,  the  noxious  plant  sprang 
up  strong  and  hearty  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples.  These 
were  the  days  of  Fra  Diavolo,  Mammone,  Proni,  Sciarpi, 
de  Cesari. 

Hear  Paul-Louis  Courier's  account  of  his  journey 
through  the  country  in  1805.  He  was  on  his  way  to 
Barletta,  where  he  was  to  command  the  horse  artillery. 

"After  passing  through  Lore  to  I  reached,  on  the  19th 
of  October,  Guilia-Nova,  the  first  village  of  the  kingdom 
of  Naples.  ...  I  was  very  well  lodged  and  fed  there  by 
the  Franciscans,  whose  convent  is  the  only  habitable 
house  in  the  place.  Everywhere  I  have  been  treated  in 
the  same  way  throughout  the  kingdom — always  lodged 
in  the  best  house  and  served  with  the  best  the  place 
could  furnish.  The  whole  county  is  full  of  brigands, 
which  is  the  fault  of  the  Government,  who  use  them  to 


CH.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE    IN    THE   ABRUZZI     53 

vex  and  pillage  their  own  subjects.  I  have  come  across 
ever  so  many ;  but,  as  they  had  no  desire  to  pick  a 
quarrel  with  the  French  army,  they  let  me  pass.  Imagine, 
in  all  this  kingdom,  a  carriage  cannot  venture  into  the 
open  country  without  an  escort  of  fifty  armed  men,  who 
are  often  robbers  themselves.  I  arrived  at  Pescara  on 
the  20th.  It  passes  for  the  strongest  of  this  portion  of 
the  kingdom  of  Naples,  yet  the  fortification  is  very  poor. 
The  house  where  I  lodged  had  been  sacked,  with  all  the 
rest  of  the  town,  after  the  retreat  of  the  French,  five  years 
ago.  Those  who  distinguished  themselves  as  bandits  on 
that  occasion  are  now  the  favourites  of  the  Government, 
which  employs  them  to  levy  contributions.  The  mob  is 
for  the  king  ;  and  every  proprietor  is  a  Jacobin :  it  is 
the  haro  of  this  country.  On  the  22nd  I  was  lodged  at 
Ortona,  in  the  house  of  Count  Berardi,  who  told  me  that 
the  governor  of  the  province  was  a  certain  Carbone,  once 
a  mason,  then  a  convict,  later  a  friend  of  the  king,  after 
the  retreat  of  the  French — and  to-day,  pacJia.  This  Car- 
bone  sent  him,  a  few  days  before  I  came,  an  order  to  pay 
12,000  ducats — about  50,000  francs.  He  got  off  for  half. 
So  is  this  country  governed.  It  is  the  Queen  who  orders 
it  in  this  fashion,  for  she  flaunts  her  hate  and  contempt 
for  the  nation  she  governs. 

"  On  the  24th,  at  Lanciano,  I  found  a  French  light 
cavalry  regiment.  One  of  the  officers  sold  me  for  ten 
louis  a  pair  of  pistols,  which  I  judged  prudent  to  add  to 
my  equipment.  The  colonel  gave  me  a  guide  to  show 
me  the  way  to  Vasto  ;  but  the  guide  lost  the  track,  and  we 
just  escaped  being  killed  in  a  village,  where  the  peasants, 
stirred  up  by  their  priests  as  they  came  out  of  mass,  would 
fain  have  performed  the  pious  act  of  assassinating  us. 
It  was  well  for  me  I  understood  the  language,  and  did 
not  dismount."  * 

Nor  did  his  adventures  end  at  the  Abruzzi  frontier, 

*  P.-L,  Courier,  (Eitvrcs^  vol.  iii.  p.  37, 


54  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Among  the  brigands  were  all  sorts — from  the  hustlers 
of  poor  peasants  to  the  hired  ruffians  armed  by  the  great 
for  the  embarrassment  of  the  other  side.  In  the  Abruzzi 
the  province  of  Chieti  was  their  chief  hunting-ground ; 
but  from  their  lairs  in  the  forests  and  the  mountains  they 
rushed  out  and  terrorized  both  the  seaboard  provinces. 
For  one  taken,  a  hundred  remained  at  liberty  to  laugh 
and  spoil  again.  Starved  in  their  mountains  they  could 
hardly  be,  for  the  terrified  contadini  refused  them  food 
at  their  peril.  Where  severity  failed,  sometimes  treaties 
were  attempted  ;  but  the  brigands  were  the  more  cautious 
of  the  two  parties,  for  they  had  learnt  by  old  experience 
that  the  police  now  would  keep  their  pact  and  now  would 
break  it.  Under  the  reigns  of  Joseph  Bonaparte  and 
Murat,  brigandage  was  fomented  by  Bourbon  influence, 
and  for  a  time  it  raged  like  a  very  plague.  Apart  from 
spoil,  there  were  regular  salaries  to  be  earned,  and  pen- 
sions too,  for  good  service.  Among  the  famous  bandit 
leaders  were  Antonelli,  Fulvio  Ouici,  and  Basso-Tomeo. 
Antonelli,  a  native  of  Fossasecca,  near  Lanciano,  was  the 
most  formidable,  and  every  expedition  against  him  failed 
ignominiously.  His  insolence  and  his  daring  were  equal, 
and  the  messages  he  sent  down  to  the  emissaries  of  the 
French  Government  were  couched  in  language  of  royal 
arrogance.  For  a  time  it  was  doubtful  in  the  province 
of  Chieti  who  was  king — the  Bonaparte  or  Antonelli. 
The  bandit  refused  to  treat  with  subordinates,  and  Joseph 
Bonaparte  made  overtures  to  him  with  as  much  ceremony 
as  to  a  brother  sovereign.  He  sent  plenipotentiaries  to 
him — one  a  distinguished  Frenchman,  General  Merlin  ; 
the  other  a  local  magnate,  Baron  Nolli,  of  a  noble  family 
still  of  importance  in  Chieti.  Before  agreeing  to  the 
meeting,  the  brigand  demanded  that  he  should  receive 
military  rank — that  of  colonel,  at  least.  It  was  accorded 
to  him,  and  even  the  uniform  and  epaulettes  were  sent. 
The  meeting  took  place  several  miles  from  Chieti,  and 


CH.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE    IN   THE   ABRUZZI     55 

after  the  pact  was  made,  the  three  entered  the  town, 
Antonelli  sharing  the  military  honours  at  the  gate. 
Judge  of  the  amazement  of  the  people !  This  is  a  fair 
specimen  of  the  political  education  which  has  been  given 
to  the  Abruzzi.  The  brigand  remained  quiet  for  a  time, 
pardoned,  flattered,  and  pensioned.  But  during  Murat's 
reign  he  began  his  raids  once  more,  and  threatened  to 
put  the  country  to  fire  and  sword.  This  time  other 
measures  were  meted  unto  him.  His  past  immunity 
may  have  rendered  him  foolhardy,  for  he  was  captured. 
One  more  entry  he  made  into  Chieti — seated  on  an  ass, 
his  face  to  the  tail,  which  was  his  bridle,  and  a  placard 
on  his  back  for  all  to  read  :  *'  Behold  the  assassin  Anto- 
nelli ! "  He  was  taken  to  his  native  Fossasecca  and 
hanged. 

Stamped  out  in  one  place  it  rose  in  another.  Basso- 
Tomeo,  who  held  out  in  the  thick  woods  of  Pedacciata, 
near  the  Trigno,  was  a  merciless  brute,  one  of  whose 
proudest  exploits  was  to  fire  a  gendarmes'  barracks  when 
the  men  were  absent  and  only  women  and  children  within. 
But  the  enraged  Lancianesi  made  an  end  of  him  by  the 
hands  of  the  civic  guards. 

Meanwhile  Manh^s  had  undertaken  the  suppression 
of  brigandage.  The  historian  Colletta,  who  did  not  love 
him,  said,  "  I  should  not  like  to  have  been  General 
Manhes,  but  neither  should  I  like  General  Manh^s  not 
to  have  been  in  the  kingdom  in  1809  and  18 10."  At 
that  time  the  French  held  securely  only  a  few  fortresses 
in  the  Abruzzi.  The  citizens  in  the  towns  ordered  their 
own  lives  as  best  they  could  in  the  divided  state  of  public 
opinion — some  favourable  to  whatever  French  influence 
reached  them,  which  was  liberal  and  enlightened  in  the 
main,  others  sceptical,  mistrustful,  and  hopeless.  Else- 
where the  bandits  ruled.  Manhes,  a  French  officer  of 
great  distinction,  a  native  of  Aurillac,  who  had  served  in 


56  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

the  armies  of  France  and  Spain  against  the  English,  as 
well  as  in  Sicily  against  the  brigands,  came  to  our  pro- 
vinces in  1809  with  full  powers.  It  is  not  easy  to  judge 
quite  fairly  of  this  famous  man  of  action  amidst  the 
streams  of  eulogy  and  the  torrents  of  abuse  that  encom- 
pass his  name.  One  biographer  calls  him  suave.  Execu- 
tioners have  often  been  suave.  There  is  no  doubt  of  his 
unflinching  bravery,  his  iron  will,  his  perfect  uprightness. 
Over  his  men — his  "  brave  Cossacks,"  he  called  them — 
he  had  absolute  power,  and  they  followed  him  with  dash 
into  the  very  jaws  of  death.  He  "treated  with"  no  one, 
and  he  would  not  have  condoned  complicity  even  on  the 
part  of  the  highest  in  the  land.  He  had  been  sent  to 
suppress  brigandage,  and  he  turned  himself  into  an  engine 
for  that  sole  purpose,  regardless  of  danger,  of  difficulty, 
of  the  claims  of  mercy,  and  of  his  own  reputation. 

It  was  in  Calabria,  the  year  after,  that  he  won  the 
greatest  execration.  He  is  thought  to  have  found  his 
work  in  the  Abruzzi  comparatively  easy,  the  ordinary 
population  being  less  implicated  ;  indeed,  his  task  was 
finished  ere  three  months  were  over.  But  even  here  he 
used  the  methods  that  raised  an  outcry  from  all  the 
philanthropists  of  Europe.  The  brigands'  deeds  were 
often  terrible.  It  was  no  time  for  kid-gloved  measures  ; 
and  Manhes  was  cruel  of  set  purpose,  and  summary 
beyond  description.  He  never  admitted  a  doubt  while 
there  was  a  shot  in  his  pouch  or  a  halter  within  reach. 
To  starve  the  brigands  out,  he  ordered  that  no  peasant 
might  carry  food  out  of  doors  ;  and  a  woman  who  had 
never  heard  a  rumour  of  such  an  edict  was  shot  while 
carrying  her  husband's  dinner  across  the  fields.  There 
was  a  reign  of  terror  among  honest  contadini,  as  well 
as  among  brigands  ;  and  Manhes,  judge  and  executioner 
in  one,  had  the  soldier's  incapacit}'  for  taking  evidence 
and  the  soldier's  contempt  for  it. 

But    he    seemed    the    man    for    the    moment ;  the 


CH.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE    IN   THE   ABRUZZI     57 

authorities  in  the  Abruzzi  showed  themselves  grateful ; 
and  Vasto  put  up  a  monument  to  him  with  this 
inscription — 

"  Al  forte  guerriero  di  Aurillac,  Carlo  Antonio  Manhes, 
membro  della  legione  d'onore,  cavaliere  dell'  ordine  delle 
Due  Sicilie,  generale  aiutante  di  campo  di  sua  Maesta 
Gioacchino  Napoleone,  distruttore  de'  briganti,  restau- 
ratore  della  publica  quiete  nelle  contrade  di  Abruzzo,  per 
voto  universale  acclamato  primo  cittadino  del  Vasto." 

The  Vastesi  dubbed  him  their  "  first  citizen."  The 
Calabrians  paid  him  the  ambiguous  compliment  of 
changing  their  common  oath  of  "  Santo  Diabolo "  into 
"  Santo  Manhes."  The  man  of  the  moment  is  apt  to  be 
just  the  man  of  the  moment  ;  and  if  Manhes  brought 
peace  for  a  time  to  the  troubled  "  contorni "  of  Lanciano, 
Vasto,  and  Chieti,  the  mountaineers  and  contadini  whom 
he  raided  were  not  the  more  civilized  thereby  ;  for  the 
legitimized  ferocity  of  soldiers  is  more  demoralizing  than 
any  bandit  savagery.  And  neither  Manhes  nor  another 
in  his  capacity  could  put  down  brigandage  for  long — 
symptom  of  a  deep-rooted  disease  which  no  militar}^ 
surgery  could  cure. 

At  each  period  of  political  unrest  it  became  violent, 
and  no  party  can  be  said  to  be  entirely  free  from  the 
taint  of  complicity  in  brigandage.  In  the  province  of 
Teramo  there  were  "  liberal  brigands,"  headed  by  Zilli 
and  Calaturo.  They  were  used  as  messengers  or  as 
guides  ;  and  sometimes  the  suspects  were  glad  to  take 
refuge  with  them  in  the  hills.  But  it  was  the  Bourbons 
that  adopted  it  consistently  as  a  handy  method  of 
unofficial  warfare  well  worth  paying  for.  Of  course  they 
also  felt  its  inconvenience  at  times,  but  it  was  not  their 
policy  to  take  decided  steps  to  destroy  a  weapon  which 
might  be  useful  on  the  morrow.  They  preferred  to  make 
pacts  with  the  brigands.  In  1844  Ferdinand  gave 
Giosaffate   Tallarico   a    full    pardon    and   a   pension    of 


58  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

eighteen  ducats  a  month.  Giosafifate  was  no  ordinary 
malefactor.  He  was  a  man  of  education,  I  beHeve  a 
churchman  in  minor  orders,  and  a  small  landowner.  To 
avenge  a  wronged  brother  he  committed  a  crime  and  was 
sent  to  the  galleys.  He  escaped  and  ranged  the  moun- 
tains of  Catanzaro  with  a  formidable  band  ;  and  so  secure 
did  he  feel  that  when  wearied  of  mountain  solitude  he 
would  come  down  for  an  evening's  amusement  at  the 
theatre. 

After  the  powerful  encouragement  of  Bourbon  gold, 
nothing  contributed  more  to  the  continuance  of  this  state 
of  things  than  the  lamentable  cleavage  which  existed 
between  the  poor  country  folk  and  the  bourgeoisie — 
indeed,  all  the  educated  classes.  These  latter,  whether 
they  had  been  favourable  or  no  to  the  French  occupation, 
had  been  influenced  by  French  ideas.  The  Revolution 
had  awakened  them.  With  every  obstacle  placed  in 
their  way,  harassed,  spied  on,  imprisoned,  they  sought 
continuously  for  light.  The  ferment  among  them  was 
thrust  underground,  and  any  propaganda  by  them  among 
the  lower  classes  was  made  impossible.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  poor  mountaineers  were  taught  nothing  save  to 
fear  the  king  ;  and  the  gendarmes  and  the  priests  were 
there  to  see  that  they  did  so.  They  had  nothing  to 
expect  save  from  the  king  and  the  Church,  they  learnt  ; 
and  the  bourgeoisie  were  impious  and  traitors.  The 
Jesuits  poured  missionaries  into  the  Abruzzi  as  to  a 
heathen  country ;  but  their  mission  was  to  preach 
reaction,  and  instil  horror  in  the  minds  of  timid  humble 
folk  of  those  who  ventured  to  question  the  deeds  of 
Government  agents  or  churchmen.  They  were  eloquent 
preachers,  and  their  tales  of  woe  told  to  an  inflammable 
people  had  their  due  effect.  Women  fainted,  or  brought 
forth  abortions.  Men  flagellated  themselves  for  others' 
sins.     Among  such  congregations  the  volunteers  of  the 


CH.  III.]      BRIGANDAGE   IN    THE   ABRUZZI      59 

reaction  were  many.  It  was  a  holy  war — and  this  holy 
war  translated  into  plain  fact  was  brigandage.  Herein 
lay  the  strength  of  the  bandits — that  they  could  cluster 
round  a  political  banner  ;  and  no  widespread  and  reso- 
lute step  on  the  part  of  the  orderly  population  could  be 
taken  while  the  affair  was  so  involved,  so  diverse  of  com- 
plexion. Thus  the  criminal  enjoyed  his  long  opportunity  ; 
and  an  honest,  sober  people  got  a  bad  name  and  an 
execrable  training. 


'!=>• 


To  be  a  noted  brigand  chief  needed  concentration. 
But  some  of  the  less  famous  led  double  lives,  working  in 
the  fields  by  day,  and  at  night  raiding  the  country  with 
the  bands,  or  at  least  helping  them  by  keeping  them 
informed  of  the  whereabouts  of  the  police.  A  traveller 
wishing  to  cross  the  Matese,  the  range  that  runs  into  the 
MoHse,  took  a  peasant  for  a  guide,  and  found  him  an 
excellent,  even  a  sympathetic  one.  The  two  looked 
over  the  glorious  stretch  of  hill  and  plain  and  sea, 
moved  by  the  beauty  and  the  grandeur.  Going  on  their 
way,  they  passed  a  wooden  cross  set  up  by  the  path. 

"  Why  is  it  here  }  "  asked  the  traveller. 

"  I  set  it  up,"  answered  the  guide. 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  had  a  misfortune  just  here." 

"  How } " 

"  I  was  unlucky  enough  to  kill  a  man." 

"  You  !     Not  possible  !  " 

"  Yes,  alas  !  it  was  so,"  he  replied,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

The  traveller  felt  for  the  remorseful  man  by  his  side. 

On  they  went  a  little  farther,  and  they  came  to 
another  cross. 

"  And  that  one  .?  " 

"  I  set  it  up,  too,"  owned  the  guide. 

"  You  .?     But " 

"  Yes,  alas  !  a  misfortune  happened  to  me  there  also !  " 


6o  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  l. 

He  had  set  up  nine-and-twenty  crosses  on  the  same 
mountain  ! 

In  speaking  of  the  complexity  of  brigandage  I  have 
mentioned  only  two  elements,  the  honestly  discontented 
(or  fanatically  alarmed)  and  the  criminals,  for  the  most 
part  galley-slaves  escaped,  or  purposely  let  loose.  There 
were  other  causes  and  constituents.  Secret  societies 
have  always  been  of  strength  in  Southern  Italy,  an  out- 
come of  persistent  misgovernment ;  and  the  Cammorra, 
with  its  home  in  Naples  and  Sicily,  had  its  emissaries  in 
the  mountains  of  the  Abruzzi.  Add  to  this  that  at 
certain  epochs,  and  where  the  local  authorities  were 
particularly  weak,  the  bandits  organized  a  press-gang,  and 
forced  young  contadini  into  their  service.  Judge  of  the 
demoralization  when  certain  townships — little  and  remote, 
of  course — were  conscious  of  earning  their  immunity  from 
sack  and  pillage  and  fire  by  suffering  vigorous  youths  to 
be  pressed  into  the  gangs.  There  were  honest  fellows 
among  these  hostages,  who  refused  to  raid  and  waste. 
Then  they  knew  the  brigands'  mercy  :  they  were  tortured 
and  shot.  As  a  rule,  hardly  were  they  in  the  power  of 
the  band  than  they  were  forced  into  some  serious  enter- 
prise, into  the  very  van  of  it.  Their  good  name  gone, 
they  might  as  well  remain  in  the  hills.  A  fine  people's 
school !  The  peasants  went  armed,  but  they  dared  not, 
singly,  be  even  uncivil  to  the  brigands,  or  refuse  to  shake 
them  by  the  hand.  Insolence  could  go  no  further,  and, 
in  a  country  practically  roadless,  they  were  all-powerful. 
The  ruffians  would  carry  off  the  head  of  a  family,  and 
come  down  in  person  with  a  letter  from  him  asking  for 
ransom.  Of  course  the  family  paid.  When  they 
approached  a  village  they  have  been  known  to  send  a 
peremptory  message  to  the  parish  priest  to  come  out 
and  meet  them.  This  he  did  more  often  than  not,  show- 
ing them  an  abject  and  trembling  courtesy.     But  there 


CH.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE    IN   THE  ABRUZZI     6i 

were  priests  of  another  stamp,  and  there  is  a  story  of 
one  of  them  I  cannot  forget.  A  band  had  long  been 
harrying  a  village  in  the  Marsica.  One  day  a  handful  of 
them  made  a  dastardly  attack  on  some  poor  folk  ;  and 
the  parocco  faced  them  and  shot  the  leader.  His  fall  took 
the  heart  out  of  the  gang,  which  dispersed,  and  the  village 
knew  peace.  His  parishioners  kissed  their  deliverer's 
feet  in  gratitude,  and  he  received  honours  and  decorations 
from  the  authorities.  But  from  the  day  the  brigand  fell 
by  his  hand  he  never  smiled,  he  never  spoke,  save  to  say 
the  office  in  the  church'  and  in  the  ministration  of  the 
sacraments.  He  had  shed  blood  ;  and  thenceforth  he 
lived  on,  a  melancholy  shadow,  a  silent  sacrifice,  till 
death  released  him. 

When  the  urban  guard  was  too  troublesome,  and 
safety  was  precarious  for  the  ruffians,  it  was  usually 
possible  to  get  regular  employment  in  the  royal  army, 
or  sometimes  pensions  with  semi-liberty — though  once 
the  band  of  Vandarelli  were  decoyed  to  Foggia  on  pre- 
tence of  pardon  and  employment,  and  were  shot  down. 
Of  course,  during  a  political  crisis  there  was  no  question 
of  pardon.  Then  they  had  carte  blanche  to  do  what  they 
liked  ;  and  it  was  the  orderly  citizen  who  read  Mazzini, 
or  a  liberal  newspaper  smuggled  over  the  frontier,  who 
went  to  gaol. 

With  the  fall  of  the  Bourbons  and  during  their  desperate 
struggle  to  recapture  the  country,  brigandage  reached  its 
height  in  the  Abruzzi.  Never  had  the  hiring  of  bandits 
been  more  openly  carried  on.  The  criminal  element  was 
far  too  strong  for  it  to  be  called  by  another  name,  yet 
from  the  reaction  point  of  view  it  was  a  state  of  civil  war. 
The  mountaineers  had  .something  definite  to  fight  for. 
To  them  the  Garibaldians  were  the  brigands.  All 
through  the  mountains  they  were  up  for  King  Francis. 
The  hills  resounded  with  "  Viva  il  Re ! "  "  Viva  la 
Madonna ! "    Vasto  was  restive.     Civita  di   Penne  held 


62  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  I. 

out  for  the  king.  Gissi,  Liscio,  Monteodorisio  were  in 
a  ferment.  The  brigand  Piccione,  who  was  annoying 
Teramo  and  the  neighbourhood  with  his  six  hundred 
men,  told,  after  his  capture,  how  the  clergy  had  preached 
to  him  a  holy  war,  Contadini  and  brigands  mingled 
freely,  and  in  the  strange  chaos  gendarmes  joined  them. 
Those  of  Civitella  donned  the  Bourbon  colours  after  the 
passing  of  Victor  Emmanuel,  rushed  down  to  the  plain, 
sacked  the  villages,  menaced  Teramo  ;  and  Civitella, 
headed  by  these  legitimist  gendarmes,  and  aided  by 
bandits,  held  out  for  Francis.  The  two  most  influential 
persons  in  the  garrison  were  Zopinone,  a  brigand,  and 
P.  Leonardo  Zilli,  a  priest.  The  Civitellesi,  after  a  sturdy 
resistance  to  the  Italian  troops  under  Pinelli,  would  have 
given  in,  seeing  victory  impossible,  and  in  the  continu- 
ance of  the  siege  a  mere  waste  of  life.  But  the  brigands 
had  everything  to  lose  by  surrender,  and  compelled 
further  resistance,  defying  the  governor.  Zopinone  and 
the  priest,  with  Mesinelli,  a  sergeant,  kept  it  up  with 
obstinate  vigour  till  they  were  seized  and  shot. 

In  the  Marsica  was  a  state  of  war.  When  Luparelli 
with  his  gendarmes  came  from  Francis  at  Gaeta,  in  i860, 
they  brought  with  them  a  band  of  released  convicts,  who 
sacked  and  burned  their  way  along,  and  cut  off  liberals' 
heads  to  send  to  their  master  Francis.  There  was 
not  a  shadow  of  discipline.  Avezzano  and  the  little  towns 
round  Fucino  were  terror-stricken.  When  the  Italian 
soldiers  came  from  Aquila  they  were  always  too  few ; 
and,  besides,  the  bandits  could  find  temporary  refuge  in 
the  inaccessible  places  near  Civita  di  Roveto,  above  the 
Liris.  Tagliacozzo,  a  strong  centre  of  reaction,  presented 
a  grand  opportunity  for  brigandage  from  its  nearness  to 
the  frontier  of  the  Papal  States.  It  was  in  that  neigh- 
bourhood that  took  place  the  astonishing  exploits  of  the 
incomparable  Giorgi  ;  but  they  belong  to  the  story  of 
the  Marsica,  and   may  be  passed  by  here.     In  all  the 


CH.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE    IN    THE   ABRUZZI     6^, 

remoter  places  no  one  believed  that  the  Savoyard  had 
come  to  stay,  and  at  Castel  di  Sangro  the  people  of  the 
high  town  came  rushing  down  to  overpower  the  bour- 
geois below  with  a  Bourbon  song  in  their  mouths. 

"  *  lam  a  spass'  a  spass'. 

Viva  ru  Re  e  ru  popolo  bass.' 

Cia  data  la  farina, 

Viva  ru  Re  e  la  Regina !  " 

Through  the  Abruzzi,  peasants  and  banditti  sang 
Bourbon  hymns  with  solemn  fervour  as  they  marched 
to  the  attack  of  those  who  had  accepted  the  Italian 
Government. 

"Co'  la  schioppetta  e'  la  baionetta 
Alia  campagna  hemma  da  sci  ; 
Gia  che  la  sorte  vole  accusci, 
Nui  pel  Borbone  hemma  muri  ! 

"Addio,  addio  !  la  casa  mia. 
La  zita  mia  na'  vede  cchiu  ! 
Gia  che  la  sorte  vole  accusci, 
Nui  pel  Borbone  hemma  muri  !  " 

This  was  known  as  the  "Brigands'  Song,"  perhaps 
dubbed  so  a  little  unjustly  by  the  bourgeoisie  ;  but  at  least 
many  of  those  who  sang  of  dying  for  the  Bourbon  were 
determined  to  live  as  long  as  possible  at  the  expense  of 
other  people. 

The  Plebiscite  concerning  the  union  of  the  Two 
Sicilies  under  Victor  Emmanuel  was  the  occasion  of 
wild  disturbances.  A  police  officer  at  Pratola  tore  off 
his  tricolor  and  donned  the  red  tuft,  and  when  his  chief 
remarked  on  it,  he  got  a  dagger-thrust  It  was  the 
signal  of  revolt.  The  peasants  of  the  Sulmona  Valley 
flocked  under  a  red  banner,  armed  with  spades,  forks, 
scythes,  and  antiquated  arms,  sacking  houses  in  the  name 
of  Francis,  and  crying,  "  Down  with  the  Constitution ! " 
Reaction  and  brigandage  mingled  inextricably.  At 
Caramanico  on  the  day  of  the  Plebiscite,  October  20, 
i860,  all  the  men  of  the  district  had  voted  in  the  Piazza. 


64  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

They  waited  for  the  peasants  and  the  mountaineers  of 
Majella,  who  came  late.  When,  at  last,  they  arrived  in 
bands,  an  old  fierce-looking  fellow,  his  broad-brimmed 
hat  pulled  over  his  eyes,  asked  with  a  haughty  gesture, 
"Where  is  the  urn  of  Francis  11. .'"'  "There  is  no  such 
thing  here.  There  are  two  urns,  one  for  '  Yes,'  and  the 
other  for  '  No.' "  "  Then,"  cried  the  peasant  in  a  loud 
voice,  "  I  vote  for  Francis."  A  crowd  gathered  about 
him  on  the  instant,  as  if  he  had  given  a  signal.  There 
were  shouts  for  Francis,  and  waving  of  hats.  The. 
National  Guard  tried  to  disperse  them  by  firing  in  the 
air,  whereupon  the  peasants  rushed  up  to  the  castle. 
From  the  old  Rocca  they  hurled  down  stones.  They 
were  joined  by  others,  and  soon  were  masters  of  the 
place.  Messengers,  riding  for  aid  to  the  guards,  were 
stopped  and  killed.  A  chief  was  needed  for  the  revolt, 
and  Colafella  came.  He  was  undoubtedly  a  brigand  ; 
probably  he  was  also  a  convinced  Bourbonist,  and  he 
seems  even  to  have  had  some  authority  given  him  by 
the  ex-king.  He  brought  pictures  of  Francis  and  his 
wife,  Maria  Sofia,  which  were  placed  on  the  high  altar 
of  the  church  as  holy  things,  while  they  sang  the  Te 
Deum  with  wild  jubilation.  Colafella  showed  some  signs 
of  generalship  and  resource  before  the  revolt  was  put 
down  by  a  strong  contingent  of  Piedmontese. 

Among  the  fomenters  of  dispeace  at  this  moment,  and 
for  years  after,  must  be  counted  the  disbanded  Bourbon 
troops  of  every  nationality.  As  they  could  not  be  kept 
together  and  paid,  they  were  let  loose  with  distinct  orders 
to  annoy  the  Government,  to  set  on  travellers — and  thus 
discredit  the  gendarmerie — and  to  stir  up  the  peasants. 
An  easy  escape  was  always  ready  from  the  Abruzzi  over 
the  frontier  to  the  Papal  States.  And  in  Rome  pro- 
tection and  money  and  arms  were  forthcoming  for  them, 
and    Cardinal    Antonclli   was   their  chief  and   not  very 


CH.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE    IN   THE   ABRUZZI     65 

remote  patron.  In  this  chapter  are  incidents  of  various 
complexions,  some  with  a  strong  admixture  of  the  comic, 
like  the  gests  of  the  famous  Giorgi,  others  truly  heroic 
like  the  campaign  of  the  forlorn  hope  under  the  Spanish 
royalist,  Borjes.  But  these  belong  to  the  history  of  the 
Marsica,  where  they  will  be  found. 

Moreover,  at  the  passing  of  Garibaldi  there  had 
been  a  general  amnesty.  Let  out  of  prison,  the  convicts 
donned  the  red  shirt  out  of  gratitude,  and  some  of  them 
made  good  soldiers  under  discipline.  On  the  disband- 
ment  of  the  Garibaldians  they  hoped  for  employment  in 
the  national  army.  This  was  refused,  and  they  were 
thrown  back  on  their  old  life.  With  such  an  admixture 
of  men  of  military  training,  no  wonder  the  desperadoes 
were  often  more  than  a  match  for  the  soldiers  sent  to 
hunt  them.  Insolent  and  brave,  they  laughed  at  the 
infantry  and  cavalry  detachments  ;  and  the  noted  ones, 
on  whose  heads  a  price  was  set,  dared  to  come  down  to 
the  villages  tricked  out  in  gold  rings  and  earrings,  and 
coquettishly  attired. 

The  hat  of  Aspromonte  was  a  favourite,  though 
Cannone,  who  sported  it,  wore  by  night  the  full  uniform 
of  a  commandant  of  the  National  Guards,  a  medal  on  his 
breast,  and  arms  of  excellent  pattern,  supplied  by  the 
Bourbon  agents  across  the  frontier.  Here  is  a  description 
of  a  brigand's  dress — a  brigand  in  a  good  way  of  busi- 
ness, of  course.  Long  hair  and  a  beard  were  de  rigiietir. 
If  they  had  no  beard,  they  wore  a  false  one.  Above 
their  flowing  locks  was  set  the  pointed  hat  with  a  plume 
or  a  peacock's  feather  in  it.  Their  cloth  or  velvet  jacket, 
with  narrow  short  sleeves,  was  worn  over  a  red  waistcoat. 
On  the  shoulders  lay  a  large  white  linen  shirt-collar, 
Byronic  fashion.  A  gorgeous-coloured  sash  hung  down 
one  side,  and  round  the  waist  was  a  leathern  girdle  called 
a  padroncina,  in  which  they  carried  their  weapons,  their 
ammunition,    and    their    money.      The    breeches    were 

F 


66  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

adorned  at  the  knee  with  brass  buttons.  There  dangled 
from  them,  of  course,  horns  of  coral  or  silver  to  keep  off 
the  evil  eye.  A  great  blue  or  chestnut-coloured  mantle 
hung  about  these  exquisites  in  winter.  So  I  have  heard 
the  dress  described.  But  it  was  only  the  ordinary  peasant 
costume  smartened  up  and  worn  jauntily.  You  can  see 
it  in  the  valley  of  the  Liris  to  this  day.  Some  added 
earrings  and  magnificent-hued  handkerchiefs  to  the 
decoration  of  their  persons ;  and  none  were  without 
medals  and  amulets  and  images  of  the  Blessed  Virgin 
and  the  saints. 

"  Madonna  mia,  protect  this  poor  sinner,  aid  him  in 
the  last  dangers,  and  save  his  soul,"  was  written  on  the 
amulet  of  Pasquale  Moreschi,  shot  at  Scanno. 

So  far  as  the  suppression  of  brigandage  in  the 
Abruzzi  is  due  to  any  one  man,  it  is  due  to  a  carabiniere 
of  genius,  one  Chiaffredo  Bergia,  a  Piedmontese,  born  at 
Paesana,  near  Saluzzo.  He  knew  mountain  country 
well,  for  his  parents  were  shepherds.  Of  a  wandering 
habit,  he  went  to  France  early  in  life  in  search  of  work, 
and  on  his  return  entered  the  service  of  the  carabinieri 
at  Turin.  As  a  man  of  vigour,  agility,  and  intelligence 
he  was  given  a  difficult  post,  and  sent  to  the  Abruzzi,  to 
Chieti,  and  later,  to  Scanno,  then  suffering  from  the 
depredations  of  the  band  of  Tamburrini.  For  the  first 
time  these  brigands  found  some  one  braver  and  more 
agile  than  themselves,  and  he  learnt  to  know  the 
mountains  as  if  he  had  been  born  there.  His  desperate 
encounters  were  many,  and  in  each  he  was  successful. 
Moreschi  was  caught  and  shot  at  Scanno.  The  Prata, 
the  narrow  green  strip  that  runs  from  that  little  town 
south  to  the  mountains,  has  seen  ugly  fighting ;  and  the 
women  that  now  all  the  summer  long  go  to  and  from 
the  forests  for  the  winter  faggots,  may  well  whisper  a 
prayer  for  the  repose  of  the  soul  of  Bergia.     When  the 


cii.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE    IN   THE   ABRUZZI     ^j 

valley  of  the  Sagittario  was  cleared,  he  was  transferred 
to  other  centres  of  disturbance,  in  1864  to  Pettorano,  to 
Cittaducale,  to  Antrodoco.  He  was  given  a  roving 
commission,  and  he  was  ubiquitous.  The  brigands  could 
not  match  his  alertness,  and  information  of  his  where- 
abouts came,  always  too  late,  to  Rocca  di  Mezzo,  Rocco 
di  Cambio,  to  Popoli,  to  Capestrano,  Now  he  appeared 
as  a  beggar,  now  he  was  a  friar,  and  now  a  nun.  The 
bandits  saw  the  end  of  their  merry  life  not  far  off.  One 
of  his  greatest  captures  was  in  1868,  when  in  the  Macchia 
Carasale  he  took  the  assassin  Giovanni  Palombieri. 

Round  Vasto  the  trouble  still  continued,  though  on  a 
more  restricted  scale.  The  ordinary  carabinieri  were 
useless,  and  were  made  fools  of  by  the  contadini,  who 
gave  them  false  information.  There  was  one  band  of 
brigands  that,  when  hard  pressed  and  tired  of  hiding  and 
skirmishing,  used  to  go  into  retreat  in  the  prisons  of 
Gissi,  which  were  often  empty,  the  governor  in  charge 
being  their  very  good  friend,  and  in  their  pay.  The 
history  of  brigandage  in  the  Abruzzi  presents  many  tragic 
pages,  but  likewise  abundant  themes  for  comic  opera. 
One  of  the  last  formidable  bandits  in  the  province  of 
Chieti  was  Colamarino,  taken  in  1870  between  Vasto  and 
San  Buono. 

But  the  province  of  Aquila  (Ulteriore  II.)  was  still 
much  disturbed  by  Croce  di  Tola  of  Roccaraso,  and  Del 
Guzzo  of  Pediciano.  Bergia  rode  the  mountains  till  he 
drove  them  out  of  every  hole  of  refuge.  He  had  been  in 
many  desperate  fights,  but  in  none  more  deadly  than 
when  Croce  di  Tola  was  taken,  in  July,  1871,  on  Monte 
Pallotieri,  near  Barrea.  The  capture  and  death  of  Del 
Guzzo  near  Fontecchio  followed  in  a  few  months.  Bergia 
was  made  Cavaliere  della  Corona  dltalia  and  Marischal. 
Honours  were  heaped  on  him  ;  he  was  raised  to  the  rank 
of  captain,  and  lived  long  after  the  Abruzzi  had  been 
cleared  of  the  brigands,  dying  at  Bari  in  1 892. 


6S  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Brigandage  never  flourished  after  September  20, 
1870,  which  ended  the  possibility  of  easy  escape 
into  a  foreign  state.  Thenceforward  the  Itahan  Govern- 
ment became  a  real  and  formidable  fact  in  the  heart  of 
the  mountains.  No  more  arms  from  Rome.  No  more 
passports  stolen  from  honest  peasants  crossing  to  the 
Papal  States,  and  given  to  brigands.  No  more  help  from 
the  Papal  Government  and  the  Spanish  Legation  to 
escape  across  seas  when  the  fame  of  their  evil  deeds  grew 
too  hot.  There  were  desperadoes  still ;  but  the  heart  was 
out  of  the  enterprise,  and  the  peasants  could  no  longer  be 
terrorized  into  helping  them.  The  police  made  no  more 
pacts  with  them. 

Then  the  Pica  Law  was  passed.  The  Legge  Pica 
was  called  after  its  originator,  an  Abruzzese  lawyer  and 
deputy,  Giuseppe  Pica  of  Aquila,  who  had  suffered  much 
in  the  long  struggle  for  liberty,  and  was  greatly  concerned 
for  the  fair  fame  of  his  province.  Its  principal  provisions 
were — (i)  the  institution  of  military  tribunals  for  brigands 
and  their  accomplices  ;  (2)  capital  punishment  for  armed 
resistance  to  the  representatives  of  the  Government ;  and 
(3)  power  to  be  given  to  the  police  to  confine  for  a  year 
the  idle,  the  vagabonds,  and  such  as  a  special  commis- 
sion should  declare  to  be  Cammorristi,  or  receivers  of 
stolen  goods  ;  (4)  the  formation  of  a  militia  of  volunteers 
for  the  suppression  of  brigandage. 

The  Legge  Pica  did  some  good  work — though  it  was 
not  faultless.  Its  application  was  often  harsh ;  it  gave 
power  into  some  hands  unfitted  for  it,  and  it  flustered  the 
peasants.  But  doubtless  it  was  a  contributory  force  in 
the  annihilation  of  what  had  already  received  its  death 
blow.  The  opening  up  of  the  country  by  roads  and  rail- 
ways was  the  next  step.  Roads,  railways,  the  carabinieri, 
Bcrgia,  the  Legge  Pica,  all  helped  ;  but  it  was  Septem- 
ber 20,  that  cut  at  the  root  of  the  evil  plant.  There 
are  doubtless  pros  and  cons  in  the  peasants'  minds  about 


t?is^h 


4 


o 

c/) 
< 
OS 
< 

o 


^r 


CH.  III.]     BRIGANDAGE    IN   THE   ABRUZZI     69 

the  benefit  of  the  unity  of  Italy.  From  their  point  of 
view  there  is  something  to  be  said  for  the  old  regime ; 
but  at  least  a  united  Italy  utterly  destroyed  brigandage 
in  the  Abruzzi. 

But  memories  are  long  there.  And  the  stories  seldom 
heard  by  strangers  are  still  told  round  the  fireside  ;  and 
something  less  than  thirty  years  is  a  little  bit  in  the  life 
of  a  people.  We  walked  the  roads  and  the  mountain- 
paths  by  twilight  and  in  the  dark  with  perfect  safety  and 
confidence.  But  I  think  we  never  once  did  so  without  a 
warning  from  some  peasant.  At  Scanno,  ere  yet  it  was 
dusk,  before  the  first  twink  of  light  was  to  be  seen  in  the 
town  above  us  or  below,  some  little  sturdy  homing  maid, 
with  her  faggot  on  her  head,  would  say  to  us  in  peremp- 
tory tones,  "  Fai  nott'.  Andiam'."  And  she  would  wait, 
surprised  we  did  not  do  her  bidding.  At  Roccaraso,  or 
returning  from  Castel  di  Sangro,  or  on  the  wild  Piano  di 
Leone,  near  Roccacinquemiglia,  the  hurrying  peasants 
would  bid  us  hurry  too,  to  hearth  and  home,  for  the 
night  was  coming.  These  are  the  haunts  of  Tamburrini 
and  Moreschi,  of  Croce  di  Tola  and  Del  Guzzo.  They 
all  lie  in  their  graves.  They  have  no  successors  lurking 
behind  the  great  rocks,  in  the  thickets,  on  the  beech- 
covered  hillsides.  But  their  ghosts  walk,  and  still  the 
warning  is  given.  It  sounds  eerie  ;  and  eerie,  too,  is  the 
long  backlook  of  the  well-wishing  peasant  on  your  linger- 
ing amid  the  shadows  or  under  the  stars. 


CHAPTER   IV 

RELIGION   IN   THE   ABRUZZI 

The  one  reality — A  home  of  hermits  and  mystics — B.  Thomas  of  Celano 
— Earthquakes — St.  Peter  Celestine — Rienzi  in  the  Abruzzi— St. 
John  of  Capestrano — St.  Bernardino  of  Siena — The  Messiah  of 
the  Abruzzi — "  Representations  " — Talami — Madonna,  heiress  of  Ceres 
— Pilgrimages— The  hermits  of  to-day. 

The  onethingthat  has  remained  an  everlasting  interestand 
power  in  the  land  is  religion.  It  has  been  the  supreme 
and  permanent  reality  in  a  country  where  earthly  powers 
and  principalities  have  had  no  permanence.  On  the  altars 
has  never  died  the  fire  of  the  sacrifice  to  a  deity  conceived 
of  many  shapes  and  faces.  "  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto 
the  hills,  from  whence  cometh  my  help,"  said  the  old 
Peligni,  when  they  built  their  temples  to  Great  Jove  on 
the  spurs  of  Majella,  as  when,  later,  they  reared  houses 
of  praise  to  Jehovah  almost  on  the  borderland  of  the 
summer  snows,  and  gave  the  guardianship  of  the  desolate 
places  to  the  gracious  Virgin  and  the  friendly  saints. 
The  ancient  mystic  force  of  the  Sabine  peoples  is  not 
yet  exhausted,  and  its  manifestations  to-day  are  some- 
times of  a  strangeness  that  brings  widely  severed  ages 
together. 

The  Church  in  the  Abruzzi  has  been  a  power  without 
a  rival ;  and  if  it  be  loosening  its  hold  tliere  as  elsewhere, 
especially  in  the  towns,  nothing  is  adequately  taking  its 
place.  You  cannot  explain  it  as  a  mere  political  force, 
though  it  has  been  that  too.     More  or  less,  it  has  been  a 

70 


CH.  IV.]     RELIGION    IN   THE   ABRUZZI  ^\ 

faithful  symbol  of  an  intense  reality  behind  ;  but  notwith- 
standing their  formal  submission  to  it,  the  people  have 
retained,  with  a  large  and  unconscious  independence,  a 
belief  in  old  secret  lore,  in  magic,  divination,  and  wizardry. 
The  Faith  in  the  Abruzzi  still  nourishes  wild  pagans  and 
ascetic  Christian  saints,  who  live,  very  little  perturbed, 
cheek  by  jowl  with  the  new  race  of  rationalists  and 
materialists.  The  towns  breed,  of  course,  a  sturdy  crop 
of  these  last ;  but  then  town  life  here  does  not  count  for 
much  as  yet.  " 

Of  old  the  home  of  oracles,  diviners,  enchanters,  these 
provinces  in  Christian  times  have  been  the  haunt  of 
hermits,  ecstatics,  fanatics — of  all  to  whom  religion  has 
been  more  than  a  circumstance,  an  incident  in  life.  Here 
it  has  blossomed  as  a  rose  in  the  desert.  It  has  come  as 
a  light  in  days  overshadowed  by  the  desolate  hills.  It 
has  come,  too,  as  a  flame  and  as  a  sword — nay,  also,  as 
a  darkness  keeping  the  minds  in  gloomy,  shuddering 
places.  White  magic  and  black  magic  have  the  people 
known.  Now  they  have  prostrated  themselves  before 
the  fair  Virgin  of  the  Graces,  and  now  before  the 
death's-head,  and  have  said  to  corruption,  "  Thou  art  our 
father." 

Among  the  countless  recluses  and  manifestors  of  the 
spirit  born  here,  or  who  chose  these  wilds  for  their  home, 
some  have  stood  out  clear  and  shining.  The  Blessed 
Thomas  of  Celano  was  a  native  of  the  town  that  looked 
down,  till  lately,  on  the  Fucine  Lake — Thomas  who  was 
the  friend  of  St.  Francis,  and  the  friend  of  Pope  Gregory 
the  Ninth.  Learned  doctor,  saintly  director  he  was,  and 
also  suave  and  courtly  Churchman.  The  saint  died,  and 
the  Order  was  full  of  warfare  between  such  as  desired  to 
make  manifest  its  power  to  the  world  as  a  potent  militia 
for  the  Church,  and  such  as  willed  it  should  remain  a 
band  of  Francis's  poor  men,  faithful  unto  death  to  Lady 


72  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Poverty.  The  little  poor  man  was  to  be  canonized,  and 
for  glorious  proof  to  the  world  of  his  saintship  Pope 
Gregory  commissioned  Brother  Thomas,  the  saintly,  the 
learned,  the  suave,  to  write  the  Life  of  the  holy  one. 
Thomas  made  his  book — the  first  of  his  two  Lives  of  St. 
Francis — the  book  of  a  good  Latinist,  of  a  saintly  man, 
find  a  poet,  yet  the  book,  too,  of  a  courtier.  Hardly  a 
word  of  the  war  and  the  turmoil  which  fill  the  rival 
Speculum  of  Brother  Leo.  Thomas's  Life  had  that 
perfect  and  immediate  success  which  attends  the  work 
of  apt  writers  who  meet  with  apt  patrons.  A  little  too 
prudent  to  be  complete,  it  is  exquisite,  nevertheless,  this 
collection  of  tales  of  the  intercourse  of  Brother  Francis 
with  Christ  and  men  and  the  creatures. 

This  suavity  is  not  of  his  race.  But  the  Abruzzese 
in  Thomas  was  uttered  in  his  famous  hymn,  the  Dies 
Irce,  which  he  made  out  of  various  proses  and  lamenta- 
tions, giving  the  final  form  to  the  shuddering  terror  of 
the  sinner  in  a  world  of  death  and  danger,  to  his  trembling 
hope,  like  the  pale  gleam  of  a  star  into  some  dark  abyss 
of  an  earthquake-rent  land.  Was  it  journeying  to  Rome, 
or  in  the  Foce  di  Caruso,  or  was  it  when  climbing  the 
rocky,  calamitous  track  that  led  from  his  own  Celano  to 
tempest-swept  Ovindoli,  that  the  picture  was  fixed  for 
ever  in  his  mind  of  the  terrors  of  the  judgment  "i 

"  Dies  irse,  dies  ilia, 

Solvet  SKclum  in  favilla, 
Teste  David  cum  Sibylla. 

"  Quantus  tremor  est  futurus 
Quando  judex  est  venturus 
Cuncta  striate  discussurus  ! 

"  Tuba  mirum  spargens  sonum 
Per  sepulchra  regionum 
Coget  omnes  ante  thronum. 

'*  Mors  stupebit  et  natura 
Quum  resurget  creatura 
Judicanli  responsura." 


CH.  IV.]     RELIGION    IN    THE   ABRUZZI  -Ji 

No  wonder  that  through  the  people  runs  a  stern 
recognition  of  the  end  of  mortal  things.  The  King  of 
Terrors  has  shown  himself  in  awful  guise.  War  and 
pestilence  have  raged  in  the  old  days.  The  wolf  and 
the  brigand  have  taken  their  toll.  How  many  have  fallen 
in  the  snow  every  year  and  never  risen  !  And  then  the 
earthquakes,  those  unforeseeable,  awful  calamities  that 
have  wrecked  nearly  all  the  old  splendour  and  made 
thousands  homeless.  "  Not  unforeseeable,  though,"  said 
the  sternly  religious.  "  They  are  a  sign  of  the  wrath  of 
God  with  human  sin." 

"  With  earthquakes  doth  angry  Heaven  awake  thee, 
and  because  the  weight  of  thy  sins  is  great,  the  earth  can 
no  more  uphold  thee."  This  is  the  continual  text  of 
preachers  and  sonnetteers  in  the  time  of  calamity.  I 
have  seen  a  list  of  appalling  damage  done  in  1706  in 
places  I  know  now  as  broken  and  seamed  and  patched. 

"  Popoli  in  parte  rovinato.  Palena  rovinato  affatto. 
Valle  Oscura  [to-day  Roccapia]  rovinato  intiere.  Rocca 
Cinquemiglia  non  ve  sono  rimasto  vestigie.  Pettorani 
quasi  disfatto.  Sulmona  distrutta  intiera."  This,  the 
first  report,  was  in  some  instances  exaggerated.  Sul- 
mona, for  instance,  was  not  razed.  But  the  glory  and 
much  of  the  beauty  vanished  then. 

They  had  prayers  or  charms  against  earthquakes. 
"  Christus  Nobiscum  State,"  written  up  on  a  house,  was 
considered  efificacious.  It  had  been  so  at  Antioch  in  the 
year  128.  A  specially  potent  icharm  was — "  Sanctus  -f- 
Deus  -f-  Sanctus  -|-  Fortis  -1-  Sanctus  4-  et  -f  Immor- 
talis  -}-  Miserere  -f  Nobis.  I. N.R.I.  Per  Signum  Sancte 
Crucis  -f  Libera  nos  Domine.  Christus  Nobiscum  State." 
It  had  been  imported  from  Constantinople,  where  it  had 
worked  miracles  of  deliverance  in  the  year  132. 

The  warning  preachers  and  sonnetteers  have  had  to 
change  their  text,  for  these  disturbances  have  decreased 
much  in  area  and  intensity  since  the  eighteenth  century. 


74  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

The  earth  rocks  now  and  then  ;  old  houses  fall.     The 
menace  rumbles  and  dies  away. 

This  wild  land  was  the  chosen  home  of  St.  Peter 
Celestine,  of  him  who  made  il  gran  rifiuto,  and  was 
scorned  of  Dante  therefor — who  was,  nevertheless,  the 
worthy  hero  of  a  great  spiritual  crusade.  The  Sacred 
College  once  made  the  strange  experiment  of  electing 
as  Pope  one  who  was  in  very  truth  a  saint.  Five  months 
brought  the  experiment  to  an  end  with  Celestine's  renun- 
ciation ;  and  the  world  shrugged  its  shoulders.  But  the 
experiment  was  made  when  he  was  an  old  feeble  man, 
worn  out  after  a  life  of  strenuous  endeavour.  Twenty 
years  before,  the  initiator  of  the  Reform  of  St.  Damian 
and  the  Dove,  the  founder  of  a  great  order,  the  builder 
of  the  abbeys  on  Morrone  and  Majella,  saint  though  he 
was,  would  have  been  a  doughtier  adversary  of  Gaetani. 
Peter  of  Morrone,  whom  kings  and  cardinals  were  to 
come  to  fetch  out  of  his  rocky  cell  on  the  mountain-side, 
was  a  native  of  Isernia,  in  the  neighbouring  province,  but 
all  his  spiritual  life  and  endeavours  are  connected  with 
the  Abruzzi,  more  especially  with  Sulmona,  and  when 
in  our  wanderings  we  reach  there,  I  shall  tell  his  tale. 

San  Spirit©,  the  great  abbey  that  lies  outside  Sulmona, 
under  Celestine's  hermitage,  and  San  Spirito  the  ruined 
sanctuary,  his  earlier  retreat  on  Monte  Majella,  remind  us 
of  that  wave  of  contemplation  that  passed  and  repassed 
over  Italy  from  the  twelfth  to  the  fourteenth  centuries. 
It  was  the  blossoming  time  of  the  universal  heresy  of  the 
Holy  Ghost — first  uttered  for  those  ages  by  the  Calabrian 
Joachim  de  Floris — a  heresy  the  Western  world  will  not 
away  with,  a  heresy  that  saps  the  foundations  of  our 
world,  but  eternally  recurrent,  that  has  been,  and  shall 
be  till  the  end  of  time.  It  found  a  natural  home  in 
the  Abruzzi,  where,  in  the  caves  of  the  mountain-side, 
the  sublime  revolters  waited  for  the  great  third  age  of 
the  world — the  age  of  contemplation. 


CH.  IV.]     RELIGION    IN   THE   ABRUZZI  75 

Celestine  had  been  dead  five-and-forty  years  when 
his  sanctuary  of  San  Spirito,  on  the  Majella,  sheltered  for 
a  time  another  illustrious  wanderer,  the  great  tribune 
Rienzi.  It  was  in  1 349,  after  his  first  fall  in  Rome,  that 
he  came  here,  a  sad  and  broken  man,  to  the  home  of 
great  dreamers.  His  visions  of  a  new  Rome  came  back, 
but  amplified,  etherealized.  The  hermits  up  in  the 
mountain  solitude  found  no  apter  pupil ;  and  to  Cola  the 
breath  of  the  great  heresy  was  like  his  native  air.  It  was 
no  longer  Rome  alone  he  would  revive,  not  merely  the 
ancient  stones  of  the  city  he  would  give  a  fresh  purpose 
to.  He  was  called  to  bring  in  a  new  age  of  peace,  when 
the  Spirit  should  rule  in  the  old  world  ;  and  he  should 
be  one  of  its  three  guardians.  So  he  dreamt  on  the  lonely 
haunted  mountain  ;  and  fired  by  Brother  Andrea  and 
Brother  Angelo  he  set  out  to  bid  the  Emperor  at  Prague 
enlist  also  in  the  army  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  But  Charles 
had  not  lived  in  the  rarefied  air  of  Majella ;  and  he  only 
shut  Rienzi  up  in  prison  as  a  very  dangerous  person. 

Some  six-and-thirty  years  later,  in  1386,  there  was 
born  at  Capestrano  in  the  Abruzzi,  a  little  town  about 
halfway  between  Aquila  and  Sulmona,  perhaps  the 
fieriest  spirit  of  the  fourteenth  century — a  saint  who  took 
the  road  to  Heaven  fighting  all  the  way.  John  dreamed 
of  no  age  of  peace  at  hand.  The  world  was  warfare, 
warfare — and  he  would  ever  be  in  the  front  of  the  battle. 
He  should  have  been  a  soldier.  Circumstances  made 
him  a  lawyer ;  and  he  became  a  famous  doctor  in  civil 
and  canon  law  at  Perugia,  learned,  strenuous,  and  able. 
Trouble  and  sorrow  emancipated  him  from  this  way  of 
life  to  one  where  he  found  himself.  Entrusted  by  the 
Perugians  to  negotiate  a  peace  between  them  and  his 
own  king,  Ladislas  of  Naples,  he  was  imprisoned  on  a 
false  charge,  that  of  betraying  the  city.  While  he  lay  in 
prison  his  wife  died.  His  ransom  cost  him  nearly  all  his 
fortune.     Stripped    bare   of  earthly   love  and  fame,  he 


^6  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

gave  away  his  remnant  of  property,  and  entered  the 
Franciscan  Order,  as  an  Observant.  Into  his  new  Hfe  he 
flung  himself  heart  and  soul,  and  his  earnestness,  his 
whole-hearted  honesty  burned  their  way  to  recognition. 
John  emerged  from  his  years  of  penitence  as  a  leader  of 
men.  He  was  twice  vicar-general.  He  was  the  Pope's 
envoy  in  Lombardy,  in  Sicily,  in  France,  probably  in 
England.  His  voice  rang  out  clear  in  councils ;  and  to 
the  reform  inaugurated  by  San  Bernardino  da  Siena  he 
lent  all  his  fiery  ardour.  Of  the  same  age  as  Bernardino, 
he  was  his  pupil  in  theology  and  his  devoted  friend. 
There  never  was  a  more  splendid  friend  than  John  of 
Capestrano — nor  a  more  formidable  foe.  When 
Bernardino  was  accused  of  heresy — his  faith  in  the 
symbol  of  the  Holy  Name  being  accounted  to  him  for 
such — this  sworn  enemy  of  all  heretics  fought  for  his 
vindication  tooth  and  nail.  John  heard  of  the  trouble 
while  he  was  in  Naples.  Without  a  moment's  delay  he 
set  ofif  for  Aquila,  his  home  when  he  had  one,  gathered 
various  papers  to  confute  the  evil  tongues,  and  followed 
by  frati  and  people  began  his  triumphal  march  through 
the  Abruzzi  to  Rome.  The  Pope  had  forbidden  the 
exhibition  of  Bernardino's  symbol — the  famous  I.H.S., 
set  within  the  gold  rays  of  the  sun — but  John  had  it 
painted  on  a  great  tablet,  which  he  placed  at  the  end  of  a 
pike,  and  marched  along  with  it  as  a  standard.  Crowds 
of  Abruzzesi  followed,  singing  praises  to  the  Holy 
Name,  and  they  reached  the  gates  of  the  Vatican  like  a 
triumphant  army.  And  the  Pope,  moved  by  such  zeal, 
turned  the  ban  of  the  Church  into  a  blessing  on  Brother 
Bernardino. 

John  was  given  a  great  field  by  his  friend  to  work  for 
the  reform  which  was  to  bring  the  Order  back  to  poverty, 
simplicity,  and  love.  He  was  given  all  Italy,  and  where- 
ever  he  trod  a  convent  of  the  Observance  sprang  up.  A 
learned  man,  he  never  shared  the  Franciscan  suspicion  of 


CH.  IV.]     RELIGION    IN   THE   ABRUZZI  ^^ 

learning,  and  the  "  humility  of  ignorance "  he  fought 
sturdily,  and  wrote  a  burning  treatise  on  the  subject, 
De  pronwvendo  studio  inter  Minores.  He  was  a  preacher 
of  genius.  Even  in  Germany,  where  he  had  to  speak 
to  the  common  people  in  Latin,  his  heart  and  will  spoke 
so  clear  in  his  face  and  accents  that  they  understood 
him  ;  and  the  bells  rang  and  folks  sang  all  along  the 
roads  where  he  passed. 

The  complement  of  his  friend,  he  was  made  to  guard 
his  gentleness  and  smooth  his  way.  Probably  it  was 
John  who  gave  Bernardino  so  keen  an  interest  in  the 
Abruzzi,  where  he  was  well  known.  You  can  trace  the 
missionary  wandering  of  the  Sienese  saint  there  by 
the  sign  of  the  Holy  Name  on  town  gates  and  walls 
and  houses  of  confraternities  ;  and  there  is  a  legend  that 
he  preached  for  a  whole  Lent  at  Scanno.  That  he  was 
familiar  to  the  people,  a  little  folk-song  remains  to  tell. 
Here  it  is,  with  all  its  simple  faith  in  the  grey  brother  as 
wonder-worker,  one  of  their  old  magicians  come  to  life 
again,  and  its  naive  statement  of  the  doctrine  of  Holy 
Poverty. 

"  San  Bernardino  se  jose  a  fa'  frate  ; 
Cerco  licenzia  alia  mamma  e  allu  patre ; 
Agli  fratieje  e  tutta  la  signorije. 
Quand'  arrevose  a  quije  marenare  ; 

— O  marenare,  se  me  voi  passare  !  — 

— Ce  so  denare  ?   te  pozze  passare. — 

— De  glie  denare  non  ne  facce  acquiste  : 
Pe  strade  ji  me  recoglie  bene  e  triste  : 
Si  glie  truvesse  'mmiezze  a  una  vije, 
Ne'  glie  raccugliesse  pe'  paga'  a  tije  ! 
Se  glie  truvesse  'mmiezze  dcUa  strate 
Ne'  glie  recogliarije  pe'  te  pacare  ! 
Mettamme  lu  mantieglie  sopre  a  st'  acque, 
E  sopre  ce  sagliemme  nchi  gli  piete. — 

Non  fu  'nu  patrenostre  ditte  e  fatte, 
E  San  Brardine  steve  11a  da  I'acque  : 
Non  fu  'nu  patrenostre  fatte  e  ditte, 
E  San  Brardine  steve  11a  da  le  sicche. 


78  IN  THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Quand'  arrevose  a  quell'  Acuela  bella, 
La  messa  subete  la  volose  dire. 
Se  San  Brardine  trecheve  n'  autr'  ore, 
ly'  Acuela  bella  la  truveve  sole  : 
Se  San  Brardine  trecheve  n'  autr'  orette, 
L'  Acuela  bella  la  truveve  nette." 

["It  was  San  Bernardino  would  be  a  frate.  He  asked  leave  of  his 
mother  and  his  father,  of  his  brothers,  too,  and  of  all  the  gentlefolk. 
When  he  met  a  boatman,  '  O  boatman,'  said  he,  'if  you  would  row  me 
over!'  'There's  money  to  pay  ere  I  can  row  you  over.'  'Nay,  as  for 
money,  I  never  gather  any.  On  the  roads  I  shut  myself  within  myself 
with  good  thoughts  and  sad  ;  and  if  I  found  it  in  the  middle  of  the  street 
I  would  not  pick  it  up  to  pay  you.  Let  us  throw  my  mantle  over  the 
water,  and  we  shall  step  on  it.' 

"  A  paternoster  was  not  said  and  done,  and  San  Bernardino  stood 
on  the  other  side  of  the  water.  A  paternoster  was  not  said  and  done,  and 
San  Bernardino  stood  over  there  on  the  dry  land.  As  soon  as  he  came  to 
fair  Aquila  he  would  say  mass.  If  San  Bernardino  had  tarried  another 
hour  he  would  have  found  it  solitary  [i.e.  destroyed  by  earthquake].  If 
San  Bernardino  had  tarried  another  little  half-hour,  he  would  have  found 
fair  Aquila  clean  swept  [of  its  folk]. "] ' 

The  last  flicker  of  Bernardino's  fading  life  was  given 
to  the  Abruzzi.  His  friends,  knowing  his  w^eakness, 
would  have  hindered  his  journey  ;  but  he  crept  secretly 
out  of  Siena,  thence  through  Umbria  to  Terni,  to  little 
Piediluco  on  its  lake,  to  Rieti,^and  Cittaducale,  on  the 
frontier  of  the  kingdom,  where  he  was  stricken  with 
fever.  But  he  would  on,  and  the  frail  saint  reached 
Antrodoco  riding  on  an  ass.  After  San  Silvestro  he  was 
carried  on  a  litter  to  "  Aquila  bella,"  where  they  lodged 
him  in  John's  cell.  He  had  been  here  before,  and  in 
presence  of  the  King  of  Naples  had  delivered  a  sermon 
on  the  Blessed  Virgin,  while  a  star  shone  over  his  head. 
Now  he  came  only  to  die,  for  his  body  was  "  melting  like 
wax  near  a  fire."  The  fire  burned  fast ;  and  on  May  20, 
1444,  laid  on  the  floor  of  John's  cell,  and  "like  unto  one 
smiling,"  he  passed  away.  His  funeral  was  greater  than 
for  any  king  ;  and  in  vain  did  the  Sienese  clamour : 
Aquila  would  not  let  the  precious  relics  go.     For  twenty 

'  De  Nino,  vol.  iv.  p.  225. 


CH.  IV.]     RELIGION    IN   THE   ABRUZZI  79 

days  did  the  body  stand  at  the  entrance  of  the  Franciscan 
church,  for  the  homage  of  the  city  ;  and  from  far  and 
near  the  mourners  crowded,  impassioned,  exalted,  sorrow- 
ful. During  a  quarrel  between  nobles  and  people  the 
saint's  nostrils  bled ;  and  nobles  and  people  straightway 
made  a  pact.  In  after  years  they  built  him  a  great 
church  here  ;  and  in  the  church  is  a  beautiful  shrine  by 
a  famous  sculptor  of  the  town,  Silvestro  Aquilano ;  and 
to  this  day  crowds  come  to  the  tomb  of  one  of  the  best- 
loved  saints  in  the  calendar — the  saint  of  the  grey  frock, 
the  open  delicate  face,  with  the  Holy  Name  and  the 
sun's  rays  emblazoned  on  his  bosom. 

John  of  Capestrano,  his  fiery  friend,  resolved  he 
should  be  canonized  at  once  ;  and  at  Aquila  he  met 
James  of  the  Marches  as  full  of  the  business  as  himself. 
To  their  impetuous  souls  the  inquiry  dragged  on  too 
long.  Rome  does  such  things  at  leisure,  be  the  dead 
man  ever  so  clear  of  sin  and  great  of  soul.  But  John 
was  not  made  for  waiting.  Were  there  any  doubts  as  to 
his  dead  friend's  merits  ?  He  offered  joyfully  to  submit 
himself  to  the  ordeal  by  fire.  Let  a  great  fire  be  kindled  : 
let  Bernardino's  body  be  placed  therein.  Nay,  he  himself 
would  walk  into  the  flames  with  confidence.  If  they 
spared  him,  it  would  prove  the  dead  man's  sanctity.  Did 
he  perish,  it  would  be  because  of  his  own  sins.  And  Pope 
Nicholas  V.  wondered  greatly  at  such  friendship.  He 
would  not  allow  the  ordeal,  but  he  hurried  on  the  inquiry  ; 
and  on  May  24,  1450,  a  procession  started  from  Ara  Coeli 
to  the  canonization  of  San  Bernardino  in  St.  Peter's. 

John's  activity  did  not  flag  as  age  came  on.  "  Meagre 
of  body,  frail  and  shrivelled,  all  skin  and  bone  and  nerves, 
yet  cheery  none  the  less,  and  vigorous  in  toil."  So  is 
he  in  the  picture  of  him  by  ^neas  Sylvius.  Hard  of 
fibre  as  the  rocks  of  his  native  land,  he  went  with  bare 
and   bleeding   feet   over   the  rough  roads,  begging  his 


8o  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

bread,  and  clad  in  a  tattered  gown.  We  have  seen  him 
as  a  friend.  He  was  no  less  good  a  hater ;  and  to  him 
the  arch-foe  was  heresy.  His  mind  was  clear-cut,  un- 
hesitating, and  his  training  in  the  law  had  strengthened 
his  grip  on  authority.  He  could  not  away  with  the 
Fraticelli  and  their  dreams  of  the  age  of  the  Spirit  at 
hand,  nor  with  any  lax  lovers  of  Holy  Church.  For  the 
Hussites  he  had  no  mercy.  To  the  Jews  he  would  give 
ample  chance  of  atoning  to  and  praising  the  Master 
they  had  crucified— otherwise,  short  shrift  to  them.  The 
Church  knew  his  fiery  missionary  zeal,  and  after  the 
taking  of  Constantinople,  he  was  ordered  to  preach  a 
Crusade  against  the  Turks.  Again  and  again  did  he 
try  to  rouse  the  German  princes  to  combat  Mahomet  H., 
but  in  vain  ;  and  in  1456,  when  he  was  seventy,  the  fiery 
saint  collected  an  army — he,  the  Franciscan  in  his  tattered 
robe,  enlisted  them,  man  after  man,  till  40,000  obeyed 
his  call.  Mahomet  was  besieging  Belgrade  and  menacing 
all  Christendom.  Only  Hunyadi  would  face  him,  and 
he  was  waiting  in  vain  for  reinforcements.  They  came 
at  last,  headed  by  a  friar.  John  was  by  Hunyadi's  side 
in  the  battlefield  ;  and  it  was  he,  crucifix  in  hand,  and 
with  San  Bernardino's  symbol  on  his  standard,  who  led 
the  troops  to  victory.  Hunyadi  died  ;  and  the  fiery 
brother  followed  him  a  few  weeks  later,  dying  of  fever  at 
Villach,  October  23,  1456. 

This  martyr  of  the  faith  left  no  one  to  urge  on  his 
own  canonization  as  he  had  urged  that  of  his  friend.  A 
widely  different  age  beatified  him  in  1690 ;  and  he  was 
canonized  in  1724  by  Benedict  XHI. 

In  modern  life,  religion  has  played  the  same  prepon- 
derating part,  now  manifesting  itself  in  pagan  outbursts, 
now  in  spiritual  ecstasy,  now  in  a  wild  warfare  for  the 
Church,  now  in  a  fierce  zeal  in  the  service  of  this  or  that 
miraculous  Madonna.  The  mental  energies  of  the  people 
and  their  originality  have  found  here  their  best  expression. 


cii.  IV.]     RELIGION    IN   THE   ABRUZZI  8i 

In  the  Risorginiento  they  made  a  hymn  to  the  Holy 
Spirit,  the  eternal  conception  of  freedom  in  Heaven  and 
earth. 

"  Vieni,  O  celeste  Spirito, 
A  visitarci  in  terra. 
Sgombra  la  rea  caligine 
Che  al  lume  tuo  fa  guerra." 

One  ray  from  the  Spirit,  one  descent  of  the  Mystic 
Dove,  and  then  would  awaken  V Italica  virtu. 

"  A  Te  Paraclito 
I  popoli  risorti. " 

But  the  Saints  and  the  Paraclete  have  not  had  all 
the  devotion  ;  for  there  was  the  ecstatic  sun-worshipper 
Sulpicio  di  Rienzi  in  Sulmona,  a  sane  man  in  ordinary 
matters  ;  but  the  sight  of  the  sun  was  wont  to  bring  on 
him  a  rapture,  when  present  things  were  hid  from  him 
and  the  future  was  revealed. 

One  of  the  strangest  manifestations  of  the  latter-day 
religious  spirit  was  the  mad  mission  of  Don  Oreste  de' 
Amicis,  called  derisively  the  Apostle  of  the  Abruzzi. 
Born  at  Cappelle-Monte  Silvano,  in  the  province  of 
Teramo,  in  1824,  he  became  a  Friar  Minor  under  the 
name  of  Fra  Vicenzo.  In  1848,  when  revolution  was  in 
the  air,  he  was  hot  for  liberty.  He  had  fed  on  the  works 
of  Rosmini,  Leopardi,  Gabriele  Rossetti,  and  Ugo 
Foscolo  ;  and  when  news  came  that  Naples  had  a  Consti- 
tution he  declaimed  to  the  assembled  frati  Rossetti's 
ode,  All  anno  1831. 

"  Cingi  I'elmo,  la  mitra  deponi,' 
O  vetusta  Signora  del  mondo, 
Sorgi,  sorgi,  dal  sonno  profondo, 
In  su  r  alba  del  nuovo  tuo  di  !  " 

He  declaimed  it  all  through  the  country,  indeed, 
followed  by  a  band  and  crowds  of  enthusiasts,  and  with 
two  pistols  in  his  hand,  till  General  Flogy,  backed  by  the 
order  of  his  superior,  forced  him  home  to  his  convent  at 

G 


82  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  I. 

Penne.  He  escaped,  went  to  Rome,  and  persuaded  Pio 
Nono  to  secularize  him.  Now  he  was  again  Don  Oreste, 
and  in  his  native  Cappelle  acted  the  part  of  devoted 
parish  priest.  He  practised  charity  every  day.  His 
scriptural  "  representations  "  on  feast-days  were  famous  ; 
and  on  Sundays,  with  perfect  fearlessness,  preached 
inflammatory  sermons  in  favour  of  liberty.  In  one — but 
this  was  later — he  described  a  vision  of  Hell,  where  he 
was  on  his  trial  before  the  Eternal  Judgment  Throne. 
Ferdinand  II.  and  the  Bourbons  generally  were  his 
accusers,  with  black  serpents  round  their  necks,  and 
chains  on  their  feet.  B^-utti  !  BriUti  !  Cavour  and  Victor 
Emmanuel  defended  him  ;  and  St.  Augustine  was  his 
special  advocate,  proving  his  innocence  out  of  the  Holy 
Book. 

His  manners  were  unconventional.  He  rode  madly 
through  the  country  like  a  reckless  young  gallant ; 
and  he  loved  some  ladies  warmly,  if  not  too  .well. 
His  cousin  Rosalia,  against  the  wish  of  her  family, 
determined  to  take  the  veil.  Don  Oreste  designed  the 
mise  en  sdne  of  the  entry,  and  headed  a  band  of  music 
which  accompanied  her  and  a  friend  to  the  convent  at 
Chieti.  He  visited  her  often,  and  kept  up  her  spiritual 
fervour  ;  but  when  she  was  unhappy  and  ill,  he  forced 
the  gates  and  took  her  back  to  her  parents.  There 
she  died.  Don  Oreste  followed  her  to  the  grave,  read- 
ing aloud  on  the  way  the  poems  of  Leopardi.  Her 
death  struck  him  hard  ;  he  haunted  her  grave,  and  went 
as  a  pilgrim  to  Celestine's  sanctuary  of  San  Spirito  on 
Monte  Majella.  Dangerous  air  for  him  !  The  heresy 
of  the  Holy  Ghost  had  hold  of  him  already. 

At  Cappelle  he  became  an  ascetic,  lived  in  a  little 
cell,  wore  a  hair  shirt,  scooped  out  niches  in  the  wall 
and  put  skulls  in  them.  "  Memento  inori "  was  now  his 
device.  He  spoke  no  unnecessary  word  ;  but  when  he 
preached   he  drew  tears   from  all.     But  he  was  one  of 


CH.  IV.]     RELIGION   IN   THE  ABRUZZI  S3 

the  born  wanderers  of  the  world,  the  gipsies  of  the  spirit — 
" senipre  sbattuto  come  Vacqua  del  mare"  as  he  said  him- 
self. After  six  or  seven  years  his  restless  fit  returned,  and 
being  advised  by  the  prior  of  the  Camaldolese  monastery 
at  Ancona  that  his  vocation  did  not  lie  with  them,  he 
wandered  through  Lombardy,  Piedmont,  Switzerland, 
welcoming  hardship,  and  paying  his  devotions  at  every 
noted  sanctuary.  Yet  he  still  frequented  men  of  the 
world,  and  kept  a  keen  outlook  on  intellectual  move- 
ments. When  he  returned  to  Cappelle,  his  austerities, 
his  eccentricities,  and  his  audacious  attacks  on  abuses 
irritated  the  authorities,  and  he  lost  his  cure  in  1866. 
More  wanderings  followed,  to  Rome,  to  Casamari  with 
the  Trappists.  Then  he  entered  the  Cappucini,  and 
became  a  devoted  missionary  in  Corsica.  It  was  now  he 
dreamt  of  a  great  religious  reform  ;  and  he  determined 
to  run  through  Italy  and  write  on  the  gates  of  every 
city  the  name  of  the  Virgin.  '•'■Ho  visto  tma  Stella  tra 
folti  alberi,"  he  cried.  So  he  asked  leave  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Naples  to  preach  a  new  religion,  in  which  there 
were  to  be  no  more  priests  and  no  more  friars.  The 
Holy  Spirit  was  to  rule.  But  when  the  Cardinal  Arch- 
bishop saw  the  red  robe — part  of  the  insignia  of  the  new 
religion — he  sent  him  wrathfully  out  of  his  presence. 
So  intolerant  are  we  of  other  people's  symbols. 

Back  in  Cappelle,  he  refused  to  recognize  his  suc- 
cessor ;  and  the  parish  church  became  a  battlefield. 
Both  priests  officiated  at  the  same  time,  and  preached 
against  each  other,  and  their  factions  fought  over  the 
elevation  of  the  host.  In  vain  did  the  mayor  intervene. 
But  Don  Oreste  had  the  larger  following.  No  wonder. 
He  was  dressed  in  a  red  tunic  and  a  blue  mantle.  His 
hair  was  long.  He  wore  wooden  shoes.  In  his  hand 
he  carried  an  iron  club  with  a  knob  at  the  end.  And 
he  made  hymns  for  his  people  of  a  strange  exaltation, 
which  suited  their  fervent  state.     He  now  called  himself, 


'S4  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

or  was  called,  the  Apostle  of  Italy,  later,  the  Apostle  of 
Europe,  later  still,  the  New  Messiah. 

But  Cappelle  was  too  narrow  a  sphere,  for  many  had 
joined  him,  apostles  and  apostolesses.  They  went  through 
the  Abruzzi,  which  they  called  Galilee,  and  their  mission 
was  so  exciting  that  often  the  authorities  intervened,  as 
they  did  at  Chieti,  when  the  prophet  preached  on  the 
steps  of  the  Duomo.  It  was  the  band  of  a  new  Fra 
Dolcino,  or  rather  that  of  a  modern  Segharelli.  Their 
food,  which  was  called  manna,  was  mostly  nuts  and 
honey,  for  they  made  a  crusade  against  cooking,  and 
broke  up  plates  and  saucepans  ostentatiously — though, 
as  degeneration  set  in,  excesses  of  the  table  were  not 
infrequent.  Poor  Don  Oreste  had  to  struggle  with  his 
naturally  huge  appetite — and  sometimes  he  did  not 
struggle.  He  composed  for  them  the  New  Evangel. 
Now  he  spoke  out  of  it,  and  now  out  of  the  Apocalypse, 
words  which  were  accounted  inspired,  or  blasphemous,  or 
absurd,  according  to  the  hearer.  " -E^^'o  sum  qui  sum. 
Ego  sum  Jesu  Christus  et  Filius  Dei  vivi.  Ego  sum  Sol, 
Luna  et  Stellce.  Ego  sum  Sponsus  Coelestis."  There 
were  weary  hearts  who  listened  with  eagerness  to  his 
promise :  "  And  I  free  you  from  all  your  langours,  and 
grant  unto  you  all  my  graces." 

The  apostle  cured  diseases.  The  country  folk  clung 
to  him  with  fervent  hope,  though  in  the  towns  the  priests 
interfered.  They  were  not  all  peasants,  however,  his 
followers.  He  had  adherents  among  the  educated  classes 
too,  one  of  them  a  painter  of  Castellamare ;  and  the 
Duke  of  Tocco  Caraciolo-Pinelli  had  faith  in  him,  and 
tried  his  skill  as  a  treasure-hunter.  In  the  Duke's 
orchard  a  treasure  was  said  to  be  hidden.  The  Messiah 
came  and  superintended  the  digging,  but  did  not  find 
the  treasure.  He  said  the  seekers  were  all  living  in 
mortal  sin. 

It  was  a  strange  intoxicated  crew  he  led.     Among 


CH.  IV.]     RELIGION    IN   THE   ABRUZZI  85 

them  was  the  spirit  of  love,  and  every  human  weakness. 
There  were  ecstatics  and  charlatans  and  imbeciles ;  and 
the  world  laughed,  or  was  shocked,  or  annoyed.  A  few 
onlookers  were  impressed  and  a  little  sad,  as  at  some 
good  thing  corrupted,  as  if  some  breath  of  the  Holy 
Spirit  had,  indeed,  passed  over  their  land,  but  had  been 
tainted  by  the  poison  of  human  egoism.  A  good  many 
women  were  in  the  band.  Christina  the  apostoless  was 
with  him  in  Rome  the  time  he  cried  out  in  St.  Peter's, 
"  O  te  felice  Rovia  !  O  te  beat  a  !  Da  te  ^partita  la  luce 
e  a  te  ritorna  !  " 

After  many  collisions  with  the  authorities,  imprison- 
ment for  vagabondage,  and  defections,  the  band  dis- 
persed. Don  Oreste  was  a  sorry  Messiah  in  the  end. 
It  was  not  so  much  that  he  was  found  out :  he  found 
himself  out.  His  biographer,  De  Nino,  went  to  see  him 
at  Cappelle  in  1889,  and  found  him  old  and  broken  and 
dying,  but  clear-headed  and  repentant.  Just  one  touch 
of  the  old  pride  was  left.  "  I  recognize  my  nothingness 
before  God,  but  not  before  men.  .  .  .  Chi  troppo  in 
alto  sale,  cade  nell'  abisso.  I  was  not  the  true  Messiah. 
Leviathan  the  proud  spirit  deceived  me.  E  un  mistero 
la  vita  mea." 

And  it  was  a  mystery  indeed,  in  its  bizarre  admixture 
of  impulses  out  of  different  ages  and  cults.  The  ancient 
Marsian  enchanter,  the  worshipper  of  Cybele,  the  heretic 
of  the  Eternal  Gospel,  the  mediaeval  enthusiast — and 
each  was  native  to  the  soil  he  sprang  from — all  mingled 
in  this  modern  pseudo-prophet.  Sorry,  unstable,  mad, 
not  a  little  disreputable  he  was,  yet  from  his  kaleidoscopic 
visions  he  shook  before  distracted  and  hungry  eyes  some 
glints  of  beauty  and  the  ideal. 

I  have  indicated  a  few  of  the  outstanding  influences 
and  episodes  in  the  religious  life  of  the  Abuzzi ;  and  in 
the  tale  of  our  wanderings  others  will  present  themselves, 


86  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

As  supplement,  I  would  send  my  readers  for  an  interpre- 
tation of  the  religious  spirit  at  its  simplest  and  humblest 
to  D'Annunzio's  "  Annali  d'  Anna,"  in  his  volume  of 
tales,  Sa?i  Pantaleone ;  and  for  a  picture  of  religious 
extravagance  and  frenzy  to  his  description  of  the 
pilgrimage  of  Casalbordino,  in  his  Trioiifo  della  Morte. 
Neither  is  exactly  sympathetic ;  but  both  are  first-hand 
documents. 

Religious  festas  in  the  Abruzzi  were  once  feasts  for 
the  eyes  of  the  people  and  stimulators  of  the  dramatic 
sense.  Of  the  scenic  performances  with  mystical  intent, 
or  with  scriptural  subject — "  Representations,"  they  are 
called — some  still  remain  ;  and  the  best,  perhaps,  in  the 
province  of  Chieti.  You  may  see  them  in  Tollo  on  the 
first,  and  in  Villamagna  on  the  fourth,  Sunday  in 
August,  There  are  many  others  ;  and  the  best  guide  to 
their  whereabouts  and  dates  is  Signor  Tommaso  Bruni 
of  Francavilla. 

The  feast  of  the  Madonna  del  Rosario,  in  Tollo,  is 
one  of  the  most  noted.  It  is  also  called  the  Festa  dei 
Turchi,  or  of  the  Madonna  della  Vittoria,  and  is  very- 
famous  throughout  all  the  neighbourhood.  The  chief 
actors  in  the  "  Representation "  are  fifty  men  of  the 
village  dressed  up  grotesquely,  half  of  them  as  Christians, 
the  other  half  as  Saracens.  They  are  all  armed  with 
long  poles  in  imitation  of  ancient  spears.  The  scene 
of  the  drama  is  a  little  piazza,  where  once  stood  an 
ancient  tower.  On  its  site  they  erect  for  this  day  a 
skeleton  tower  of  wood,  some  six  metres  high,  covered 
with  canvas.  The  statue  of  the  Madonna,  attended  by 
all  the  clergy,  the  confraternities,  and  the  acolytes,  comes 
in  procession,  and  is  placed  on  an  altar  in  full  view  of  the 
tower,  which  at  the  appointed  time  is  manned  by  the 
Christian  squadron.  Then  a  trumpeter  and  a  herald 
come  forward,  the  latter  bearing  on  the  point  of  his 
lance  a  cartel,  which  he  hands  aloft  to  the  captain  of  the 


CH.  IV.]     RELIGION   IN   THE   ABRUZZI  Sy 

Christians.  It  is  read  by  those  on  the  citadel ;  then, 
with  a  cry  of  indignation,  torn  to  shreds.  The  herald 
departs  ;  and  his  master,  the  captain  of  the  Saracens, 
now  leads  his  men  to  the  siege  of  the  tower.  They 
reconnoitre  ;  find  an  opening,  a  foothold  ;  and  in  a  short 
time  are  masters  of  the  fort.  But  it  is  all  a  trick,  as  the 
Christians  soon  prove,  for  they  have  only  enticed  the  foe 
to  slay  them.  Then  lo,  the  miracle  !  The  dead  Turks 
spring  to  life  again,  and  fraternize  with  the  Christians. 
They  feast  together — a  feast  of  love,  on  maccaroni — 
and  then  follow  the  Madonna  home  to  her  shrine  in  the 
parish  church. 

According  to  Signor  Bruni,  this  "  Representation  " 
recalls  two  historic  events — the  incursion  of  the  Saracens 
on  July  30,  1566,  under  the  command  of  the  Hungarian 
renegade  Pialy  Bassa ;  and  the  battle  of  Lepanto,  in 
which  the  Turkish  fleet  was  completely  destroyed  by  the 
Christians  under  Don  John  of  Austria,  on  September  7, 
1 57 1,  To  this  commemoration  is  added  that  in  honour 
of  the  Madonna  del  Rosario,  instituted  by  Pius  V.  When 
the  great  news  of  Lepanto  was  announced  to  him,  he 
had  been  reciting  the  Rosary,  and  had  come  to  the 
verse,  "  F?nt  Jiomo  missus  a  Deo  ad  nonien  erat  Joannes!' 
This  plainly  pointed  to  Don  John,  the  Commander  of 
the  Christian  fleet. 

In  1566,  Pialy  Bassa's  fleet  had  blockaded  Otranto, 
the  garrison  of  which  was  commanded  by  the  Duke 
of  Calabria,  son  of  Ferdinand  II.  of  Aragon,  King 
of  Naples.  An  armistice  of  fifteen  days  was  granted, 
and  Pialy,  with  the  main  part  of  his  ships,  ran  up  the 
Adriatic,  to  seize  on  the  Isles  of  the  Tremiti,  meaning 
to  make  them  the  base  of  future  operations.  The 
attempt  did  not  succeed  ;  so  he  turned  his  ships  towards 
the  Abruzzi  coast,  and  rounding  the  Punta  della  Penna, 
he  anchored  at  the  Foce  del  Sinello.  A  mile  or  so  inland 
lay   the    famous    and    rich   Benedictine   Abbey   of   San 


88  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Stefano  in  Rivo.  Among  its  possessions  was  one  of  the 
Tremiti  isles.  The  Saracens  sacked  and  burned  the 
abbey,  killed  the  monks,  and  then  went  on  to  Ortona, 
which  could  not  withstand  their  onslaught.  Worse 
damage  still  was  suffered  at  Francavilla.  From  thence 
they  went  inland  in  two  squadrons,  one  of  which  made 
for  Tollo,  the  other  for  Villamagna.  At  Tollo  they  sum- 
moned the  defenders  of  the  place  to  surrender.  The 
garrison  congregated  in  the  now  demolished  tower, 
allowed  a  band  of  the  Saracens,  by  a  feint,  to  occupy 
some  part  of  the  citadel,  and  then,  having  them  in  their 
power,  killed  them.  The  rest,  renouncing  their  designs 
of  pillage,  hurried  back  to  the  coast.  Such  is  the  origin 
of  the  "  Representation  "  of  Tollo. 

The  second  division  had  reached  the  first  houses  of 
Villamagna,  when  suddenly  a  meteor,  accompanied  by 
thunder,  lightning,  and  hail,  burst  on  them.  The  com- 
mander retired  to  the  nearest  church,  where  he  presented 
to  the  arciprete — in  homage  to  the  patron  Santa 
Margherita — a  diadem  studded  with  many  precious 
stones,  which  he  had  worn  on  his  turban.  This  historic 
jewel  was  preserved  for  nearly  two  centuries,  and  then  a 
priest  sold  it ;  so  that  of  the  pennaccJiietto^  as  it  was  called, 
there  only  remains  a  faint  memory. 

This  happening  is  commemorated  in  the  feast  of 
Santa  Margherita  at  Villamagna.  The  statue  of  the 
saint  is  brought  out  of  the  church.  Before  it  walk  bands 
of  women  and  girls,  bearing  on  their  heads  copper  pots 
filled  with  grain,  and  on  the  top  a  bunch  of  sweet  basil. 
They  are  followed  by  youths  armed  with  long  poles 
adorned  with  ears  of  corn.  A  number  of  barrels  form  a 
7-eposoir  for  the  statue  ;  and  when  she  is  placed  there  the 
"  Representation  "  begins.  About  a  score  of  young  men, 
clad  in  odds  and  ends  of  ancient  garments  and  uniforms, 
armed  with  daggers,  scimitars,  and  bows  and  arrows,  play 
the  Saracens.     Two  of  them  on  foot  and  two  on  horseback 


CH.  IV.]     RELIGION    IN   THE   ABRUZZI  89 

advance,  to  a  discreet  distance  from  the  statue  ;  and 
there,  with  fierce  mien  and  determined  gesture,  they  set 
fire  to  a  sheaf  of  straw,  thus  signifying  danger  to  the 
saint,  her  temple,  and  her  proteges.  Then  one  gallops 
back  to  bring  on  the  main  body  to  the  attack.  There  is 
much  shooting  of  bows  and  arrows  and  whirling  of 
swords  and  scimitars,  when,  behold,  a  wonder  in  the 
heavens !  Down  through  the  air  comes  a  long  beam 
wrapped  in  tow  and  all  in  flames.  The  Saracens  on 
foot  fall  prostrate  to  the  ground,  and  the  cavaliers  fall 
over  the  necks  of  their  horses.  There  is  a  pause  full  of 
well-simulated  terror ;  and  then  the  procession  takes  its 
way  back  to  the  church,  whither,  after  some  showy 
perambulation  of  the  streets,  the  Saracens  also  wend, 
throwing  themselves  before  the  saint  in  humblest  adora- 
tion. Coming  out,  they  mount  their  horses,  and  feign  to 
flee  as  hard  as  ever  they  can  from  the  village.  So  ends 
the  drama. 

The  "  Representations "  are  mute  drama  in  action. 
The  talauii,  on  the  contrary,  are  what  we  should  call 
tableaux  vivants.  A  talamo  is  a  portable  scenic  platform. 
At  the  back  of  it  rises  a  triangular  wall  on  which  is  hung 
whatever  little  scenery  is  needed — for  instance,  a  yellow 
wooden  disc  represents  the  light  of  day.  In  front  of  this, 
and  well  raised,  sits  a  child  Madonna,  and  at  the  sides 
are  two  children  dressed  as  angels.  These  three  appear 
in  all  talami.  In  the  foreground  are  the  personages  of 
the  scriptural  story  to  be  represented — nowadays  nearly 
always  children.  As  the  talami  are  carried  on  the 
shoulders  of  men,  who  wear  the  robes  of  their  confra- 
ternities, the  little  actors  are  tied  on  securely,  though, 
indeed,  they  sit  or  stand  with  much  solemn  dignity,  and 
would  never  disgrace  the  occasion  by  toppling  over. 
Generally,  at  least  half  a  dozen  of  these  talami  are 
prepared,  stationed  at  various  points  of  the  village  for  a 


90  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

given  time,  after  which  the)^  are  moved  on  in  the  pro- 
cession, headed  by  the  particular  virgin  or  saint  of  the 
festa,  so  that  all  the  tableaux  are  gradually  shown  along 
the  whole  route,  amid  the  singing  and  shouting  of  the 
crowds  and  the  cracking  of  squibs.  Here  are  some 
subjects  often  represented,  taken  at  random  from  various 
programmes :  Moses  saved  from  the  water. — Moses 
striking  the  rock. —  Solomon  leading  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  to  his  palace. — Abraham's  sacrifice. — The  Tables 
of  the  Law. — The  Burning  Bush. — The  Annunciation. — 
The  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds. — The  Flight  into  Egypt. 
— The  Marriage  of  Cana. — The  Ascension. — etc.,  etc. 

The  progress  of  the  procession  is  of  necessity  slow  ; 
and  besides,  time  for  devotion,  for  wonderment,  and  for 
singing  must  be  allowed.  The  tableaux  are  crude,  and 
sometimes  grotesque,  but  now  and  then  forceful  and 
original,  and  owe  more  to  tradition  and  less  to  a  taste 
deteriorated  by  bad  chromo-lithography  than  one  might 
suppose. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  features  of  the  ialaini, 
and  one  that  is  invariably  present,  is  the  distinct  proof  of 
their  pagan  origin,  hardly  concealed  at  all.  The  festa 
may  be  that  of  Our  Lady  of  Refuge,  or  Our  Lady  of  the 
Rosary ;  but  in  reality  Mary  here  is  but  the  heiress  of 
Ceres.  The  last  ialamo  always  represents  "The  culti- 
vators and  the  women  bringing  to  Mary  the  produce  of 
the  fields."  After  the  procession  of  these  living  pictures 
there  commonly  follow  a  pair  of  oxen  drawing  a  cart 
laden  with  sheaves,  while  youths  mounted  on  it  throw 
handfuls  of  ears  of  corn  among  the  people.  There  is 
a  wild  scramble  for  these  sacre  spighe,  which  bring 
luck  to  all,  and  which  mothers  hold  to  be  of  special 
efficacy  in  certain  children's  maladies.  In  old  times — 
there  are  still  men  and  women  who  remember  it — bands 
of  peasants  used  to  follow  with  picks  and  spades,  pre- 
tending to  dig,  and  to  scatter  grain  in  imaginary  furrows, 


CH.  IV.]     RELIGION    IN   THE   ABRUZZI  91 

and  hunters,  too,  with  guns,  who  feigned  to  follow  the 
game,  and  fired  blank  shots.  All  these  are  remnants  of 
the  ancient  propitiatory  feasts  in  honour  of  Ceres,  who 
is  now  called  Mary.  The  talaini  may  be  seen  here 
and  there  in  the  Abruzzi ;  but  the  stranger  will  not  hear 
of  them  unless  he  make  it  clearly  and  widely  known  that 
his  interest  in  such  things  is  genuine.  It  is  probably  due 
to  the  apathy  of  the  clergy  when  they  fall  into  disuse  ; 
for  the  desire  to  realize  history  and  scripture  story 
through  the  eyes  is  as  keen  as  ever  among  the  people, 
and  explains  the  vogue  of  the  cinematograph  in  the 
towns. 

I  have  named  but  two  or  three  of  the  scenic  festas  of 
the  Abruzzi.  In  my  notes  on  the  Scanno  district  I  shall 
speak  of  the  feast  of  St.  Dominic  of  Cocullo,  a  popular 
saint  whose  day  is  commemorated  in  various  parts  of  the 
province  after  a  fashion  that  calls  to  mind  one  of  the 
oldest  powers  of  the  Abruzzesi,  that  of  serpent-charming. 
And  there  are  many  noted  and  fashionable  festas  in  the 
larger  places,  where  the  municipal  authorities  and  the 
railway  companies  exploit  the  devotion  of  the  people,  and 
where  the  religious  and  local  aspects  of  the  fetes  are  apt 
to  be  lost  in  the  displays  of  fireworks  and  in  the  newer 
forms  of  popular  amusements. 

This  pictorial  side  of  religion  is  a  strong  feature ;  but 
it  ministers  to  only  one  side  of  the  Abruzzese  nature — a 
nature  with  deeps  and  darks  in  it,  and  with  a  strain  of 
morbidity,  too,  almost  Spanish.  Could  it  be  otherwise 
in  these  mountain  solitudes,  where  disaster  has  never  for 
long  hidden  its  grim  face  }  The  death's-head  and  the 
bleeding  Christ,  racked  and  distorted  with  physical 
sufferings,  are  familiar  objects  in  the  churches — and  they 
bring  their  own  kind  of  comfort.  Nor  is  the  conception 
of  the  Virgin  and  the  saints  as  survivals  of  the  lost  gods 
and  the  fairies  a  complete  one.     Whole  cycles  of  legends 


92  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

exist  in  which  Mary  and  Christ  and  the  apostles,  and  all 
the  other  holy  ones,  appear  as  laden  with  earthly 
troubles,  marked  by  earthly  toil,  very  brothers  and 
sisters  of  the  mountaineers  hewing  their  daily  bread 
out  of  the  rocky  hill  and  stony  field.  In  these  tales, 
grotesque  and  touching,  the  comic  role  is  commonly 
played — I  wonder  why — by  St.  Peter.  Is  it  solely  in 
retribution  for  his  denial  of  the  Master  that  he  is  made 
to  fib  and  pilfer,  and  get  into  continual  scrapes }  Many 
of  the  legends  are  pastiches^  in  which  wholly  incongruous 
elements  are  combined.  In  one  of  them,  a  story  in  verse, 
or  ballad,  the  mystic  espousals  of  St.  Catherine  and 
Christ  are  foisted  on  an  earlier  tale  of  some  amorous 
maiden  of  free  manners  and  frankly  sensuous  desires — 
though  the  edifying  comes  out  on  the  top.  The  result 
would  be  blasphemous,  had  the  amalgamation  been 
conscious.  Had  it  been  conscious  we  might  call  it — 
"  modern." 

Wandering  is  a  constant  feature  of  these  stories — of 
the  sacred  as  of  the  secular.  It  may  be  the  trace  left 
of  the  old  vagrancy  after  the  ver  sacrwn,  or,  earlier  still, 
when  they  were  Eastern  nomads,  made  permanent  by 
the  yearly  migration  of  the  shepherds.  And  wandering 
calls  to  mind  the  pilgrimages.  There  are  many  local 
shrines,  to  which  pilgrimages  are  made  on  foot,  or  on 
mule-back,  or  in  market-cart,  in  one  day,  or  two,  or 
three.  But  there  are  also  the  great  shrines  of  Central 
and  Southern  Italy,  and  the  number  of  their  devotees  in 
the  Abruzzi  is  very  large.  The  noted  ones,  of  course, 
are  those  of  Assisi,  the  Santa  Casa  at  Loreto,  and  St. 
Nicolas  of  Ban.  Loreto  and  the  Porziuncola  can  be 
both  taken  in  one  journey — a  long  and  difficult  journey, 
meaning  more  than  three  weeks'  absence  from  home. 
But  what  are  three  weeks  compared  to  the  gain  for 
eternity  ?  Such  a  journey  is  the  event  of  a  lifetime. 
Some  of  the  richer  go  by  train  nowadays  ;  but  the)'  are 


cii.  IV.]     RELIGION    IN    THE   ABRUZZI  93 

a  small,  degenerate  minority.  The  rest  walk  every  step 
of  the  way,  and  take  every  bit  of  food  they  will  want 
along  with  them — salmi,  cheese,  fruit,  wine,  even  to 
bread  in  some  cases.  So  laden,  they  trudge  from  the 
remotest  recesses  of  the  Abruzzi  to  the  centre  of  Umbria, 
day  after  day,  kinsfolk  and  friends  tramping  together  in 
happy  company,  singing  hymns  and  litanies.  The  nights 
are  spent  in  hospitable  churches.  After  homage  has 
been  paid  at  the  shrines,  after  all  the  supplications  have 
been  sent  up,  and  the  privileges  obtained,  they  trudge 
back  again  by  hill  and  v'alley.  The  return  home  is  a 
scene  of  wild  triumph  ;  and  they  bring  the  fervour  of 
the  sanctuary  to  those  who  might  not  go.  There  is 
singing  in  the  streets  by  night,  and  processions  to  all  the 
churches.  And  they  bring  back  something  even  more 
lasting  than  little  holy  pictures  and  newly  blessed  rosaries 
and  scapulars.  "  Have  you  been  to  San  Francesco  ? " 
I  asked  a  woman  on  a  lonely  mountain  road,  who  was 
bringing  her  firewood  down  from  the  high  beech  woods. 
"  To  San  Francesco  ?  Sicuro  !  And  San  Nicola  too  ! 
And  the  Santa  Casa !  See  here ! "  She  whipped  up 
her  sleeve.  "  See  here  !  I  have  my  marks."  And  there 
on  her  arms  were  plainly  visible  the  signs  of  privilege — 
passport  to  show  Peter  at  the  Gate  of  Paradise — the 
blue  tattooed  image  of  the  Holy  House  of  Loreto,  and 
the  stamp  of  the  holy  place  of  Assisi,  with  the  dates  of 
her  visits.  They  were  some  twelve  years  back.  "  Ah  !  " 
she  said,  "  I  go  no  more.  The  times  are  hard — and 
there  are  the  children." 

Besides  the  churches  in  regular  use,  and  the  vast 
number  of  abandoned  ones,  there  are  many  chapels  and 
sanctuaries  in  the  Abruzzi  of  too  holy  fame  to  be  left  to 
the  ruin  of  time  and  the  chance  care  of  the  faithful. 
Frequently  they  are  in  the  loneliest  and  most  desolate 
places,  like  those  of  San  Domenico,  near  Villalago,  and 


94  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Santa  Maria  della  Predella  at  the  opening  of  the  Piano 
di  Cinquemiglia.  They  are  placed  in  the  care  of  one  or 
more  hermits,  who  live  in  a  romitorio  adjoining,  ring  the 
bell,  and  repeat  matins  and  vespers.  For  the  most  part 
they  are  not  clerics  at  all,  but  old  shepherds  approved 
for  their  virtuous  lives  by  the  arciprete  of  the  district. 
They  keep  a  simple  rule,  which  enjoins  reverence  for  the 
sanctuary,  devotion  in  religious  exercises,  and  general 
discretion  of  life.  For  material  things,  they  live  on  the 
alms  of  the  faithful.  A  box  with  a  picture  of  the  patron 
Madonna  or  saint  stands  on  the  altar.  On  certain  days 
of  the  week  the  hermits  visit,  in  turn,  the  neighbouring 
towns  or  villages,  with  licence  to  beg  for  food,  or  for 
pence,  which  go  into  the  little  pictured  box.  It  is 
mostly  from  the  poor  they  reap  enough  to  keep  them 
from  want.  Some  wear  their  old  shepherd's  cloak,  but 
generally  they  have  a  distinctive  dress — a  black  or  brown 
frock,  with  a  leathern  girdle,  and  a  wide-brimmed  beaver 
hat.  You  meet  them  toiling  up  the  steep  roads,  with 
their  wallet  and  their  box,  on  their  appointed  begging 
days,  and  in  the  market-places,  and  in  and  out  of  the 
houses  of  the  little  towns  ;  and  not  a  peasant  woman  will 
pass  without  kissing  their  holy  picture,  and  giving  it  to 
her  little  child  to  kiss.  Odd,  rough,  uncouth,  are  these 
shepherd  hermits  of  the  Abruzzi,  and  their  lives  through 
the  long  solitary  winter  are  of  the  hardest ;  but  from  the 
lonely  scattered  sanctuaries  they  would  be  missed.  Their 
bell  rings  the  herdsman  and  the  labourer  home.  Their 
little  chapels  are  resting-places  and  shelters  along  fearful 
roads,  and  as  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary 
land. 


A    SANCTUARY    IN    THE    ABRUZZI 


CHAPTER  V 

FOLK-LORE  AND  FOLK   TALES 

Pagan  survivals — Demons — Treasure-hunting — Witches — The  Malocchio — 
New  Year,  Easter,  May  Day,  and  St.  John's  Day  celebrations — The 
Bond  of  the  Comiiiare — The  tede  pagane — Evocation  of  the  dead — Folk 
Tales — The  Land  where  Death  is  not — The  Creation  of  the 
World — Misery. 

Amongst  a  people  still  so  largely  primitive  there  is  no 
clear  distinction  between  their  religion,  so  far  as  it  is 
traditional,  and  their  folk-lore.  The  stories  of  the  saints 
are  often  refurbished  legends  of  the  rustic  gods,  of  the 
vanished  fairies,  or  of  magic  men  of  the  antique  world. 
San  Domenico  of  Cocullo  is  a  reincarnation  of  the  old 
priest-enchanter  of  the  Marsi ;  and  Ceres  is  now  called 
the  Virgin  Mary.  There  has  been  no  conscious  accept- 
ance of  the  transference  by  the  Church,  of  course  ;  but  a 
natural  process  has  gone  on  amongst  the  people,  who  in 
all  primitive  Catholic  countries  make  their  own  religion 
to  a  much  larger  extent  than  Protestants  do,  or  than  they 
can  understand.  Pagan  and  Christian  are  not  two  rival 
worlds  living  side  by  side.  They  are  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  the  same  world.  Their  division  is  a  step  on  in 
sophistication,  but  their  separation  does  not  involve  either 
being  annihilated.  The  one  born  of  the  soil  gives  sub- 
stance to  the  other  that  has  come  on  the  wings  of  the 
spirit.  That  of  the  spirit  softens  the  crudities  and  the 
grim  rites  of  the  old.  But  the  process  of  degeneration, 
if  slow,  is  sure ;  and  thus  the  mighty  gods  that  dwelt  on 
the  Olympus  of  the   Abruzzi,  Monte  Majella,  are  now 

95 


96  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [PT.  I. 

demons  of  the  storm  ;  and  the  daughters  of  Circe  and 
Angizia  are  witches  h'ving  in  a  hillside  hovel.  The 
traveller  will  often  fail  to  trace  the  old  beliefs  in  the 
Abruzzi,  or  they  will  be  denied.  They  vanish  suddenly  ; 
they  reappear ;  above  all,  they  hide.  The  most  finished 
latter-day  sceptics  are  not  rare  ;  but  when  you  find  one 
he  will  be  living  next  door  to  a  mediaeval  Christian  on 
one  hand  and  a  meddler  in  ancient  magic  on  the  other. 
The  traditional  lore  of  the  people,  the  folk-legends  in 
prose  and  verse,  the  store  of  wise  saws,  of  remedies, 
of  notions  of  history  filtered  through  minds  at  once 
ignorant  and  imaginative,  may  not  be  all  indigenous. 
^  Signor  Finamore  thinks  there  is  little  Abruzzese  lore 
pure  and  simple.  But  whether  borrowed  or  shared, 
or  exclusively  native,  the  store  of  it  is  rich  and  varied. 
And  first  of  the  deposed  gods,  soured  by  neglect 
and  the  wear  of  time.  They  are  demons  now,  and 
so  vengeful  towards  men  you  can  hardly  pity  their 
sorry  condition.  Here  is  a  story  they  tell  of  them  in 
the  Vastese. 

"  On  the  top  of  Majella  were  gathered  a  crowd  of 
devils,  so  many  you  couldn't  count  them.  They  all  had 
shovels,  and  were  shovelling  up  the  snow  and  rolling  it 
down  the  slope,  while  the  wind  was  whistling  shrill.  The 
wind  carried  the  snow  through  the  air,  and  formed  hail, 
which  fell  on  the  fields  like  waves  of  the  sea.  The  devils 
gave  themselves  no  end  of  trouble  over  it,  saying, '  Haste  ! 
Let  us  make  haste,  for  if  once  the  ciiicculalle  begin  we'll 
get  nothing  done.' 

"A  good  man  was  passing  by,  and  he  heard  this 
saying  of  the  devils.  So  he  said  to  them,  'What  are 
the  ciucculalle  f  ^  The  devils  shouldn't  have  explained 
the  word,  but  all  the  same  they  did,  and  said,  '  The 
ciiicctdalle  are  the  bells.'  So  you  see  that,  though  devils 
have  their  vices,  they  are  not  so  sly  after  all ! 

"  The  good  man  hearing  this,  set  off  running  to  the 


CH.  v.]  FOLK-LORE  AND  FOLK  TALES   97 

village,  while  the  hail  was  battering  down  worse  and  worse 
every  minute,  and  once  at  the  church  he  seized  the  rope 
of  the  bell  and  rung  it  like  mad.  At  the  sound  of  the 
bell  the  people  knelt  down  and  prayed,  and  the  candles 
were  lit  for  the  feast  of  the  Purification,  and  the  chains  of 
the  chimneys  were  thrown  out  on  the  roads.  Little  by 
little  the  hail  withdrew  towards  Majella,  and  the  devils 
went  back  to  hell." 

Many  of  these  stories  are  of  the  order  of  Plutonic 
legends,  the  demons  appearing  as  guardians  of  buried 
treasure.  Indeed,  the  quantity  of  buried  treasure  in  the 
poverty-stricken  Abruzzi  is  surprising.  The  hunts  go  on 
still,  in  secret.  Doubtless,  rumours  of  wealth  hidden  by 
brigands  have  helped  to  keep  up  the  belief  among  those 
who  would  be  sceptical  of  demons.  But  it  is  not  a  few 
who  hold,  according  to  Finamore,  that  the  treasures  are 
guarded  by  spirits.  Whenever  wealth  is  buried,  some 
one  is  killed,  and  the  soul  of  the  dead  man  hovers  about 
it  so  long  as  it  is  not  seized.  As  soon  as  it  has  been 
taken,  the  soul  of  the  murdered  man  has  peace.  The 
treasures  belong  to  the  devil,  and  he  does  his  best  to 
terrify  the  seeker,  who  will  take  no  harm,  however,  if  he 
keep  up  his  heart.  It  is  very  important,  of  course,  to 
know  the  perfect  spell— /czr^  uno  scongiuro  buono — but 
fearlessness  seems  to  be  still  more  efficacious.  Not  so 
easy,  though,  seeing  that  you  may  suddenly  be  confronted 
by  a  lady  in  white,  or  a  huge  toad,  or  the  devil  himself 
Moreover,  a  pistol  may  be  fired  at  your  entrance,  and  in 
the  smoke  you  may  lose  your  way ;  or  while  all  is  calm 
outside,  within  there  may  be  wind,  rain,  hail,  thunder,  and 
lightning  to  bewilder  and  stun  you.  In  more  than  one 
place  the  treasure  takes  the  shape  of  a  golden  hen  and 
seven  golden  chickens.  Everybody  knows  there  is  such 
an  one  in  a  well  close  to  the  Madonna  del  Palazzo,  near 
Montenerodomo,  where  was  once  a  rich  Benedictine 
abbey,  and  in  ancient  days  Juvanum,  Jove's  city,  of  the 

H 


98  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Peligni.  But  the  Government  won't  let  it  be  meddled 
with.  Another  golden  hen  is  under  the  stairway  of  Santa 
Maria  Maggiore  at  Lanciano,  an  ancient  temple  of  Apollo  ; 
but  the  lady  who  is  to  own  it  is  not  yet  born.  Naturally, 
the  spirits  condemned  to  watch  the  treasure  are  often 
anxious  to  be  released  of  the  trust,  so  they  tempt  you  to 
dig.  Then  your  peace  is  gone.  If  you  refuse,  they  beat 
and  torment  you.  If  you  accept,  you  in  your  turn  have 
to  guard  the  treasure,  and  know  no  rest.  The  story  of 
the  bold  priest  treasure-hunter  and  his  timid  companions 
is  common.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  wealth  buried  all 
about  Chieti.  In  the  hill  of  St.  Paul,  between  Chieti  and 
Pescara,  is  hidden  a  chest  of  money.  A  certain  priest, 
who  had  il  libro  del  commando,  took  thirty  persons  with 
him,  all  chosen  for  their  strength  and  courage.  He  warned 
them  to  be  bold,  bold,  and  yet  again  bold.  They  stood 
in  a  circle  while  he  read  from  his  book  and  made  the 
scongiuro  biiono.  In  the  middle  of  the  circle  rose  first  a 
head,  then  a  body,  then  the  whole  figure  of  a  monk.  He 
appeared  and  vanished,  reappeared  and  vanished  again, 
and  every  time  there  was  a  great  noise  like  a  hail  of 
money.  At  last  he  came  up  with  a  gun,  and  was  aiming 
it  at  the  seekers.  "  Courage !  Courage ! "  cried  the 
priest.  But  in  their  terror  some  of  them  fell  to  the  ground, 
where  they  were  kicked  and  flouted  by  the  spectre  monk. 
And  the  kicks  and  blows  were  of  such  force  that  before 
they  knew  what  was  happening  they  found  themselves, 
some  at  Bucchianico,  some  at  Alento,  some  at  Chieti, 
and — well,  the  whole  country  round  seems  to  have  shared 
their  scattered  bodies.  At  Pescocostanzo  treasure-seekers 
were  treated  in  the  same  fashion — one  awaking  on  the 
top  of  Pizzalto,  one  on  Porraro,  one  on  Morrone,  one  on 
Monte  Corno — a  long  leap  that — -while  still  another  died 
of  fright.  It  was  the  tired  spirit  clamouring  for  his  own 
rest,  doubtless,  that  attacked  the  boy  at  the  Tricalle 
of  Chieti.      (The  Tricalle  stands   still — a   little  antique 


CH.  v.]     FOLK-LORE   x\ND    FOLK   TALES        99 

circular  building,  once  the  temple  of  Diana  Trivia.  You 
pass  it  on  your  way  up  by  the  electric  tramway  to  the 
town.)  The  door  opened  as  the  boy  passed,  and  some 
one  appeared  with  a  lump  of  gold  in  his  hand,  signing  to 
him  to  take  it.  The  little  lad  ran  away,  whereupon  the 
spirit  blasphemed  horribly,  rushed  out,  hit  him  a  ringing 
blow,  and  knocked  him  down.  He  was  ill  for  long,  and 
he  never  had  his  wits  again. 

There  are  treasure-stories,  too,  without  any  mention 
of  the  demon.  The  old  Cappucino  convent  at  Taglia- 
cozzo,  near  the  Madonna  delle  Grazie,  built  in  1626,  is 
said  to  owe  its  existence  to  the  finding  of  a  treasure.  A 
lay  brother  of  the  earlier  convent  was  sent  by  his  guardian 
to  gather  goat-dung  in  a  cavern  on  the  side  of  Monte 
Salviano,  near  Avezzano,  where  certain  Luco  folks  stabled 
their  goats  in  winter.  In  the  grotto  he  found  an  immense 
treasure.  I  do  not  know  how  he  explained  his  sudden 
affluence,  but  he  built  a  palace  for  his  family — the  degene- 
rate frate ! — and  salved  his  conscience,  I  suppose,  by 
building  likewise  a  new  convent  for  his  community.  So 
runs  the  tale. 

Treasure-hunting  goes  on  to  this  day.  The  old 
hermitage  of  Sant'  Onofrio,  Pope  Celestine's  refuge  on 
Monte  Morrone,  is  reputed  to  have  a  mine  of  buried 
wealth  somewhere  about  its  rocky  foundations — perhaps 
part  of  the  hoard  of  the  magician  Ovid.  To-day  it  is 
utterly  deserted,  and,  according  to  a  story  told  me — but 
after  I  left  Sulmona,  and  thus  I  had  not  the  chance  of 
verifying  it  on  the  spot — deserted  for  a  terrible  reason. 
Till  a  few  years  ago  it  was  inhabited  by  three  hermits. 
One  day,  as  none  of  them  were  met  on  their  begging 
rounds,  folks  went  to  see  what  was  amiss.  No  one 
answered  the  visitors'  knock.  The  door  was  broken  in — 
and  all  three  were  found  murdered  on  the  floor. 

To-day   in    the   Abruzzi  they  laugh   at    the  idea  of 


100  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

witches :  they  laugh  to  you,  and  in  many  cases,  of 
course,  the  scepticism  is  genuine.  But  Hve  there,  and 
you  will  hear  strange  tales  that  are  not  all  of  yesterday. 
It  is  the  belief  of  many  in  the  remoter  parts  that  a  male 
child  born  on  Christmas  Eve  is  destined  to  be  a  were- 
wolf, and  a  girl-child  a  witch.  You  can  take  steps  to 
circumvent  destiny  if  you  are  of  a  bold  unflinching  spirit. 
For  instance,  if  the  father  for  three  Christmas  Eves  in 
succession  make  a  little  cross  with  a  red-hot  iron  on  the 
baby's  foot,  this  holy  sign  will  burn  out  the  evil  fate. 
Leave  the  child  alone,  and  all  may  go  well  for  a  time. 
But  the  son  or  daughter  will  not  pass  twenty  ere  fate 
overtakes  them.  They  will  curse  their  parents.  The 
son  may  keep  a  good  face  to  the  world  during  the  day ; 
but  at  midnight  he  turns  to  a  wolf,  and  goes  out  howl- 
ing. And  if  the  nightly  revels  of  witches  be  ended,  it  is 
in  very  recent  days  indeed,  and  within  the  memory  of 
men  and  women  who  are  still  living. 

The  witch  abhorred,  and  yet  secretly  admired  and 
propitiated  in  her  lifetime,  sick  of  her  awful  power, 
often  longs  for  death.  But  she  cannot  die  without  first 
handing  on  her  power — senza  lasciare  r7ifficio.  Her 
agony  may  thus  be  indefinitely  prolonged,  if  she  has 
compunctions,  or  if  those  who  tend  her  take  shrewd 
precautions.  But  she  may  call  to  a  woman  and  say, 
"  Take  my  hand "  ;  and  her  hand  touched  at  such  a 
moment,  the  power  is  passed  on — Vnfficio  e  passato. 
According  to  some,  indeed,  the  last  breath  of  a  dying 
witch  is  contagious ;  and  the  unholy  art  may  be  yours 
for  an  act  of  mercy.  But  such  delay  is  very  reprehensible 
in  a  witch  who  is  sincerely  desirous  of  release  from  her 
powers,  which  she  may  gain  by  the  aid  of  a  charitable 
priest,  if  on  a  Friday  he  lets  down  his  stole  on  her  from  a 
window. 
^  The  baby  lying  in  the  cradle  is  especially  liable  to  the 
evil  influence  of  witches,  and  so  the  careful  mother  will 


CH.  v.]     FOLK-LORE   AND    FOLK   TALES      loi 

know   potent  spells  ;    and  will    commend    it   to   certain 
saints,  and  sing — 

"  Sande  Cosem  e  Damijane, 
Ji'  m'addonn  e  ttu  me  chiame. 

Sanda  Lodo,  a  tte  re  le  done. 
Lu  jurne  nghe  ma,  e  la  notte  nghe  tta. 

Sand'  Ann'  e  Ssande  Susanna, 
Huarde'  stu  fuejj  a  llat'  a  lu  lett'  a  la  mamma." 

But  there  are  mothers  that  utter  no  spells.  "  Did 
ever  a  witch  hold  your  child  in  her  arms  ^ "  said  a  folk- 
lore inquirer  to  a  woman  with  a  meagre  ailing  infant. 
"  The  witch  that  harmed  my  child  was  Poverty,"  she 
answered. 

If  it  be  unfashionable  now  to  believe  in  witches,  there 
is  no  use  denying  the  evil  eye.  The  belief  in  the 
malocchio  in  the  Abruzzi,  as  in  all  the  South  of  Italy,  is, 
of  course,  widespread  and  deep.  You  don't  argue  about 
it,  or  speak  of  it,  but  simply  take  every  possible  precaution 
against  it.  Men  do  so  quite  as  often  as  women,  and  charms 
are  not  more  generally  attached  to  the  necklace  than  to  the 
watchguard,  especially,  I  think,  in  the  towns  on  the  coast. 
The  horn-shaped  charm  is  not  universal  ;  the  hand- 
shaped  one,  with  the  forefinger  and  little  finger  open, 
is  also  very  efficacious.  So  is  a  little  golden  fish,  or  a 
bunch  of  badger's  hair,  or  the  tooth  of  a  wolf  killed  in 
the  springtime.  The  fiore  d'argcjito  is  highly  thought 
of,  but  is  not  a  common  possession.  It  consists  of  a 
little  tree  with  five  branches  arranged  fan-wise.  One 
branch  ends  in  a  flower,  one  in  pincers,  one  in  a  serpent's 
head,  and  two  in  closed  hands. 

If  on  Friday  evening  in  the  twilight  a  black  cat 
comes  in  unseen  by  the  man  or  woman  of  the  evil  eye, 
and  you  catch  it  fast  by  its  two  fore  paws  and  make  it 
mew  seven  times,  the  evil  power  is  made  impotent. 
This  is  no  jester's  remedy  :  it  has  its  recommenders  ;  but 
it   is  acknowledged    to   be  clumsy,  and    you  would   do 


102  IN    THE    ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

much  better,  if  you  or  yours  are  being  injured,  to  call  in 
the  aid  of  a  medic/iessa,  or  wise  woman.  Indeed,  it  is 
highly  important  you  should  do  so ;  for  doctors'  stuff 
made  up  by  apothecaries  with  grand  diplomas  from 
Naples  and  Aquila  may  be  all  very  fine,  but  it  is  well 
known  that  the  malocchio  is  the  real  cause  of  every 
malady.  A  slight  precautionary  measure  on  meeting  a 
person  who  is  obviously  a  stranger,  is  to  make  the  sign  of 
the  cross.  A  score  of  times,  at  least,  I  have  seen  this 
done  at  my  approach — and  a  civil  greeting  followed. 

This  is  the  darker  side  of  the  people's  customs  and 
lore.  One  need  not  dwell  too  much  on  it — though  perhaps 
it  may  live  as  long  as  the  local  festivals.  All  that  concerns 
ceremony  has  a  tendency  to  die  in  the  air  of  to-day,  and 
ceremonial  observances  are  dying  in  the  Abruzzi,  too,  if 
more  slowly  than  in  most  other  places.  Not  so  long  ago 
there  must  have  been  a  complete  ritual  in  use  for  all  the 
great  acts  of  life,  as  for  all  the  seasons  and  labours  of  the 
}'ear.  Perhaps  few  of  these  ceremonies  have  actually 
vanished  ;  but  they  no  longer  survive  simultaneously  in 
the  same  place.  What  remains  is  not  all  degenerate. 
The  fragments  are  sometimes  grotesque,  oftener  still  of 
beauty.     They  are  broken  poetry  out  of  an  older  world. 

If  you  dare  a  winter  there,  you  may  still  hear  the 
New  Year  sung  in,  piped  in,  drummed  in — though  the 
drum  may  be  a  frying-pan.  The  singers  and  pipers  are 
regaled  at  every  hospitable  house  with  cake  and  wine. 
The  New  Year  is  greeted,  too,  at  the  dawn  ;  and  the 
singers  enter,  carrying  large  stones,  a  club,  a  knife,  and  a 
sack.  If  food  is  given,  it  is  put  in  the  sack  ;  if  money,  a 
knotch  is  made  in  the  stick,  and  all  is  divided  afterwards  ; 
if  nothing,  the  stone  is  left  in  the  kitchen  with  the  words, 
"  May  this  be  the  head  of  the  house  ! "  At  Canzano 
Peligno,  on  New  Year's  Eve,  the  fountain  is  decked  with 
leaves   and  bits  of  coloured  stuff,  and  fires  are  kindled 


CH.  v.]  FOLK-LORE  AND  FOLK  TALES   103 

round  it.  As  soon  as  it  is  light,  the  girls  come  as  usual 
with  their  copper  pots  on  their  heads  ;  but  the  youths 
are  on  this  morning  guardians  of  the  well,  and  sell  the 
"  new  water  "  for  nuts  and  fruits — and  other  sweet  things. 

Here  is  a  pretty  Easter  absurdity  in  Sulmona.  The 
statue  of  Christ  is  placed  on  an  altar  under  one  of 
the  aqueduct  arches  looking  over  the  market-place. 
The  statues  of  all  the  local  saints  are  then  brought  out  of 
the  churches  and  made  to  defile  round  Him  in  adoration. 
Then  their  bearers  set  off  with  them  at  a  run.  They  are 
hurrying  to  tell  His  Mother  that  He  is  risen.  She, 
housed  in  the  Church  of  the  Tomba  in  the  meanwhile, 
is  now  carried  out  and  run  hastily  down  to  the  altar 
under  the  aqueduct,  and  Mother  and  Son  meet. 

The  May  greetings  are  still  sung,  and  till  lately  were 
general.  At  Frattura,  a  village  in  the  mountains,  near 
Scanno,  remote,  high  perched,  yet  so  girt  round  by  the 
hills  that  the  most  precious  of  all  things  is  the  light  of 
the  sun,  this  greeting  of  May  is  pathetic  and  signifi- 
cant. On  the  eve  the  young  folks  go  out  with  cow-bells 
to  meet  the  May.  "  Maggio  ritorna  !  "  they  cry.  "  Viva 
Maggio  !  Ecco  Maggio  !  Oh  ha  !  "  At  dawn  the  cries 
are  redoubled,  and  shouts  greet  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
sun  above  the  mountain-tops. 

The  St.  John's  fires  are  dying  ;  but  the  Precursor  is 
commemorated  in  other  ways.  On  the  coast  they  plunge 
and  swim  in  the  Adriatic  before  dawn,  or  go  out  in  barks 
to  greet  the  rising  sun,  and  then  feast  on  the  sands.  The 
idea  of  purification,  of  renewal,  on  this  feast,  is  nearly 
always  present  here  and  everywhere  else.  At  Pesco- 
costanzo  they  wash  with  dew  on  St.  John's  morning. 
On  the  eve  they  have  gathered  herbs  which  have  special 
virtue  then.  At  Catanzano  they  gather  herbs,  too,  and 
wash  their  faces  and  hands  at  seven  fountains.     From 


I04  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Introdacqua,  near  Sulmona,  they  go  up  to  La  Plaja  by 
night,  and  sing  and  feast  and  gather  armfuls  of  flowers, 
and  tell  the  old  story,  how  when  the  moon  won't  give 
way,  the  sun  picks  up  a  handful  of  mud  and  throws  it  at 
her — and  that  is  why  there  are  spots  on  the  moon. 
The  fight  gets  hot  ;  for  the  moon  is  very  obstinate, 
and  the  sun  insists  on  its  disappearance.  Then  St.  John 
the  Baptist,  who  thinks  there  has  been  enough  of  this 
squabbling,  comes  and  orders  the  lesser  light  to  vanish  ; 
after  which  the  saint  dips  his  face  in  the  sea  and  goes 
about  his  business.  Buckets  of  water  are  left  out  for  St. 
John  to  bless  in  passing,  and  it  is  very  good  to  wash  in 
such  water  in  the  morning.  Up  in  Majella  the  herbs  are 
very  potent  that  are  gathered  on  the  eve  ;  and  bands  of 
men  and  maidens,  wreathed  with  briony,  start  in  singing- 
bands  at  midnight  up  the  sides  of  the  great  mountain 
and  its  spurs,  to  gather  healing  plants  and  flowers  and 
to  greet  the  dawn. 

Birth  and  christening,  the  bond  of  the  commare  tied 
in  childhood — the  bond  exists  between  those  who  have 
been  passed  by  their  mothers  as  infants  over  the  altar 
together,  or  sometimes  such  as  have  done  homage  at  a 
certain  shrine  together  after  their  first  communion — 
betrothal,  marriage,  death,  and  burial,  all  have  their 
ritual,  here  falling  into  disuse,  there  broken  and  in- 
coherent ;  but  enough  is  left  to  link  together  the  dim 
old  world  and  the  new.  At  Roccapia,  for  instance,  deep 
in  the  hollow  of  the  great  hills,  they  keep  still  a  relic  of 
the  tede  pagane.  A  bride  and  bridegroom  in  church 
receive  two  lighted  candles,  symbol  of  the  domestic  fire, 
the  fire  of  renewal,  of  generation. 

Death  has  its  grim  usages,  but  likewise  those  that 
lift  the  heart  and  soften  it.  At  Barrea,  a  dead  youth  is 
carried  to  his  grave  by  maidens.  On  the  Adriatic  coast, 
on  All  Souls'  Eve,  they  still  go  out  with  lights  and  bells 
to   evoke   the   dead  ;    or  they  make    all    speed   to  the 


CH.  v.]  FOLK-LORE  AND  FOLK  TALES   105 

church,  for  the  one  who  gets  there  first  releases  a  soul 
from  purgatory.  There  are  old  women  who  evoke  the 
shadow  of  their  dead  kindred  in  a  pot  of  water.  They 
call  to  them,  those  whom  they  have  known  long  ago. 
"  The  dead  walk  to-night,"  they  say.  And  then,  "  Re- 
quiescant  in  pace ! "  They  are  not  very  far  away,  our 
dead.  When  the  last  breath  is  passed,  close  well  the 
eyes — else  would  they  call  and  call  one  of  their  kindred 
to  go  with  them  on  the  dark  journey.  Nor  might  he 
say  nay.  Sometimes  a  piece  of  money  is  put  in  a  pocket 
of  the  shroud  to  pay  the  dead  man's  way  ;  and  you  must 
make  haste  to  wash  the  linen  of  the  deathbed,  else  the 
soul  will  not  rest.  If  the  dead  appear  to  the  living  in 
white  raiment,  it  is  well  with  them  :  they  are  in  Paradise  ; 
if  in  red,  they  are  in  hell ;  if  with  nuts  in  their  hand,  be 
not  sparing  of  money  for  masses  for  their  souls. 

Whether  the  old  stories  that  once  were  the  possession 
of  all,  and  now  linger  about  the  firesides  and  the  pastures 
where  the  herds  gather,  be  indigenous  or  not,  there  is  a 
goodly  store  of  them.  And  where  they  are  not  forgotten, 
the  evenings  are  not  too  long  about  the  hearth,  nor  the 
days  too  lonely  on  the  hillsides.  Only  a  few  have  local 
settings  ;  for  a  strong  instinct  in  the  midst  of  a  hard  life 
is  ever — Escape,  escape  !  The  bodily  feet  may  linger  and 
lag,  but  the  heart  and  mind  are  agile  to  win — Heaven  or 
Fairyland.  Photography  and  newspaper  reporting  are 
the  arts  of  smug  prosperity.  A  life  luxuriant  in  incident, 
not  too  soft,  but  without  close  limits — that  is  their 
favourite  material ;  and  for  heroes  and  heroines  they  like 
adventurous  boys,  wandering  princesses,  magicians  with 
master-keys  to  treasure,  to  regions  of  infinite  hope  or 
infinite  terror.  Nearly  all  the  personages  are  travellers  ; 
for  the  natural  heart  of  man  is  ever  on  the  road.  Some 
I  cannot  follow :  they  are  framed  by  a  different  logic  of 
life  from  ours,  and  yet  they  whet  the  imagination  by  the 


io6  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

inexplicable  in  them,  and  stimulate  by  simple  audacity  of 
statement.  What  is  the  meaning  of  //  Re  de  Sette  Vele  ? 
And  what  is  the  end  of  it  ?  I  shall  never  know,  and 
always  desire  to  know. 

But  there  are  other  tales,  where  the  instinct  of  escape 
is  not  present,  the  makers  of  which  have  looked  with 
clear,  open  eyes  at  life  as  it  is  lived  in  these  mountains. 
They  have  not  abated  one  jot  of  the  harshness  of  the 
facts  as  they  know  them,  but  have  looked  steadily,  and 
without  rancour,  on  sin,  toil,  poverty,  the  passing  of  the 
years,  and  Death  both  as  foe  and  as  friend.  By  a  simple 
process  of  generalization  they  have  lifted  these  pictures 
of  life  to  a  region  beyond  petty  accident,  and  given  them 
truth  for  all  the  world — yet  from  essential  detail  none  of 
the  keen  edges  are  rubbed.  A  grave  dignity  marks 
most  of  them,  and  a  clear,  cold-eyed  resignation.  They 
neither  flatter  life  nor  whine  over  it.  I  do  not  know 
their  date,  nor  whether  they  be  native  to  the  Abruzzi, 
but  they  are  current  there  ;  and  if  I  know  the  grave- 
eyed  mountaineers,  these  stories  utter  with  marvellous 
exactitude  their  outlook  on  human  life — save  as  it  may  be 
modified  by  the  kind  caprice  of  Heaven  and  the  saints. 

Here  is  a  homely  version  of  the  everlasting  truth, 
"  By  one  man  sin  entered  into  the  world,  and  death  by 
sin."  For  all  its  homeliness,  its  idealism  could  hardly  be 
bettered. 

"  There  was  once  a  young  man.  Oh,  but  he  was  ugly, 
ugly,  ugly.  A  fairy  kissed  him,  and  he  grew  beautiful, 
beautiful,  beautiful.  Then  the  fairy  said  to  him,  '  Go, 
seek  for  a  world  where  death  is  not.'  So  the  young  man 
went  about  looking  for  the  world  where  there  is  no  death  ; 
and  nowhere  did  he  find  it.  When  he  came  to  a  village 
and  heard  the  death-bell  ring,  he  set  out  again  at  once 
on  his  travels.  There  seemed  no  end  to  his  seeking. 
One  day  he  came  to  a  wood,  where  the  trees  were  old, 


CH.  v.]  FOLK-LORE  AND  FOLK  TALES   107 

oh,  but  old,  old  ;  and  he  said  to  himself,  '  Would  this  be 
the  world  where  death  never  comes  ? '  But  then  he  found 
a  tree  fallen  on  the  ground,  and  there  was  a  great  coming 
and  going  of  ants  about  it.  So  he  concluded,  *  If  trees 
die  here,  so  must  men  too.'  On  he  went  again,  and  he 
entered  a  valley.  There  were  a  great  many  beasts  about, 
and  all  of  them  old,  old,  so  old.  Said  the  young  man, '  Now 
this,  for  sure,  is  the  world  where  there  is  no  death.'  But 
it  was  not  true,  for  hardly  had  he  made  a  step  ere  he 
saw  a  dead  lion.  So  he  went  on  again,  and  came  to  a 
great  plain.  There  an  old  man,  so  old,  old,  was  plough- 
ing the  ground.  Said  the  young  man  to  the  old,  '  Could 
you  tell  me  where  is  the  world  where  folk  never  die  ? ' 
The  old  man  answered,  '  Go  you  on  a  little  way,  and 
you'll  meet  my  grandfather.  Perhaps  he'll  be  able  to 
tell  you.'  And  so  the  young  man  went  on  still,  and 
found  another  old  man,  old,  but  so  old,  and  he  too  was 
ploughing  the  ground.  The  young  man  asked  the  same 
question.  '  I  am  looking  for  the  world  where  folks  never 
die.  Be  so  good  as  to  tell  me  the  way  there ! '  The 
other  answered,  '  Ih-h-h  !  Who  knows  ?  But  you  might 
ask  my  grandfather  who  is  ploughing  a  little  farther  on.' 
The  young  man  came  up  to  this  third  old  man,  old,  old 
he  was ;  asked  the  same  question  and  had  the  same 
answer.  And  so  did  he  have  from  a  fourth,  a  fifth,  and  a 
sixth,  all  of  them  old,  old,  old.  The  seventh  had  a  white 
beard,  long,  long,  long,  that  came  down  to  his  feet.  Said 
this  old  man  to  the  young  one,  '  Here  in  truth  is  the 
world  where  folks  never  die.  If  you  would  stay  among 
us,  you  must  earn  your  bread  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow.' 
Just  think  of  it !  The  young  man  began  to  dance  on 
one  foot,  so  great  was  his  joy.  Then  the  old  man  said, 
'  Go  to  that  house  you  see  up  that  mountain,  and  say 
to  my  grandmother  there  to  prepare  two  plates  of  soup 
and  a  boiled  hen,  so  that  this  evening  when  we  all  come 
home,  we  shall  find  everything  ready.     Off  set  the  young 


io8  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

man  ;  but  by  the  way  he  thought  to  himself,  '  Two  plates 
of  soup  and  just  one  hen,  and  seven  old  men  who  work 
from  morning  to  night !  Besides,  who  knows  how  many 
sons  and  grandsons  and  great-grandsons  there  may  be  ? 
And  now  there's  another  mouth  to  fill.  Am  I  to  eat 
nothing  to-night  ?  Oh,  but  this  is  a  poor  kind  of  house- 
keeping ! '  So  when  he  went  into  the  house  of  the  seven 
old  men,  he  said  to  the  grandmother  of  the  old  man  with 
the  long,  long,  long  beard,  *  Your  grandson  bids  me  say 
that  you  are  to  prepare  four  dishes  of  soup  and  two  hens.' 
The  old  woman  crossed  herself  with  her  left  hand.  But 
all  the  same  she  prepared  the  two  hens  and  the  four 
dishes  of  soup. 

"  Evening  came,  and  into  the  house  came  a  whole 
caravan  of  people.  The  seventh  old  man  said  to  the 
grandmother,  '  Who  bade  you  make  ready  all  this  ? '  She 
answered,  '  This  fine  young  man  told  me.'  And  the  old, 
old  carle  said  to  the  fine  young  man,  '  Bravo  !  You  have 
begun  well. 

"'Ours  is  the  world  without  any  sin; 

Be  off  to  the  cheaters — they'll  let  you  in. 

"  '  Ah  !  you  know  nothing,  nothing  ! 

"  '  Ho  mangiato  senipre  broccoli, 
Ho  portato  sempre  zoccoli, 
Poco  cervello  alia  mia  perlencocola.' 

["I  have  always  eaten  cabbage,  I  have  always  worn  clogs,  and  tliere's 
little  wit  in  my  head."] 

"  And  so  the  young  man  took  his  long  way  back ; 
and  if  he  isn't  dead  by  this  time,  he'll  die  one  day. 

"  '  Patre  nostre  de  ji  senze 
Alia  trippe  se  cumenze  ; 
Se  fernisce  a  ju  spedale  : 
Sette  libbre  noss'  a  male.'" 

["  Pater  noster  of  the  senses.     Give  in  to  the  stomach  and  it's  at  the 
hospital  you'll  end.     Sed libera  nos  a  7nalo."'\  * 

'  De  Nino,  vol.  iii.  p.  368. 


cii.  v.]  FOLK-LORE  AND  FOLK  TALES   109 

And  what  of  the  fairy  who  had  kissed  him  into 
beauty  ?  What  did  she  think  of  a  world  where  death 
never  entered,  but  only  at  the  price  of  such  austerity  ? 
Or  did  he  come  back  to  her  again,  brutto^  briitto,  bruito, 
and  give  her  an  excuse  for  running  away  ? 

The  next  one  I  shall  give  is  grimmer,  bitterer  to  the 
taste.     The  text  of  it  is — 

"  I  said  in  mine  heart  concerning  the  estate  of  the 
sons  of  men,  that  God  might  manifest  them,  and  that 
they  might  see  that  they  themselves  are  beasts.  For 
that  which  befalleth  the  sons  of  men  befalleth  beasts  ; 
even  one  thing  befalleth  them :  as  the  one  dieth  so 
dieth  the  other :  yea,  they  have  all  one  breath  ;  so  that 
a  man  hath  no  pre-eminence  above  a  beast,  for  all 
is  vanity.  All  go  unto  one  place  ;  all  are  of  the  dust, 
and  all  turn  to  dust  again."  So  says  Ecclesiastes.  Com- 
pare the  statement  with  this  folk-tale.  Life  .''  "  All  is 
vanity,  saith  the  Preacher."  Life  ^  "  Who  has  had  it 
has  had  it,"  says  this  unknown  maker  of  folk-tales. 
Kismet. 

"  After  the  creation  of  the  world  the  Eternal  Father 
went  in  to  His  palace  to  rest.  And  it  wasn't  little  He 
had  had  to  do,  was  it .-'  To  create  all  the  animals  just ! 
Well,  He  had  gone  in,  and  flung  Himself  down  on  a  seat. 
Then  all  the  beasts  came  to  pay  their  respects  to  the 
Creator,  and  to  ask  a  favour  of  Him. 

"  The  ass  came  in  :  '  I  thank  Thee  who  hast  created 
me,  and  I  kiss  Thy  hands  and  Thy  feet.' 

"  '  Don't  speak  of  it ! '  replied  the  Eternal  Father. 

"  And  the  ass  went  on  :  '  I  would  fain  know  what  is 
my  destiny.' 

" '  Your  destiny  ?  I'll  tell  you  at  once.  You  must 
work  from  morning  till  night,  and  patiently  put  up  with 
it  however  they  belabour  your  back,  and  not  murmur 
either.     Otherwise  there'll  be  nothing  to  fill  your  belly. 


no  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [rx.  i. 

And  it  will  be  a  feast  day  for  you  when  they  give  you  a 
little  straw.' 

"  The  ass  bowed  its  head,  and  began  to  reflect.  '  To 
work  all  the  time  !  Little  or  nothing  to  eat !  To  be 
beaten,  and  then  beaten  again  !  What  a  life  ! '  He  turned 
it  over  in  his  mind,  and  raised  his  head.  '  I  would  know 
for  how  many  years  this  weary  life  of  mine  shall  last' 

"  '  Twenty  years,'  replied  the  Creator. 

"  '  Twenty  years  !  Twenty  years  is  too  long.  I  am 
not  worthy  to  kiss  Thy  hands  and  feet ;  but  one  grace 
Thou  should'st  grant  me.' 

"  '  Well  ? ' 

"  '  Let  me  get  out  of  it  a  little  sooner.' 

" '  And  how  much  would  you  have  cut  off  ? ' 

"  '  Ten  years  would  still  be  too  much  ! ' 

"  '  This  grace  is  granted.' 

"  The  ass  went  out  and  told  everything  to  the  dog 
waiting  at  the  door.  The  dog  entered.  'I  have  come 
to  thank  Thee  for  having  made  me,  and  I  would  fain 
know  what  is  my  destiny.' 

" '  Your  destiny  is  to  stand  barking  and  often  chained  ; 
you  must  be  faithful  to  your  master  ;  and  if  he  beats  you, 
then  you  shall  lick  his  hands.  As  for  eating,  you  may 
look  for  a  bit  of  black  bread,  and  now  and  then  they'll 
throw  a  bone  out  of  the  window  to  you.' 

"  The  dog  put  his  tail  between  his  legs  and  hung  his 
head,  thinking.  '  Always  barking  !  Often  chained  !  To 
love  him  who  hates  me  !  Dry  bread !  A  stray  bone ! 
Ah,  Father  Eternal ! ' 

"The  last  words  escaped  him  so  loud,  that  the  Eternal 
Father  said,  '  What's  the  matter } '  And  the  dog 
answered — 

" '  I  throw  myself  at  Thy  feet.  I  would  know  how 
many  years  I  have  to  live  .-' ' 

" '  Twenty  years.' 

"  '  Too  many.     O  my  Eternal  Father,  cut  some  off ! ' 


Cii.  v.]  FOLK-LORE  AND  FOLK  TALES   in 

"  '  And  how  long  would  you  have  ? ' 
" '  The  half ;  and  the  other  ten  blessed  years  some 
other  comrade  can  have.' 
"  '  This  grace  is  granted.' 

"  Hardly  had  the  dog  gone  out  ere  he  began  to  bark 
out  of  desperation  ;  and  by  his  barking  the  other  beasts 
that  stood  at  the  door  knew  of  the  dog's  misfortune. 

"  Entered  the  ape,  swinging  his  tail.     '  I  thank  Thee, 
Father  Eternal,  for  having  made  me.' 
" '  Well,  and  what  else  do  you  want  .'' ' 
"  '  I  would  know  the  fate  that  awaits  me.' 
•"You  shall  never  speak.     You  must  live  hidden  in 
the  woods,  and  feed  on  leaves  and  grass  and  beech-mast. 
In  short,  your  mouth  will  often  water.     Man — you  will 
either  not  see  him,  or  you  will  flee  him.' 

"  Then  the  ape's  legs  began  to  shake.  '  Always  silent ! 
Alone  !     Nothing  but  wretched  food  ! ' 

"  The  Eternal  Father  looked  on  with  amusement  the 
while.     And  the  ape  said,  '  At  least  I  would  know  if  my 
life  has  to  last  long.' 
"  '  Twenty  years  ! ' 

" '  Oh,  in  mercy  !     But  I  shall  die  before  then.' 
"  '  It  isn't  your  business  to  order  the  feast.     You  shall 
not  die.' 

"  '  I  am  not  worthy  to  kiss  Thy  hands  and  feet.     But, 
for  charity,  make  my  days  shorter.' 
"  '  Will  ten  years  content  you  ? ' 
"  '  Yea,  my  Lord.' 

"  The  ape  went  out  and  told  all  to  a  child,  who  was 
the  last  to  go  in.  He  entered,  and  knelt  before  the 
Eternal  Father,  who  gave  a  long,  deep  sigh,  saying, 
'  Well,  this  is  the  last  of  them.' 

"  The  child  began,  '  I  thank  Thee  for  having  made  me 
in  Thy  image  and  likeness.  Now  tell  me  what  is  my 
destiny.' 

"  '  Your  destiny  is  the  best  of  all.    You  will  be  master 


112  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

of  all  the  things  about  you,  and  free  to  make  and  to  un- 
make. You  alone  shall  enjoy  life  and  shall  rule  over  all 
the  other  animals.     Are  you  content .'' ' 

" '  I  am  overjoyed.  Oh,  what  more  could  I  desire  ? 
But  tell  me,  how  many  years  will  this  good  time  last .'' ' 

" '  Twenty  years.' 

" '  It  is  too  little,  my  Eternal  Father.  A  little  longer. 
Find  me  at  least  another  hundred  years.' 

"  '  There  are  no  more.' 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  not  true.  Are  there  not  the  ten 
years  that  the  ass  wouldn't  have,  and  the  ten  years  of  the 
dog,  and  the  ten  years  of  the  ape  ? ' 

"  '  Would  you  have  them  ?     Take  them,' 

"And  the  child  went  out  grumbling  also,  because  to 
have  only  fifty  years  of  joyous  life  was  a  foolishness. 

"  All  the  words  of  the  Father  Eternal  came  true. 
In  the  first  twenty  years  man  is  master  and  can  do 
whatever  he  will.  He  listens  to  no  one's  reproofs.  He  will 
have  a  wife,  and  he  takes  her.  Then  his  father  says  to 
him,  '  Get  out  of  the  house  and  bear  your  own  burdens. 
Work,  work,  work,  if  you  would  live.'  And  then  man 
passes  those  ten  years  which  the  ass  would  not  have. 
And  children  come.  One  is  crying  here,  and  another 
there,  and  he  scolding  and  shouting  all  the  time.  Often 
he  is  forced  to  stop  the  whole  day  at  home  so  that  no 
harm  may  come  to  them.  Often  that  his  family  may  eat 
he  touches  nothing  himself.  And  these  are  the  ten 
years  that  the  dog  would  not  have.  Then  the  sons  grow 
up,  take  wives  to  themselves,  and  thrust  the  father  aside. 
And  when  the  father  makes  an  observation,  his  sons  say, 
'  Be  quiet ! '  And  when  some  visitor  comes  to  the  house, 
'  Don't  you  see  how  dirty  you  are  ?  Keep  to  your  own 
room.'  These  are  the  ten  years  that  the  ape  refused. 
And  after  fifty  years,  what  is  life  worth  to  you  ^  Who 
has  had  it  has  had  it !  "  ^ 

'  De  Nino,  vol.  iv.  p.  3. 


CH.  v.]   FOLK-LORE  AND  FOLK  TALES   113 

And  of  what  date  is  this  tale  I  find  in  Finamore's 
collection  ?  The  bitterest  revolutionary  of  to-day  could 
find  no  apter  illustration.  But  it  is  not  revolutionary, 
and  it  is  not  bitter.  It  has  only  the  ascetic  cynicism  of 
long  and  ingrained  experience  of  hardship.  It  sounds 
very  new.  One  suspects  something  of  the  self-conscious- 
ness of  the  modern.  But  you  find  the  same  note  in  the 
old  tales.  It  was  not  yesterday  men  began  to  talk  like 
that. 

"  There  was  once  a  village  called  Misery.  In  the 
wretchedest  household  there  a  son  was  born.  Said  the 
wife  to  the  husband,  *  What  name  shall  we  give  him  } ' 
And  he  answered,  *  Misery.' 

"  When  Misery  had  grown  to  be  a  young  man,  he  set 
off  to  beg  his  bread.  Folks  said  to  him,  *  Why  don't  you 
work  ?  At  least  you  could  go  as  a  servant.'  '  I'd  do  so 
willingly,'  replied  Misery,  '  if  I  could  find  a  just  master.' 
'  Oh,  come,  come  ! '  they  said.  '  Is  that  so  very  difficult .'' ' 
'  Yes,'  he  answered.  '  I  don't  believe  there  is  one  any- 
where. Tell  me,  what  master  is  there  who  shares  his 
wealth  with  the  poor  ? ' 

"  One  day  he  met  a  prince,  who  said  to  him,  '  I  never 
saw  any  one  so  young  and  so  wretched.  Why,  if  you 
can't  do  anything  else,  don't  you  find  a  master  .-' '  '  Be- 
cause no  master  is  just,'  '  Will  you  come  with  me  .'' ' 
'  No  ;  you  are  a  prince.'  '  Well,  what  of  that .'' '  '  Because 
you  are  a  prince,  and  I  am  a  poor  man,  and  we  should 
not  be  equal.' 

"  Begging  his  way  from  place  to  place,  Misery  reached 
Rome.  There  the  Pope  said  to  him,  '  Will  you  come 
into  my  service  .-* '  '  No  ;  because  you  are  not  just.' 
'  What !  I  not  just  ? '  '  No  ;  you  are  the  head  of  the 
priests,  and  you  say  you  are  just.' 

"  So  off  he  set  once  more  ;  and  he  met  One  who  called 
him  by  his  name,  and  who  said  to  him,  '  Will  you  come 


114  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

into  My  service  ? '  '  And  how  do  you  know  about  me  ? ' 
asked  Misery.  '  I  know  all  things.  I  am  the  Eternal 
Father.'  '  Then  you  are  the  most  unjust  of  all  masters.' 
'  What !  I  unjust !  .  .  . '  '  Yes  ;  because  you  do  not 
make  all  men  equal.'  The  Eternal  Father  went  back 
to  Heaven,  and  straightway  ordered  Death  to  go  forth 
and  meet  Misery. 

"  Death  went,  and  said  to  Misery,  '  Is  it  true  that  you 
are  looking  for  a  master  .-• '  '  Yes.'  '  Will  you  come  with 
me  } '  '  And  who  are  you  }'  'I  am  Death.'  '  Ah-h-h-h  ! 
.  .  .  Yes,  with  you  I  will  go,  for  you  alone  are  just,  and 
treat  all  men  alike.  But  you'll  have  to  give  me  good 
wages,  you  know.'  '  As  for  pay,  be  easy  on  that  point. 
You'll  come  with  me  to  the  sick  folks.  If  you  see  me  at 
the  head  of  the  bed,  it  means  the  sick  man  will  die  ;  if  at 
the  foot,  he'll  get  better.' 

"  So  Misery  began  to  play  the  doctor  ;  and  he  never 
made  one  mistake.  Did  he  see  Death  at  the  head,  he 
ordered  the  sacraments  ;  at  the  foot,  he  ordered  cold 
water  ;  and  he  won  much  fame  and  lots  of  money.  One 
day,  Death  said  to  him,  '  Now  let's  go  to  your  country.' 
'  No,  no  ;  there's  too  much  misery  there.'  '  And  what 
does  that  matter  .'' '  asked  Death.  '  Well,  well,'  said  the 
other,  '  we'll  go  if  you  like ;  but  we  shan't  do  good 
business  there.  Where  there's  little  to  eat,  and  less  to 
drink,  there's  a  health !  .  .  . ' 

"  So  it  turned  out ;  and  they  left  again  ere  long.  On 
the  way  said  Misery  to  Death,  'Where  are  we  going 
now  ? '  *  To  my  home.'  After  three  days'  journey  they 
came  to  a  big  house.  There  was  a  great  hall  in  it  full  of 
crosses,  some  big,  some  not  so  big,  and  one  single  huge 
one.  '  What  do  these  crosses  mean  .-* '  asked  Misery  of 
Death.  '  They  are  the  crosses  which  each  man  has  to 
bear.'  '  And  what  is  that  very  big  one  .-* '  'It  is  the 
cross  of  Misery.'  On  they  passed  to  another  hall  still 
greater  than  the  first.     It  was  full  of  little  lights.     '  And 


CH.  v.]  FOLK-LORE  AND  FOLK  TALES   115 

these  little  lights  ? '     '  These  little  lights,'   said    Death, 

*  are  the  lives  of  men.  Each  time  one  goes  out  a  man 
dies.'  '  And  that  little,  little  light  just  flickering  out  ? ' 
Said    Death  to   Misery,   '  Comrade,  that  is  your  light.' 

*  And  so  I  have  to  die  .-' '  '  Yes,  comrade.'  '  Ah,  but 
before  dying,  I  beg  one  grace  from  the  Eternal  Father. 
I  would  fain  say  three  Ave  Marias.'  The  Eternal  Father 
yielded  this  grace — but  Misery  has  never  yet  said  those 
three  Ave  Marias.     And  so  he  is  still  above  ground." 


CHAPTER   VI 

A     NOTE     ON    ART 

No  museum  cities — Classic  remains — Christian  architecture — Sculpture — 
The  lovely  lady  of  Aquila — Present-day  aspect  of  churches — The 
master-craftsmen  of  the  Abruzzi — Modern  painters:  F.  P.  Michetti. 

An  Italian  sky,  mountains,  glorious  air — and  no  art.  So 
may  one  lightly  recommend  the  Abruzzi.  It  is  not  true, 
of  course — Bindi's  ponderous  volumes  are  an  overwhelm- 
ing protest  against  the  statement.  It  is  true  only  to  the 
extent  that  there  are  no  museum  cities,  and  that  the 
scattered  monuments  of  a  great  time  are  mutilated. 
The  artist  and  the  casual  wanderer  will  find  things 
worth  laborious  searching  after ;  and  the  three  fiends, 
earthquakes,  poverty,  and  vandalism,  have  had  much  to 
spoil,  though  the  second  of  the  three  has  often  had  a 
beneficent  influence. 

The  remains  of  the  art  of  the  classic  ages  hardly 
count,  at  least  not  as  art.  Roman  walls,  bits  of  Roman 
columns,  Roman  substructures  are  common  enough ; 
but  as  for  buildings  in  any  sense  complete,  when  you 
have  named  the  little  Tricalle  at  Chieti,  once  the  temple 
of  Diana  Trivia,  and  the  Church  of  San  Pietro  at  Albe, 
you  have  named  the  best.  The  ancient  busts  and 
statues  dug  up  in  temples  and  villas  have  long  ago  found 
their  way  to  Rome. 

But  in  Christian  architecture  the  province  has  been 
very  rich.  Even  in  this  poor  mountainous  place  the 
Church  found  means  to  build  gloriously  to  God, 
the  Virgin,  and   the   Saints.       Aquila    had    ninety-nine 

116 


CH.  VI.]  A   NOTE   ON   ART  117 

churches.  Counting  the  number  in  places  that  are  half 
dead  now,  one  tries  to  revise  all  one's  notion  of  history  ; 
but  probably  there  never  was  a  civil  life  in  proportion  to 
all  the  ecclesiastical  display.  The  land  is  covered  with 
convents,  chapels,  hermitages.  To-day  it  is  difficult  to 
point  to  one  completely  beautiful  and  in  perfect  pre- 
servation. San  Felice  of  Pescocostanzo,  San  Marcello 
of  Anversa,  Santa  Maria  in  Valle,  Santa  Maria  in 
Moscufo,  San  Pietro  d'Albe,  the  ruined  abbey  church  of 
Casauria,  rise  to  the  mind,  all  of  special  interest  or  grace. 
Many  with  beautiful  exteriors,  such  as  San  Bernardino 
and  the  Badia  of  Collemaggio,  both  of  Aquila,  and  the 
cathedrals  of  Atri,  Ortona,  and  Chieti,  are  hopelessly 
spoilt  inside.  Still,  in  broken  words,  you  may  read,  in 
the  monuments  of  the  province,  the  whole  story  of 
architecture  from  the  ninth  century — Lombardic,  Italo- 
Byzantine,  Angevin,  Renaissance,  down  to  our  own  evil 
days.  The  best  belong  to  the  eleventh  and  twelfth 
centuries. 

The  art  of  sculpture  in  the  Abruzzi  was  always 
subservient  to  ecclesiastical  architecture.  Much  of  the 
finest  work  has  vanished.  Niccolo  Pisano  worked  here  ; 
but  Santa  Maria  della  Vittoria,  the  splendid  church  he 
planned  for  Charles  of  Anjou,  is  now  a  heap  of  shapeless 
stones.  Of  native  architects  and  sculptors  there  were 
some  of  exquisite  and  very  individual  talent,  whose 
names  the  world  has  never  heard.  And  in  sepulchral 
monuments,  if  not  rich,  it  has  at  least  one  masterpiece 
by  Andrea  dell'  Aquila,  a  pupil  of  Donatello. 

I  do  not  like  Aquila.  Up  there,  under  the  Gran 
Sasso,  it  is  hard  and  clear-cut  and  prosperous.  It  has 
had  a  stirring  history,  and  its  bright,  intelligent  people 
have  made  the  best  of  a  proud  but  naked  situation,  and 
a  climate  with  terrible  rigours  of  heat  and  cold.  Once 
it  was  a  treasure-house  of  beautiful  work  in  stone  ;  and 
even  to-day  the  antiquarian  can  find  abundant  material 


ii8  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

for  his  researches.  But  I  did  not  wish  to  linger  there,  as 
at  Chieti,  with  its  glorious  outlook  on  mountain  and 
plain,  nor  as  in  soft,  sleepy  Sulmona,  nestling  in  its 
happy  valley.  Yet  I  shall  remember  Aquila  for  that 
thing  of  exquisite  beauty,  the  monument  in  San  Ber- 
nardino erected  by  Maria  Pereira,  the  Spanish  wife  of 
Count  Lalli  Caponeschi,  to  her  infant  daughter  Beatrice, 
which  commemorates  both  mother  and  child.  The 
mother  gazes  out  gently  towards  you,  her  hands  resting 
on  a  book.  She  is  young  and  gracious,  a  very  noble 
lady.  Underneath  the  sarcophagus  lies  the  little  child 
like  a  tender  flower.  The  exquisite  work  was  long 
given  to  Maestro  Silvestro,  the  son  of  Giacomo  da 
Sulmona ;  but  it  is  almost  certainly  from  the  hands  of 
Andrea  dell'  Aquila.  The  great  and  interesting,  yet 
inferior  monument  in  the  same  church,  the  shrine  of  San 
Bernardino  of  Siena,  is  the  work  of  Silvestro  and  his 
pupil  Salvatore,  both  of  Aquila.  Who  knows  the  lovely 
lady  of  the  Camponeschi  that  lies  here  .-'  A  few  critics. 
She  is  named  in  the  handbooks.  But  Aquila  is  far 
away,  and  her  lovers  are  few. 

The  present-day  aspect  of  churches,  in  the  Abruzzi 
will  certainly  make  a  purist  very  unhappy  indeed,  and 
some  who  are  not  purists.  Everywhere  has  the  baroque 
invaded.  After  the  terrible  earthquakes  in  the  beginning 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  there  were  so  many  churches 
ruined  that  repairs  on  a  huge  scale  were  doubtless 
necessary,  if  the  fabrics  were  to  last  another  fifty  years. 
This  gave  a  lamentable  opportunity  for  vandalism  ;  and 
even  those  left  unharmed  followed  suit.  There  was  one 
pattern ;  and  energy  and  ingenuity  were  strained  to 
their  utmost  to  make  the  most  diverse  structures  conform 
to  it.  Alas  !  in  the  eighteenth  century,  so  calamitous  for 
ecclesiastical  art,  there  were  riches  in  the  Abruzzi — 
hence  all  those  plump  curves,  those  bloated  cherubs,  the 
vulgar    voluptuousness,    the     gilding,    the    gilt-edging. 


CH.  VI.]  A   NOTE   ON   ART  119 

The  terrible  result  is  too  well  known  to  need  description. 
In  the  poorer  churches,  however,  though  the  purist  may 
again  be  offended,  the  artist  may  often  find  something 
to  delight  or  to  amuse  him.  They  are,  indeed,  people's 
sanctuaries,  full  of  poor  treasures j  faded  and  worn  with 
time  and  kisses.  The  stiff,  formal  roses  that  deck  the 
home  of  the  Virgin  are  blanched  almost  to  silvery  white- 
ness ;  and  even  when  brand-new  pink  ones  are  bought 
by  the  meagre  pence  of  priest  and  people,  they  are 
arranged  with  a  barbaric  profuseness  from  which  the 
commonplace  touch  of  the  bourgeois  is  entirely  absent. 
Tawdry  in  themselves,  they  glow  in  dark,  age-worn  places 
like  spots  of  living  fire.  A  few  years  ago  Mr.  Francis 
James,  the  water-colourist,  painted  some  of  these  humble 
Abruzzi  shrines  with  excellent  effect.  There  may  be 
few  statues  one  would  look  at  twice  for  their  art's  sake, 
yet  one  carries  away  a  sympathetic  impression  of  some 
of  the  images.  They  are  called  "  Our  Lady  of  the 
Graces,"  or  "  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows,"  or  "  St.  Lucy,"  or 
"  St.  Appollonia  "  ;  but,  frankly,  they  are  dolls,  nothing 
but  big  dolls.  The  recent  ones  are  as  vulgar  as  new  satin 
and  wax  and  simpers  can  make  them  ;  but  the  old  ones, 
dressed  in  bombazine  or  antique  brocade,  have  often  a 
charm  indescribable  in  words.  To  strangers'  eyes  they 
present  nothing  spiritual.  The  ideals  of  the  church 
doll-makers  of  the  eighteenth  and  early  nineteenth 
centuries  were  three — the  meagre  prim  virgin,  the  sub- 
stantial dignified  housewife,  and  the  jewelled  court  lady. 
None  of  them  have  the  insipid  vulgarity  of  the  images 
of  to-day. 

It  was  in  the  minor  arts  that  the  Abruzzesi  shone. 
As  goldsmiths  they  were  unrivalled  throughout  Europe  in 
the  fifteenth  century ;  and  Sulmona  was  a  great  school 
that  trained  many  masters.  Of  the  work  of  Niccolo 
Gallucci  of  Guardiagrele,  one  of  the  most  accomplished, 
a  good  deal  is  left  in  the  province.     But  Bindi  names 


I20  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

these  artists  by  the  hundred.  Hardly  less  skilful  were 
they  as  potters,  their  most  famous  faience  being  made  at 
Castelli  in  the  Valle  Siciliana.  There  had  been  potteries 
there  from  the  time  of  the  Romans  ;  but  in  the  sixteenth 
century  the  art  of  majolica  was  brought  there  to  a  pitch 
of  perfection  under  the  Di  Grue  family,  especially  under 
Carlantonio  and  Francescantonio  of  that  house.  Speci- 
mens of  Castelli  ware  are  to  be  found  in  all  the  great 
museums  of  Europe;  but  in  the  Abruzzi  none,  save 
perhaps  a  piece  or  two  in  private  collections.  The 
bric-a-brac  dealers  of  Rome  know  the  embroideries  of 
the  province  ;  but  the  art  is  lost.  Out  of  old  cupboards 
and  chests  I  have  seen  bits  and  scraps  produced,  feasts 
for  the  eye  and  the  touch.  To  judge  from  the  deft 
fingers  of  the  women  and  their  love  of  colour,  the  art 
might  easily  be  revived — as  lace-making  has  been  to 
some  extent.  But  the  whisper  from  the  outside  world 
has  come :  the  machine  will  make  it  cheaper.  What  is 
beauty  ?  What  is  the  craft  of  the  hand  ?  Will  it  sell  for 
bread  ?     And  life  is  hard. 

If  the  crafts  have  disappeared,  since  the  opening  up 
of  the  country  there  has  been  a  rush  of  energy  towards 
the  pictorial  and  plastic  arts.  In  painting,  the  Abruzzi 
during  the  Renaissance  produced  no  artist  worthy  to  be 
named  with  its  sculptors.  II  Zingaro  is  too  legendary 
for  discussion.  But  several  of  the  best  known  modern 
painters  of  Southern  Italy  have  been  natives  of  the 
province.  Indeed,  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  original 
of  living  Italian  artists  is  Abruzzese,  Francesco-Paolo 
Michetti,  born  at  Tocco  Casauria,  near  Chieti,  in  1852. 
He  was  early  influenced  by  Morelli  and  Fortuny ;  but  he 
soon  found  his  own  inspiration  among  his  own  people. 
His  subjects — "peasant  idylls  scorched  by  Southern  sun," 
they  have  been  called— are  nearly  all  of  his  native 
Abruzzi,  and  mostly  from  his  own  province  of  Chieti. 
You     will    hardly   think    of  the    Abruzzesi    as    a    staid, 


CH.  VI.]  A   NOTE   ON   ART  121 

reserved  people  after  you  have  seen  Michetti's  interpreta- 
tion of  them.  He  has  painted  them  with  sun-heated 
passions  of  love  and  mysticism,  in  a  whirl  of  light.  In 
his  treatment  there  is  an  intoxication  of  energy  ;  and  if 
his  touch  is  sometimes  brutal,  it  is  always  alive.  His 
first  great  success  was,  "  The  Procession  of  the  Corpus 
Domini  at  Chieti,"  in  1876.  Since  then  he  has  shown 
the  peasants  abject  before  the  divine,  as  in  "  II  Voto," 
and  exalted  as  in  "The  Feast  of  San  Domenico  of 
Cocullo."  It  was  his  picture,  "  La  Figlia  di  Jorio,"  which 
inspired  D'Annunzio's  play  of  the  same  name.  Indeed, 
his  friend  D'Annunzio  has  been  his  untiring  and 
enthusiastic  eulogist  in  prose  and  verse.  Another 
Leonardo  he  has  called  him,  for  his  vigour,  his  colour, 
his  universality. 

"  Tu  che  come  Leonardo 
hai  la  dolce  facondia  allettatrice." 


CHAPTER  VII 

SINGERS   AND   IMPROVISATORI 

Folk-Song  in  the  Abruzzi — Love-Songs — "  The  Shepherd's  Return  " — 
Songs  of  Labour — Songs  to  Madonna  and  the  Saints — A  literature 
of  improvisation — Serafino  Aquilano — "The  ploughman  poet" — ■ 
Gabriele  Rossetti — The  English  Rossettis — A  forgotten  romantic 
— Gabriele  D'Annunzio. 

They  sing  still  in  the  Abruzzi.  At  least  the  poor  folks 
do,  and  not  only  those  who  work  out-of-doors.  Young 
Italy  is  a  little  inclined  to  be  depressed  at  this  persistence 
of  song  ;  for  he  is  secretly  of  opinion  that  it  is  incom- 
patible with  intelligent  occupations.  Singing  in  a  factory 
now  ?  Intolerable,  of  course,  he  reflects.  But  while  he 
is  thus  reflecting,  the  croon  of  an  old  litany  is  mingling 
with  the  birr-r-r  of  some  antiquated  loom  in  the  rocky 
streets  of  Scanno.  Down  to  the  bleak  plain  of  Cinque- 
miglia  fall  the  long  calling  songs  of  the  shepherds,  who 
have  become  but  wandering  voices  on  the  heights. 
Under  the  glaring  sun  of  the  Campi  Palentini  the 
harvesters  sing  to  the  rhythm  of  their  scythes  and  sickles. 
In  the  mellow  valley  of  Sulmona,  and  on  the  vine-clad 
hills  overlooking  the  eastern  sea,  lovers  sing  to  each  other, 
and  answer  each  other  in  song  from  field  to  field,  cease- 
less and  without  effort  like  birds,  bending  at  their  work 
the  while,  only  rising  now  and  then  to  breathe  out  a 
longer  note.  These  are  the  stornelli  (Abruzzese  sturjijele). 
As  Signor  Finamore  points  out,  they  have  no  emphatic 
invocation,  but  are  sung  alternately  by  men  and  women, 
and  often  there  is  a  little  melody  between  the  parts. 

122 


D  .1 


,      '•>       •     1      '      '  '   ' 

'  )    '      3      'j     3  3      3    3^ 


c         C  C     C        O  b 

O      C  «.*''€  c 

«  c  r     c -^  f  r 

C  C  '        r  '        -  r 


CH.  VII.]     SINGERS  AND  IMPROVISATORI     123 

The  sweetest  singer  I  heard  was  a  Httle  damsel  of 
perhaps  fifteen,  whose  occupation  was  to  carry  loads  of 
bricks  on  her  head  for  the  masons  who  were  building  a 
new  villa  on  the  sands  of  the  Adriatic.  Her  comrade 
was  a  slim  lad,  perhaps  a  year  or  two  younger.  To  and 
fro  the  children  went  in  company,  singing  bravely  under 
their  loads.  On  their  return  journey  now  one  took  up 
the  tune,  now  the  other.  In  rest  times  they  dabbled 
their  feet  in  the  sand,  or  in  the  water,  letting  the  sea 
sing  to  them.  Then  back  to  their  work  again,  to  the 
monotonous  journeys  to  and  fro  with  the  bricks,  and  to 
the  sweet  singing  they  had  learnt  on  their  hillsides. 

Like  nearly  all  folk-music  the  tunes  are  mostly  in  a 
minor  key.  I  have  heard  some  of  marvellous  beauty 
chanted  only  to  the  sky  above  and  the  Madonna  by  an 
unseen  singer  in  a  vineyard.  But  not  all  the  solemn  tunes 
have  solemn  words.  For  the  tunes  are  old,  old,  and  un- 
spoilt ;  while  many  of  the  words  have  degenerated.  Muti- 
lated ditties,  out  of  which  most  of  the  sense  has  gone,  or 
frivolous,  or  amorous  fragments,  may  be  sung  to  the 
same  religious  chant.  All  the  chapters  of  the  book  of  life, 
and  all  the  works  of  all  the  seasons,  doubtless  had  once  a 
song  ritual,  stray  fragments  of  which  wander  still  in  the 
mountains  and  the  plains.  But  love  is  the  chief  theme. 
Once  the  love-songs  were  always  accompanied  by  the 
pipe,  and  they  are  so  to-day  in  the  remoter  parts  of  the 
Vastese.  Elsewhere  they  are  sung  mostly  alone,  or  with 
the  guitar,  or  the  chitarra  battente,  a  kind  of  lute. 
The  older  songs  are  finer,  subtler,  than  the  new  ones. 
Perhaps  they  are  not  all  relics  of  shepherd  and  peasant 
wooing. 

"  Quanno  nacesti  tu,  nacqui  pur  ijo  ; 
Nacquero  li  distini  tra  de  noi," 

["  When  thou  wast  born,  then  was  I  born  too  ;  and  the  fates  that  bind 
us  came  into  being."] 


124  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Again — 

"  Vijate  chi  te  da  lu  prime  vace, 
Vijat'  a  cehela  cas'  addove  trace  ! 
Questo  se  cand'  a  tte,  dolg-i-amor  mije : 
Ca  I'ombre  che  ffaje  tu,  quella  so'  jije." 
["Blessed  be  she  who  gave  thee  the  first  kiss.     Blessed  the  house  that 
shelters  thee.     This  is  sung  to  thee,  sweet  love  of  mine  ;  for  the  shadow 
which  thou  castest,  it  is  I."] 

But  it  is  not  only  the  sweets  of  love  that  are  sung — 

"  Vaj'  a  11'  infernu,  spenzieratamende, 
Trov'  nu  vecchiu,  ch'  era  stat'  amande, 
E  jji  me  jj'  accosto,  ssecretamende  ; 
Ji'  isse  : — Bhon  vecchiu  me,  che  ppene  fati  ? 
— ^Ji  cambo  mejje  mo',  quand'  er'  amande. 
Le  pene  de  11'  infernu  non  zo  gniende 
A  cquelle  che  ppate  tu,  pover'  amande." 
["  With  heavy  heart  I  made  my  way  to  hell,  and  there  I  found  an  old 
man  who  had  been  a  lover.     And  I  whispered  to  him  secretly,   '  Good  old 
man,  what  pains  dost  thou  suffer  ?  '  And  he,  '  I  fare  better  now  than  when 
I  was  a  lover.     The  pains  of  hell  are  nothing  to  those  thou  sufferest,  poor 
lover.' "] 

And  this  of  the  love  of  an  old  man  for  a  maid — 

"  L'amore  di  li  vecchi 
Mo  te  1'  accente  come  va  ; 
Nu  fasce  de  rame  di  ficura, 
Fa  lu  fume  e  lu  foe'  nin  fa." 
["  The  love  of  old  men  :  now  I  will  tell  thee  what  it  is  : — A  bundle  of 
fig-twigs.     Smoke  it  makes,  but  no  fire."] 

Among  a  nomadic  people  the  farewell  songs  are  many. 

"Addij',  addij',  e  'n'  aldra  void'  addije, 
La  lundananza  tue,  la  pena  mije." 
["Adieu,  adieu  !  thine  the  distance,  mine  the  pain."] 

This  is  the  burden  of  half  of  them. 

I  have  heard  "The  Shepherd's  Parting  Song,"  and 
much  oftener,  "The  Shepherd's  Return,"  at  Pescoco- 
stanzo,  at  Scanno,  and  elsewhere.  But  when  they  were 
written  down  for  me,  I  found  the  words  transformed 
into  something  with  a  rather  modern  sound — not  quite 
modern,  for  we  do  not  allude  to  Cupid  in  our  most 
up-to-date  lyrics — but  at  least  not  very  rustic,  or  pastoral, 


CH.  VII.]     SINGERS  AND  IMPROVISATORI     125 

according  to  Northern  ideas.  Perhaps  this  was  out  of 
kindness  to  the  Inglese.  They  certainly  have  not  the 
air  of  having  been  sung  "  when  vines  grew  in  the  market- 
place," as  they  say  of  the  oldest  ditties.  But  the  airs,  at 
least,  are  traditional  ;  and  sung  to  the  guitar  or  fiddle  by 
lusty  mountain  voices,  they  stir  and  haunt.  And  because 
"  The  Shepherd's  Return,"  is  one  of  the  songs  you  may 
hear  any  summer  evening  in  the  mountains,  I  give  it  as  it 
was  given  me  at  Scanno. 


APPENNESELLA   SCANNESE. 
IL    RITORNO    DEI    PASTORI. 

MOTIVO  DEL  Canto  {accompanied  by  the  instrument  only  at  the  under- 
lined passages, 

Molto  largo  {appasstonafo). 


'Egig^g^£EEijg^^^!=^^r^g: 


Ec  -  CO  -  mi,  bel  -  la  mi  -  a,    son  ri  -  ve  -  nu  -  to 


Le 


i 


9 


W^izw^-^im 


lt2=^ 


^=?=^ 


E^^iEiE5EKEE&^Ei^_^ 


I 


^  \  r    IF 


tue     bel-lez  -  zemihan-no      ri-chia-ma  -  to       -      -      -       o       (i] 

(l)  Here  begins  the  appennesella,  or  ritornello  {i.e.  burden),  played  by 
the  violin  or  guitar. 


126  IN  THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

Eccomi,  bella  mia,  son  rivenuto. 
Le  tue  bellezze  mi  hanno  richiamato. 
Ora  che  a  te  vicino  sono  tomato 
Fidele  a  te  saro  all'  infinito. 
Quando  nacesti  tu,  fior'  di  bellezza, 
II  sole  ti  dono  il  suo  splendore  ; 
La  luna  ti  dono  la  sua  chiarezza, 
Cupido  t'  insegno  a  far'  1'  amore. 
Quanto  sei  cara,  fior'  di  Diana  ! 
Tieni  le  bellezze  della  luna  ; 
Porti  i  capelli  alia  fuggiana. 
II  cuor  mio  per  te  si  consuma. 
Bella,  che  delle  belle  regina  sei, 
L'unico  oggetto  dei  pensieri  miei. 
Fiore  di  ruta, 
II  mio  cuore  innamorato  ti  saluta." 

In  the  songs  of  labour  the  signs  of  decadence  are  very 
apparent,  in  the  words,  at  least.  Tradition  has  worn  too 
thin.  Memory  has  failed,  and  several  have  got  tagged 
together,  without  fusion.  Deep  and  solemn  chants  come 
across  the  fields  to  the  passers-by.  But  ask  the  singers 
to  tell  the  words,   and  this  is  what  the   song-gatherer 


gleans — 


"Ji'  meta  meta  e  la  faggijja  mete, 
Ca  la  patrona  ha  ma  da  di  la  fijje. 
Ni  I'a  prumess',  e  nni'  mmi  li  vo'  daje 
Tutto  lu  grane  je  vijje  scippaje." 

Or  this,  which  is  a  jumble  of  old  tags — 

"  Fiore  de  lemon  e  ffiore  de  lemone, 
La  pan  a'  cummattute  ghe  la  fame, 
E  le  vedeille  me  va  'm  brecissione, 
O  bella,  bella  de  la  cicia  custte, 
Puorrem'  a  bbeve,  ca  me  s'e'  remboste  ; 
E  dda'  mme  I'acque,  ne  mme  da'  lu  vine : 
Damme  'na  rama  de  truzzemarine. 
Truzzemarina,  vatten'  a  la  Rocche ; 
Va  wide  la  bella  mi  s'e'  vviv  'o  morte. 
Se  e  wive,  bacittel'  armlui' ; 
Se  e  mmorte,  facettel'  asseppelli'. 

Next  to  songs  of  earthly  love  come  songs  of  heaven  and 
the  saints.     Even  to-day  the  Abruzzesi  are  a  very  lonely 


CH.  VII.]     SINGERS  AND  IMPROVISATORI     127 

people.  Husbands  and  sons  and  lovers  go  for  more  than 
half  the  year  down  to  the  plains  of  the  South,  nay,  for 
years,  across  the  sea.  And  the  winter  is  very  long.  And 
the  hills  become  walls  of  separation.  And  even  good 
neighbours  have  their  own  troubles  without  bearing  other 
folks'.  Only  the  Madonna  is  ever  there — she  of  the 
graces,  best  beloved,  perhaps  ;  or  she  of  the  many  sorrows, 
who  knows  theirs  ;  or  she  of  the  Orient,  who  shines  like 
the  morning  star  out  of  the  darkness.  And  the  saints 
are  near,  very  near,  indeed,  in  the  wild  Abruzzi.  Out  of 
their  heaven  of  blue,  and  from  their  fleecy  couches,  they 
come  to  hard  rocky  places,  and  their  light  feet  keep  time 
to  the  patter  of  little  maidens  on  their  way  to  the  well, 
to  the  tread  of  the  mules  up  the  stony  ladder  path,  to 
the  staggering  run  of  the  old  under  burdens  they  would 
fain  lay  down  at  last.  They  are  very  near  and  com- 
panionable, almost  brothers  and  sisters,  for  all  the  gold 
crowns  and  the  garlands  they  wear  in  church.  Some- 
times these  songs  of  the  saints  are  long  narrative 
ballads.  Others  are  invocations.  Many  are  sing-song 
rhythmic  phrases,  repeated  and  varied,  made  to  lull  the 
singer  and  her  little  world.  The  mother  bending  over 
her  sick  child,  whispers  and  sings — 

"Vieci,  Madonna,  vestite  dcbianchi, 
purteje  lu  suonne  e  liveje  lu  piante ; 
viece,  Madonna,  vestite  de  rusca, 
purteje  la  suonne,  e  liveje  la  tosce  : 
viece,  Madonna,  vestite  de  nire, 
purteje  lu  suonne,  e  liveje  le  pene." 

I  have  it  on  the  authority  of  an  Abruzzese — his  infor- 
mation is  twenty  years  old — that  you  will  never  find  a 
viandriano  of  the  Marsica  without  a  book  of  poetry, 
Tasso  or  Arisosto,  which  he  learns  by  heart  in  entirety, 
sitting  up  against  a  tree.  As  a  good  many  cannot  read, 
the  statement  is  a  rather  sweeping  one.     I  doubt  if  the 


128  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  l 

observer  would  say  the  same  to-day ;  but  I  do  not 
entirely  disbelieve  it.  Whatever  there  is  of  culture  in 
the  Abruzzi  belongs  to  the  past  ;  and  the  peasantry  are 
its  best  guardians.  The  bourgeois  may  be  intent  on  the 
new,  but  not  very  strenuously ;  for  the  new  does  not 
present  itself  to  this  race  of  peculiar  gifts  and  limitations 
in  an  appealing  fashion. 

Like  all  the  Southerners  the  Abruzzesi  have  ever 
been  great  improvisatori.  Of  improvisers  by  profession 
they  have  had  notable  examples,  among  them  that 
Serafino  Aquilano  (1466-1500),  so  famous  that  his 
epitaph  in  S.  Maria  del  Popolo  in  Rome  pronounced  you 
in  deep  debt  to  your  eyes  only  to  have  looked  on  his 
tomb.  Serafino  was  a  vagrant  of  genius,  known  at  all 
the  Courts  of  Italy — Milan,  Urbino,  Frederic  of  Aragon's, 
Caesar  Borgia's — the  delight  of  them  all  for  his  admirable 
extemporary  songs,  which  he  sang  to  his  lute,  and  not  a 
little  feared,  too,  for  his  satires,  which  were  free  and 
courageous.  He  passed,  and  the  wind  swept  away  his 
traces.  The  nobles,  the  bourgeoisie,  the  scholars,  the 
peasants,  the  shepherds,  all  improvised  ;  and  they  all, 
but  chiefly  the  peasants,  improvise   to  this  day.     One 

night    last    spring,    after   a    little    festa    in    S ,    the 

musicians  serenaded  the  host  and  his  family  under 
the  window  ere  they  went  home.  To  the  air  of  the 
Shepherd's  Partenza,  the  singer  made  a  song  half  old, 
half  new,  with  allusions  to  the  events  of  the  evening, 
with  separate  greetings  to  each  member  of  the  family, 
and  a  stanza  specially  made  for  the  Inglese — all  with 
a  surprising  readiness  and  a  faultless  sense  of  rhythm, 
while  the  guitar  did  its  part,  no  less  gallantly,  emphasizing 
each  sentiment,  gay  or  serious,  with  equal  promptitude. 
The  improvisatore  in  this  case  was  a  yellow-haired, 
blue-eyed,  ruddy-faced  young  fellow,  own  brother  to  a 
Northern  Scot,  a  contadino,  who  did  odd  jobs  about  the 


CH.  VII.]     SINGERS  AND  IMPROVISATORI     129 

village,  and  had  lately  been  working  in  the  brickfields 
near  Pittsburg,  U.S.A. 

The  genius  of  the  people  has  expressed  itself  largely 
in  improvisations — has  wasted  itself,  some  one  will  say. 
But  improvisation  is  one  art,  and  literature  is  another. 
Sometimes  they  are  combined.  Improvisation  is  like 
acting  :  the  next  generation  knows  of  its  triumphs  only 
by  hearsay  ;  but  its  triumphs  were  none  the  less  real. 
If  the  stuff  of  great  literature  is  in  a  people,  they  will 
not  choose  iinprovisatori  solely  for  its  outlet ;  and  the 
easy  triumphs  of  these  may  divert  the  energies  from 
the  harder  task  of  finding  the  precise,  the  ultimate 
expression.  But  at  least  it  is  something  to  have  a 
ready  means  to  speak  out  what  is  in  your  heart,  be  it 
praise  of  your  mistress,  or  love  of  the  saints,  or  hate 
of  the  tyrant,  or  a  compliment  to  your  neighbour  who 
has  sent  you  a  bottle  of  his  best  wine.  This  special 
talent  Tasso  never  had,  in  spite  of  his  Neapolitan 
mother,  The.Marchese  Manso,  in  1588,  took  Torquato 
with  him  to  Bisaccio  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  the  autumn 
season.  The  host  wrote  to  the  Prince  of  Conca,  "  Tor- 
quato has  become  a  mighty  hunter,  and  overcomes  even 
the  hardships  of  the  season  and  the  country.  The  bad 
days  and  the  evenings  we  are  wont  to  pass  listening  for 
long  hours  to  playing  and  singing,  for  he  has  the  greatest 
delight  in  hearing  those  improvisatori,  envying  them 
that  readiness  in  versifying,  of  which  nature,  he  says,  has 
been  so  sparing  to  himself." 

That  the  Abruzzesi  have  ever  had  this  talent  in  a 
marked  degree  is  a  fact  of  much  significance  in  dealing 
with  whatever  literature  they  have  produced.  Where 
improvisation  has  been  modified  only  by  learning,  the 
effects  are  more  striking  than  happy — as  in  the  case  of 
Benedetto  de'  Virgilii,  "  the  ploughman  poet."  It  was  by 
his  improvised  shepherd  songs  he   first  became  known- 

K 


I30  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

They  are  all  lost  now,  though  one  would  give  all  his 
printed  volumes,  inspired  by  Jesuit  fathers,  for  one  scrap 
of  the  early  untaught  verse  that  brought  the  shepherds 
about  him,  and  gave  him  fame  in  his  native  Alfedena. 
When  he  left  his  mountains  he  became  a  ploughman 
on  the  lands  of  the  Jesuit  College  at  Orta.  His  love  of 
learning  attracted  the  attention  of  the  fathers  ;  and  they 
stuffed  him  with  Latin  and  theology.  In  return,  he 
wrote  a  long  poem  on  Ignatius  Loyola,  and  others  on 
religious  themes,  all  of  which  were  printed  and  gained 
many  admirers.  Ariosto  and  Tasso  were  his  masters, 
and  he  attained  to  elegance.  But  it  was  his  great 
namesake  he  would  fain  have  imitated  ;  and  under  his 
picture — painted  by  order  of  the  Pope — was  written  this 
epigram  and  apologia — 

"  Non  impar  ego  Virgilio,  si  vel  mihi  civem, 
Vel  illi  nasci  sors  dabat  agricolam." 

The  "  ploughman  poet "  of  the  Abruzzi  had  rooms 
assigned  to  him  in  the  Vatican  by  Pope  Alexander  VII., 
and  he  was  made  a  Cavaliere  di  Cristo.  But  his  works 
are  now  mere  literary  curiosities.  Had  the  good  fathers 
left  him  alone,  he  might  have  expressed  something  of 
the  soul  of  his  people,  as  did  the  far  greater  ploughman 
poet  of  the  North. 

There  is  plenty  of  minor  verse  in  the  seventeenth  and 
eighteenth  centuries  ;  but  it  is  trivial,  and  after  a  fashion 
that  was  fated  to  die  utterly.  It  was  the  emancipation 
of  the  spirit  that  came  with  the  French  Revolution  and 
with  the  French  occupation  that  lifted  the  hearts  and 
loosened  the  tongues  of  the  lettered  Abruzzesi.  And  in 
that  dawning  age  of  liberty  the  most  outstanding  name 
among  the  liberators  or  the  singers  is  one  that  makes 
special  appeal  to  us  English — the  name  of  Gabriele 
Rossetti.  In  the  beginning  of  one  of  his  lectures  on 
modern  literature,  the  great  patriot,  Luigi    Settembrini, 


cir.  VII.]     SINGERS  AND  IMPROVISATORI     131 

said,  speaking  of  his  own  young  days,  "  In  Naples  there 
was  conspiracy,  and  art  was  its  vehicle.  When  we  were 
young  fellows  each  of  us  kept  a  notebook,  which  was 
secret  and  dear  to  him,  wherein  he  wrote  the  finest 
patriotic  poems  he  could  find,  not  being  able  to  have 
them  in  printed  form  ;  and  he  got  them  by  heart  and 
recited  them  in  company.  In  1831,  five  of  us  had  gone 
out  one  day  to  the  country,  and  all  at  once  an 
Abruzzese  recited  a  new  hymn — 

"  '  Su  brandisci  la  lancia  di  guerra, 

Squassa  in  fronte  quell'  elmo  primato, 
Scendi  in  campo,  ministro  del  fato, 
Oh  quai  cose  s'  asppettan  di  te  ! ' 

"  The  hymn  set  our  hearts  beating  ;  and  I  remember 
still  the  voice  of  that  youth  as  he  cried,  *  Cursed  be  the 
Abruzzese,  who  shall  ever  forget  Gabriele  Rossetti ! ' 
To-day  I  repeat  that  no  Italian  should  ever  forget  him." 

And,  indeed,  Don  Gabriele  was  a  great  force  in  his 
time,  before  ever  he  set  foot  on  English  shores.  After 
that  he  was  but  an  exile  calling  home  over  the  sea, 
calling  in  hopeless  times  to  his  own  people,  unhappy  and 
distraught.  The  improvisatore  of  Naples  had  lifted  their 
hopes,  and  his  songs  had  run  through  all  the  kingdom, 
setting  their  hearts  alight  for  liberty.  Gabriele  Rossetti 
was  born  at  Vasto  in  the  Abruzzi  in  1783,  the  son  of 
Nicola  Rossetti,  blacksmith,  and  Maria  Francesca  Pietro- 
cola.  These  poor  parents  were  honourable  folks  of  great 
intelligence,  though  unlettered.  Nicola  held  he  was  of 
good  ancient  stock,  belonging  to  the  Delle  Guardias,  a 
well-known  Vastese  family,  Rossetti  being  but  a  sobri- 
quet. The  sons  were  all  in  their  way  distinguished. 
Andrea,  the  eldest,  became  a  priest,  and  canon  of  Santa 
Maria  in  Vasto.  He  was  a  well-known  improvisatore. 
Domenico  became  in  course  of  time  a  lawyer,  and  settled 
in  Parma.  He  also  improvised,  once  notably  in  front 
of  the  tomb   of  Virgil  ;    but    some  of  his  poems  were 


132  IN  THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

committed  to  paper,  and  a  volume  was  printed.  Antonio 
did  not  contrive  to  follow  his  brothers  into  the  learned 
professions ;  but  at  Vasto,  where  he  was  a  barber,  none 
was  better  known  for  his  lively  rhymes  on  gay  occa- 
sions, and  his  extempore  parody  on  the  Dies  IrcB  is 
remembered  to  this  day.  Gabriele  was  educated  first 
by  his  eldest  brother  ;  but  his  mind  was  open  to  many 
influences,  and  he  picked  up  a  wonderful  amount  of 
varied  learning  before  he  left  his  father's  house.  Vasto, 
the  natural  birthplace  for  a  poet,  hangs  on  its  cliffs 
overlooking  the  sea.  Behind  and  to  the  south  lie  the 
beautiful  fertile  plains  and  olive  groves,  and  back  of  them 
the  great  mountains.  Gabriele,  as  a  youth,  wandering 
about  the  valleys  of  the  Casarsa  and  the  Trave,  im- 
provised his  songs  to  the  sea  and  the  sky  and  his  friends 
— on  an  out-of-date  Arcadian  pattern,  the  only  one  the 
provincial  youth  as  yet  knew.  When  he  was  about 
nineteen  there  was  a  more  than  usually  serious  dis- 
turbance in  the  town,  stirred  up  by  the  Calderai  (rivals 
of  the  Carbonari),  in  which  the  brigands  took  part. 
The  podesta  was  killed.  When  the  youth  heard  that 
"this  was  a  revolution  in  favour  of  legitimacy  and  the 
Catholic  religion  now  attacked  by  the  Jacobins,"  he 
reflected  that  the  throne  and  altar  were  being  defended 
in  a  more  than  doubtful  fashion  ;  and  from  that  moment 
his  political  principles  began  to  take  definite  shape. 
There  were  republican  ideas  afloat,  and  even  in  Vasto 
a  cap  of  liberty  had  been  hoisted.  French,  which  he 
had  learnt  from  the  invaders,  became  a  medium  of 
emancipation.  For  family  reasons  he  might  have  hated 
the  invaders,  since  his  father  never  got  over  the  insults 
of  some  French  officers  who  had  fallen  foul  of  him  for 
not  furnishing  certain  provisions.  Nicola  was  a  man  of 
strong  feeling,  and,  like  all  Abruzzesi,  very  proud.  This 
is  how  his  grandson,  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti,  translates  an 
epitaph  made  for  his  tomb  by  a  relative. 


cii.  VII.]     SINGERS  AND  IMPROVISATORI     133 

"  Nicola  Rossetti,  blacksmith,  poor  and  honourable, 
lovingly  sent  in  boyhood,  to  their  first  studies,  his  sons, 
carefully  nurtured  in  childhood.  If  Fortune  neglected 
him,  provident  Nature  ultimately  distinguished,  in  the 
obscure  artizan,  the  well-graced  father,  who,  to  the 
strokes  of  his  hammer  on  the  battered  anvil,  sent  forth 
the  sonorous  and  glorious  echo  beyond  remote  Abruzzo, 
into  Italy  and  other  lands." 

Vasto  had  always  had  a  stormy  history,  invaded  by 
Turks  and  French  and  English  and  Austrians,  now  at 
the  mercy  of  the  foreigner,  now  of  the  brigands — for 
Manhes  had  not  yet  come  to  clear  them  out,  and  the 
town  lived  in  daily  fear  of  attack.  With  brigands 
without  and  feuds  within,  life  was  neither  calm  nor 
pleasant  in  the  Vasto  of  those  days.  The  studious  and 
ambitious  youth  needed  a  larger  sphere  ;  and  he  said 
adieu  to  the  "collini  ove  scherzai  bambino,  ove  adulto 
cantai." 

His  priest  brother,  Andrea,  procured  for  him  an  intro- 
duction to  the  great  Abruzzese  magnate,  the  Marchese 
del  Vasto,  armed  with  which  he  left  his  native  place 
when  he  was  twenty-one.  He  never  saw  it  again,  and 
he  never  forgot  it.  The  poor  blacksmith's  son  from  the 
remote  seaboard  town,  seems  to  have  taken  a  prominent 
place  from  the  beginning  among  the  cultivated  circles 
of  Naples.  He  received  a  small  appointment  in  the 
museum,  but  literature  was  to  be  his  profession.  Life 
in  a  great  city  and  among  men  of  thought  and  intellectual 
striving,  stirred  him,  shook  him  out  of  his  early  Arcadian, 
insipid  style.  Besides,  he  had  now  something  to  say. 
It  was  to  awake  Italy  he  sang  ;  and  let  us  remember,  as 
we  scan  his  lines  coldly  to-day,  that  he  did  awake  it. 
He  joined  the  Carbonari,  and  became  their  heart  and 
soul  in  Naples.  He,  the  Government  official,  had  the 
boldest  voice  of  them  all.  This  was  all  very  well  during 
Murat's  rule,  but  on  the  Bourbon's  return,  what  was  to 


134  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

happen  to  an  employe  who  wrote  and  sang  out  of  his 
heart,  and  whose  theme  was  Hberty  ? 

But  it  was  still  as  an  improvisatore  he  was  greatest 
and  most  potent ;  and  the  sonnet,  not  reprinted  among 
his  poems,  which  he  rang  out  in  the  Caffe  d'ltalia  while 
they  were  waiting  for  Ferdinand's  lagging  hand  to  sign 
the  Constitution,  is  improvisation  at  white  heat  and  of 
splendid  power, 

"Sire,  che  attendi  piu?     Lo  Scettro  Ispano 

Gia  infranto  cadde  al  suol,  funesto  esempio 

A  chi  resta  a  regnar  !  Vindice  mano 

Gli  sta  sul  capo,  che  ne  vuol  lo  scempio. 
Sire,  che  attendi  piu  ?    I'orgoglio  insane 

Ceda  al  pubblico  voto  :  il  fore,  il  tempio 

Voglion  la  morte  tua — resiste  invano 

II  debil  cortigiano,  il  vile  e  I'empio  ! 
Soli  non  siam  ;    fin  da  remoti  lidi 

Grido  di  morte  ai  Despoti  rimbomba  ,  ,  . 

Passa  il  tempo  a  tuo  danno,  e  non  decidi  ? 
Sire,  che  attendi  piu  ?  gia  il  folgor  piomba  .  ,   . 

O  il  tuo  regnar  col  popolo  dividi, 

O  sul  trono  abborito  avrai  la  tomba." 

There  were  spies  in  the  cafe,  and  the  sonnet  was 
never  forgiven.  There  were  other  counts  against  him, 
and  when  despotism  was  redoubled  after  Ferdinand's 
return  from  Laybach,  Rossetti  was  a  marked  man.  A 
warrant  for  his  arrest  was  sent  out.  A  friend  hid  him  in 
the  port  of  Naples  till  he  was  taken  on  board  an  English 
steamer.  In  Malta  he  lived  for  over  two  years,  befriended 
by  John  Hookham  Frere.  Then  he  came  to  England, 
and  he  never  saw  Italy  again.  The  improvisatore  of 
power  was  silent.  True,  his  later  poetry  was  all  more  or 
less  improvisation,  but  no  longer  to  an  inflammable 
audience,  eager  for  the  breath  of  life  from  his  lips.  He 
sent  messages  over  the  sea,  and  knew  hopes  and  despairs, 
and  hopes  again.  But  '48  passed  away ;  and,  tied  to 
England,  he  grew  old  and  ailing  and  blind.  For  the 
sake   of  his   gifted    children   he  had  borne  with  foggy 


CH.  VII.]     SINGERS  AND  IMPROVISATORI     135 

London — "O  che  notte  bruna,  bruna,  Senza  stelle  e 
senza  lume"— while  longing  for  his  own  keen  air  at 
home,  and  crying,  "  Salve,  O  ciel  d' Italia  bella." 

In  England  he  saw  all  his  countrymen  of  liberal 
opinions  who  came  there.  Poor  himself,  he  was  the 
generous  friend  of  all,  and  his  little  house  was  ever  open 
to  them.  Among  the  refugees  were  many  Abruzzesi. 
The  children  knew  them  and  the  other  Neapolitans 
because  they  called  their  father  Don  Gabriele.  One  of 
them  was  the  distinguished  painter,  Smargiasse,  Another 
painter,  Rulli,  gave  Dante  Gabriel  some  drawing  lessons, 
and  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti  has  a  picture  of  Vasto  painted 
by  one  of  them.  They  kept  green  in  Don  Gabriele's 
memory  the  home  of  his  youth.  "  He  could  readily 
throw  himself  back,"  says  his  son,  "  when  he  liked,  into 
the  Neapolitan  dialect,  or  the  Abruzzese." 

Towards  the  end  of  his  life  he  was  engaged  on  his 
laborious  Dante  commentary,  in  the  study  of  Kabbalism, 
freemasonry,  and  mysticism  of  every  kind.  Intensely 
religious  by  nature,  he  had  broken  entirely  with  his  early 
faith,  and  had  brought  his  children  up,  or  allowed  their 
mother  to  bring  them  up,  as  Anglicans.  At  the  end  he 
was  a  perhaps  not  very  coherent  mixture  of  freethinker, 
Protestant,  and  mystic — but  the  last  predominated.  His 
highest  praise  for  a  book  was,  "  un  libro  sommamente 
mistico." 

Gabriele  Rossetti  died  in  1854,  and  lies  buried  in 
Highgate  Cemetery.  The  medallion  on  his  tomb  is  the 
work  of  a  sculptor  of  his  own  province.  In  Santa 
Croce,  Florence,  he  is  named  with  honour,  this  singer  of 
unity,  this  prophet  of  a  free  Italy.  And  in  Vasto  he  is 
not  forgotten.  The  Central  Piazza,  once  del  Pesce,  was 
renamed  in  1883,  at  his  centenary,  Piazza  Gabriele 
Rossetti.  The  old  name  has  died  out  there.  The  last 
of  the  Vasto  Rossettis,  Vincenzo,  died  there  in  1894. 


136  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

"  Since  the  close  of  my  father's  life,  my  knowledge  of 
Italians  in  England  is  practically  a  blank,  and  the  same 
was  the  case  with  my  brother."  So  wrote  Mr.  W.  M. 
Rossetti.  They  honoured  their  father,  but  none  of  them 
—save  perhaps  Maria  Francesca — had  ever  been  much 
interested  in  their  father's  kindred  or  his  early  or  his 
later  inspiration.  Born  in  safe  and  happy  England,  they 
were  content  to  stay  there.  Italy  was  a  long  way  off. 
Many  of  the  exiles  they  had  seen  in  childhood  they 
had  looked  on  perhaps  as  rather  ridiculous  persons  ;  for 
children  are  wont  to  fix  on  the  ludicrous  out  of  the 
dimly  comprehended  sum  of  a  grown-up  stranger.  The 
Italian  call  had  to  them  nothing  of  novelty.  They  had 
their  own  intense  individualities  and  interests.  The 
younger  son,  who  had  the  stronger  political  instincts, 
was  tied  to  his  Government  office  ;  and  Dante  Gabriel 
was  claimed  by  his  art.  He  thought  it  ridiculous  when 
some  one  suggested  he  should  go  and  fight  for  Italian 
liberty.  Their  father's  mystic  studies  seem  to  have 
bored  them.  None  of  them  went  back  to  his  old  town 
or  province  ;  and  had  not  the  Vastesi,  proud  of  their 
son,  and  of  their  son's  sons,  written  from  time  to  time, 
and  had  not  the  genial  cousin,  Teodorico  Pietrocola — 
who  later  took  the  name  of  Rossetti — been  a  link 
between  them  and  Vasto,  there  would  have  been  no 
communication  at  all.  But  Vasto  celebrated  its  great 
man's  centenary ;  and  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti  sent  certain 
of  his  MSS.  to  the  Vasto  town  museum. 

The  English  strain  of  the  Pierces  may  account  for 
some  of  this  indifference.  The  English  strain  and  the 
English  education  account  for  the  insularity  of  their 
superficial  tone  and  manner,  and  for  a  contempt,  which 
at  least  the  greatest  of  them  was  wont  to  express,  for  all 
foreigners.  Even  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti  seems  to  rejoice 
that  his  father  was  not  like  the  conventional  Southern 
Italian.     The    English    dislike    of  expressed    sentiment 


cii.  VII.]     SINGERS  AND  IMPROVISATORI     137 

and  fuss  was  strong  in  them  all ;  and  their  friends  doubt- 
less held  that  the  austere  honesty  and  uprightness  of  the 
air  of  their  childhood's  home  was  due  to  English  in- 
fluences. Settembrini  thought  the  mystical  writings  of 
their  father's  later  days  the  result  of  English  Protestantism. 
But  Gabriele  Rossetti,  first  and  last,  and  through  and 
through,  was  a  Southern  Italian  of  the  Abruzzese  type, 
proud  and  austere,  with  his  passionate  nature  well  under 
control  for  the  most  part,  yet  subject  to  sudden  and 
unforeseen  bursts  of  expression.  He  had  all  the  re- 
spectable virtues,  fitted  well  into  a  bourgeois  life  ;  yet 
was  ever  the  potential  revolutionary  who  had,  in  his  fiery 
youth,  declaimed,  "  Sire,  che  attend!  piu  .'' "  in  the  Caffe 
d'ltalia.  His  literary  style  was,  to  the  end,  tainted  by 
the  old-modish  artificiality  of  South  Italian  Arcadian 
models ;  and  he  was  always  the  improvisatore.  He 
knew  this  ;  regretted  it ;  and  even  said  that  improvisation 
had  damaged  his  health.  And  the  mysticism  of  his  later 
days  was  assuredly  neither  British  nor  Protestant,  but  an 
unconscious,  instinctive  return,  in  uncongenial  surround- 
ings, to  the  spirit  that  has  ever  haunted  his  native  province. 
A  sense  of  the  divine  is  native  there,  and  baffles  its  con- 
tinual seekers,  now  hiding  in  secret  recesses  of  the 
mountains,  now  lost  in  demon-ridden  dreams,  brooding 
over  the  high-set  plains,  and  whirling  in  the  glory  that 
blazes  and  dazzles  in  places  made  out  of  the  hardest  and 
harshest  of  earth's  material.  There  is  something  in  the 
land  that  never  all  pleases,  and  never  cloys,  that  has 
made  the  race  cling  to  their  mountains,  and  left  them 
unsatisfied,  homesick  even  at  home.  How  sympatheti- 
cally apt  is  the  verse  they  wrote  on  the  exiled  Don 
Gabriele's  tombstone  at  Highgate,  "  But  now  they  desire 
a  better  country  "  ! 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  was  well  content  with  England. 
His  bluff  geniality  of  manner  in  his  best  days  was  called 


138  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [PT.  I. 

particularly  English.     They  have  pointed  out  a  physical 
likeness  between  him  and  Chaucer.     Once  he  thought  of 
visiting  Italy,  got  as  far  as  Paris,  and  turned  back.     But 
the  English  Pierce  strain  had  done  nothing  for  the  making 
of  his  mind  or  temperament ;  and  even  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
movement  did  not  shape  him,  but  only  gave  his  special 
gifts   a   chance.     Ruskin    called   him    "  a   great    Italian 
tormented   in   the    Inferno   of    London."      The    Italian 
element  in  his  genius  has,  of  course,  often  been  touched 
upon,  though  mainly  in  connection  with  his  painting,  but 
its  force  has  been  denied  because  they  could  point  to  no 
Italian  resembling  him.     In  a  ponderous  German  critique 
of  his  genius  ("Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  der  Maler  und 
der    Dichter,   von    Wolfram    Waldschmidt ")    we    read, 
"  Rossetti  steht  in   England  nicht  ohne  Vorganger  da, 
und  in  seiner  mystischen  Kunstrichtung  ist  er  iiberhaupt 
mehr  Englander  als  Italiener."     And  again,  "  Nicht  in 
den  Praraphaeliten,  sondern  in  die  Reihen  der  Englischen 
Visionare  gehort  er."     To  what  English  visionaries  does 
the  critic  refer  .''     Who  are  his  English  forerunners  }     In 
poetry   I    can    only   think    of  the   ballad-makers,  from 
whom  he  learnt  something.     And  assuredly  he   is    not 
Tuscan,  in  spite  of  the  Polidori  blood  and  his  study  of 
Dante.     The  discipline  of  the   Tuscan  spirit  he  under- 
went during  his  translation  of  Tuscan  poetry  counted  for 
something  in  his  making.     But  the  Tuscan  intellectual 
grip  and  clear-cut  precision  were  not  gifts  of  his.     Save 
in  pictorial  vision  he  is  not  precise.     In  all,  save  a  few  of 
his  poems,  there  is  a  sense  of  the  incomplete.     There  are 
loose  ends.     The  final  word  is  there  when  the  vision  is 
rapidly  translated — or  it  is  never   there.     Rossetti    had 
great  artistry,  of  course,  but  it  failed  again  and  again. 
He,  too,  was  improvisator e,  disciplined  by  living  among 
conscious  artists.     And  for  his  pictorial  vision,  expressed 
in  art  and  poetry,  it  is  of  the  race  that  still  utters  its 
religious  faith  and  experience  in  "  representations,"  that 


cii.  VII.]     SINGERS  AND  IMPROVISATORI     139 

must  bring  heaven  and  the  saints  on  to  a  Httle  earthly 
stage  to  vivify  the  dry  bones  of  everyday  living,  and 
make  ballads  about  them,  to  utter  the  conviction  that 
saints  and  "  blessed  damozels "  are  more  present  and 
living  companions  than  kinsfolk  and  neighbours.  He 
is  a  mystic  of  a  more  primitive  type  than  his  father. 
Assuredly  he  is  of  the  race,  a  race  often  undemonstrative, 
yet  hot  and  fantastic  in  love,  incorrigible  mystics,  ever 
seeking  to  pierce  the  Veil,  or  project  pictures  on  it. 

As  for  Christina  Rossetti,  she  was  iniprovisatrice ^Xvsxo^X. 
pure  and  simple.  Her  Goblin  Market,  a  little  work  of 
exquisite  spontaneous  genius,  is  perfect  improvisation. 
No  second  vision  disturbed  the  first.  No  pruning  was 
needed,  and  the  utterance  was  adequate.  For  better  and 
for  worse  she  was  improviser ;  and  she  poured  out  much 
undisciplined  stuff  when  her  brain  and  heart  and  imagina- 
tion were  not  working  in  unison,  and  when  her  inspira- 
tion came  from  the  English  hymn-book.  Perhaps  her 
emancipated  father  never  told  her  a  single  demon-story 
of  the  Abruzzi,  and  yet  the  matter  of  the  poem  might 
well  have  come  out  of  the  folk-lore  of  his  province. 
Moreover,  her  Anglican  training  and  all  the  anti-popish 
principles  she  had  imbibed  from  a  father  who  had  known 
the  evils  of  a  priest-ridden  Naples,  did  not  go  very  deep 
down.  She  and  Maria  Francesca  are  daughters  of  the 
race.  They  are  own  sisters  of  the  large-eyed,  lonely-eyed 
women  you  see  every  day  in  the  Abruzzese  churches  and 
mountain  sanctuaries,  to  whom  religion  is  the  one  reality, 
who  find  their  full  life  only  in  adoration  of  Christ,  His 
mother,  and  the  saints.  Christina  in  England  is  only  a 
little  sadder,  more  homesick  that  there  are  no  holy  feet 
to  kiss,  no  holy  relics  to  brood  over,  for  love  of  the  great 
companions  unseen. 

Improvisation  was  a  great  force  during  the  Risorgi- 
mento,  and  almost  every  young  liberal  was  a  poet.     But 


I40  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

one  of  these  patriotic  improvisers  had  vaster  aims  than 
his  fellows.  His  name  is  probably  quite  unknown  to 
English  readers,  as  it  has  nearly  died  out  of  the  memory 
of  his  compatriots  to-day.  His  works — five  volumes 
there  are  of  them — are  now  unread.  Nevertheless,  Pas- 
quale  de'  Virgilii — born  at  Chieti  in  i8i2 — was  once  the 
hope  of  the  romantics,  and  Victor  Hugo  wrote  to  him 
"  le  souffle  du  vieux  Dante  a  traverse  votre  esprit."  A 
romantic  of  the  romantics,  he  desired  to  expand  his  world 
limitlessly,  and  grasp  all  that  was  great  and  beautiful. 
Byron  was  his  first  inspiration  ;  and  not  only  did  he 
translate  his  dramas,  but  he  followed  in  the  track  of  his 
leader's  footsteps — throughout  Europe,  to  Greece,  and 
the  East,  ever  hungering  for  new  experiences  and  the 
contact  of  diverse  minds  ;  became  the  friend  of  Mehemet 
AH,  of  Reschid-Pasha,  and  of  Mavrogordato,  and  talked 
over  the  New  Italy  with  Pius  IX.  His  love-story  was 
stormy  and  tragic.  An  impassioned  lover  of  liberty,  he 
sang  for  it,  suffered  for  it,  fought  for  it.  His  ideas  and 
faith  he  threw  ceaselessly  on  paper  in  prose  and  verse, 
headed  the  liberal  literary  and  journalistic  movement  in 
Naples,  and  composed  dramas  indefatigably — Masaniello, 
I  Vespri  Siciliani,  Rienso,  and  a  host  of  others.  His 
Condamiiato  perhaps  suggested  Victor  Hugo's  Dernier s 
yours  d'nn  Condanmi ;  and  the  Conimedia  del  Secolo,  full 
of  ideas,  of  poetic  inspiration  and  brilliant  flashes,  was 
hailed  by  an  elect  few  as  something  greater  than  Southern 
Italy  had  yet  produced.  In  1866  Pietrocola,  writing  to 
his  cousin,  Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti,  says,  "  As  regards  poems 
here  among  us  all  is  still  regulated  and  conformable  to 
the  rules  of  the  Ars  Poetica,  if  we  except  one  Abruzzese, 
a  friend  of  mine,  Pasquale  de'  Virgilii,  who  has  broken 
the  Horatian  dykes,  and  goes  ahead,  untrammelled,  pro- 
ducing excellent  things,  but  little  appreciated.  Lately 
he  wrote  an  historical  drama,  Niccolb  de'  Riejizi,  worth 
its  weight  in  gold."     Lighter  spirits  won  recognition,  he 


CH.  VII.]     SINGERS  AND  IMPROVISATORI     141 

none.  He  was  an  improvisatore  weighted  by  too  much 
thought  and  matter  for  his  artistic  powers.  But  one  satis- 
faction De'  Virgihi  had.  He  Hved  to  see  the  Hberation 
of  his  country  ;  and  it  was  he  that  welcomed  Victor 
Emmanuel  into  the  Abruzzi. 

To-day  the  province  is  very  proud  of  its  living  poet — 
Gabriele  d'Annunzio.  The  stern,  austere  mountains — 
and  D'Annunzio  !  It  seems  impossible  to  think  of  them 
together.  But  under  the  rock  there  is  the  fire  ;  and  behind 
the  mountains  are  sheltered,  perfumed  valleys.  And  if 
passion  and  sweetness  do  not  sum  up  all  that  is  in  this 
child  of  our  own  time,  then  let  us  add  that  he  is  Pescarese ; 
that  Pescara  is  built  on  the  low  marshlands  by  the  sea, 
and  is  not  above  the  suspicion  of  malaria.  D'Annunzio 
bears  in  his  heart  a  strong  love  for  his  native  province, 
and  in  his  countrymen's  pride  in  him  there  is  not  the 
shadow  of  criticism.  They  feted  him  and  their  great 
painter  Michetti  the  other  year  at  Chieti ;  and  if  there 
was  such  a  thing  as  crowning  on  the  Capitol  nowadays,  I 
am  sure  an  enthusiastic  band  of  mountain  and  seaboard 
folk  would  storm  Rome  to  see  that  the  laurel  was  duly 
and  thickly  enough  wreathed  about  their  poet's  brows. 
They  play  his  plays,  even  in  the  little  towns,  especially 
the  two  with  Abruzzese  backgrounds — La  Figlia  di  Jorio 
and  La  Fiaccolo  sotto  il  Moggio  ;  and  in  the  little  wooden 
Teatro  d'Ovidio  at  Sulmona  there  is  such  deafening 
applause  as  almost  to  bring  the  crazy  structure  about 
your  ears  on  a  D'Annunzio  night. 

In  the  train  from  Roccaraso  one  day,  a  young  man, 
a  little  employe  in  Naples— a  mixture  of  monkey  and 
mountebank  and  spoilt  child,  withal  a  clever  youngster — 
set  about  amusing  a  carriageful  of  market  women  and 
ourselves  with  his  quips  and  cranks  and  teasings  and 
airs  and  graces.  As  his  manners  were  not  those  of  the 
countryside,  they  flung  "  Neapolitan  "  at  him.    Whereupon 


142  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  i. 

he  wrapped  solemnity  about  him  as  a  mantle,  drew 
himself  up  to  his  full  height,  swelled  till  he  nearly  filled 
the  carriage,  and  with  a  declamatory  gesture  to  the 
mountains  and  to  us,  rolled  out,  "  Non,  non  io  vi  dico ! 
lo  son'  Abruzzese — io  son'  del  paese  di  Gabriele 
D'Annunzio ! " 

I  am  not  writing  a  critique  of  D'Annunzio — am  only 
considering  him  as  Abruzzese,  the  one  voice  in  modern 
poetry  that  has  reached  beyond  the  rocky  frontiers  of  the 
province,  out  to  the  world.  And  he,  too,  is  improvisatore 
— more  so  than  all  the  others — a  literary  artist,  of  course, 
exquisite  and  subtle,  but  essentially  an  improvisatore. 
La  Fiaccolo  sot  to  il  Moggio  is,  in  the  literal  sense  of  the 
words,  an  improvised  drama.  But,  besides,  this  character- 
istic accounts  for  much  that  his  severer  critics  call  "  gush," 
for  his  uncontrolled  stream  of  words  as  of  a  man  drunk 
with  language.  Judging  him  by  certain  classic  models, 
they  say,  "  How  un-Latin,  how  un-Italian  [meaning 
un-Florentine],  how  wanting  in  grip  and  terseness  and 
lucidity ! "  But  he  is  no  Latin,  he  is  no  Tuscan.  He  is 
a  Southerner — impetuous,  luxuriant,  and  sensuous.  In 
fine,  he  is  an  Abruzzese  improvisatore  of  genius,  who 
has  wandered  to  far-away  courts,  got  tainted  with  foreign 
corruption,  become  enamoured  of  strange  beauties,  but 
who  charms  the  big  world  outside  oftentimes  with  songs 
from  his  own  seashore  and  his  mountains. 


PART  II 

CHAPTER  VIII 

TAGLIACOZZO 

The  Valerian  Way — The  earliest  Tahts  Cotium—'Y\\^  body  of  the 
Blessed  Thomas — The  Orsini  and  Colonna — The  Valerian  Way 
within  the  town — The  Soccorso — The  Calvario — The  gests  of 
Giorgi — Jose  Boryes — A  mild  scent  of  brigandage — Benvenuto 
Cellini  at  Tagliacozzo — The  Castello — Home  from  the  hills — The 
Madonna  dell'  Oriente — The  Battle  of  Tagliacozzo — Young 
CONRADIN— Santa  Maria  della  Vittoria. 

Follow  the  ancient  Valerian  Way  from  Tivoli  to  the 
Adriatic,  and  its  chief  arteries,  and  you  need  never  step 
very  far  aside  to  see  what  is  best  and  most  characteristic 
in  the  Abruzzi.  You  can  tread  some  portions  of  the  old 
road  still,  and  the  new  ones  made  yesterday  do  not 
widely  diverge  from  the  ancient  course  planned  by  the 
engineers  of  Imperial  Rome.  In  the  main  it  is  our 
course  through  the  rest  of  this  book. 

The  Via  Valeria  started  from  a  richly  carved  column 
in  the  Forum,  and  ran  eastward,  up  and  down  the  moun- 
tains, to  the  sea.  It  was  not  all  made  at  once.  The 
first  portion,  from  Rome  to  Tivoli,  was  known  as  the  Via 
Tiburtina.  The  Dictator  Valerius  continued  it  to  Cor- 
finium,  and  from  him  the  whole  length  of  the  road 
ultimately  took  its  name.  Later,  Tiberius  Claudius 
brought  it  to  the  Adriatic,  at  the  spot  where  is  now  the 
river  port  of  Pescara.  Its  principal  stations  can  all  be 
traced  to-day,  and  to  set  down  their  ancient  alongside 

143 


144  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  it. 

their  modern  names  is  to  write  a  skeleton  history  of 
vicissitude  and  ruin — Tibur  (Tivoli)  ;  Carsioli  (Carsoli)  ; 
Cuculum  (Scurcola)  ;  Alba  Fucentia  (Albe)  ;  Cerfennia 
on  Mons  Imeus  (to-day  Monte  Caruso)  ;  Staticle  (Gori- 
ano  Siculi)  ;  Corfinium  (Pentima)  ;  Interpromium  (San 
Valentino)  ;  Theate  (Chieti)  ;  Ostia  Aterni  (Pescara). 
All,  save  the  first  and  the  two  last,  have  sunk  into  abject 
insignificance  or  vanished  utterly.  Yet  Alba  was  a 
proud  place,  and  Corfinium  dreamt  of  absorbing  Rome. 

At  Carsoli  you  are  in  the  Abruzzi  ;  but  there  is  no 
sudden  change  to  announce  it.  You  have  already  been 
making  your  way  among  the  mountains  ;  and  the  brown 
villages,  waked  from  their  long  winter  sleep  in  the  snow, 
are  looking  down  and  blinking  at  the  railway  to  which 
they  have  never  grown  used.  Up  you  crawl,  the  brown 
wall  rising  higher  and  higher,  till  the  last  remembrance 
is  shut  out  of  sunny  Rome,  little  more  than  an  hour 
away.  Then  the  mountains  engulf  you  for  miles  upon 
miles  in  their  dark  chambers,  and  daylight  is  sparing 
and  fitful  till  you  are  shot  down  into  a  narrow  green 
plain,  and  the  train  stops  under  a  great  rock  with  houses 
and  towers  clinging  to  it  right  up  to  the  summit.  And 
here,  if  you  would  make  a  good  beginning  in  the 
Abruzzo,  you  will  get  out.  The  wedge  of  green  plain  is 
the  extremity  of  the  Palentine  fields ;  and  the  great 
rock  with  the  ruddy  dwellings  clinging  fast  and  thick 
about  it,  tier  on  tier,  as  far  as  the  grey  fragments  of  ruined 
castle  on  the  peak,  is  Tagliacozzo. 

The  place  smiles  on  you  at  the  start.  There  is  an  air 
of  suavity  about  the  little  avenues  that  wind  round  the 
green  enclosures  where  the  children  play,  and  where  the 
visitors  from  Rome  sit  to  receive  their  friends.  You  can 
watch  half  a  dozen  salons  being  held  at  a  time  on  a 
sunny  morning  in  July.  There  are  old  mellow  convents 
on  the  flat,  and  new  villas  ;  and  if  the  latter  offend  your 
aesthetic  eye,  they  at  least  suggest  well-being  and  comfort, 


CH.  VIII.]  TAGLIACOZZO  145 

till  you  begin  to  conceive  of  the  mountains  as  merely 
scenic,  or  hygienically  contrived  for  shelter ;  or,  should 
you  pant  for  higher  air — though  down  on  the  plain  you 
are  2500  feet  above  the  sea — adapted  for  health-giving 
expeditions.  The  mountaineers  patter  along  on  their 
mules,  simple  folk  who  have  not  yet  learnt  the  use  of 
trains,  and  with  their  touches  of  colour  and  bits  of 
ancient  costume,  a  rose-hued  kerchief,  a  string  of  gilt 
beads  round  a  dark  throat,  a  jaunty  feather  in  a  weather- 
worn hat,  and  sandalled  feet,  they  are  part  of  the  stage 
show ;  they  are  the  picturesque  supers.  We  and  Baede- 
ker, and  the  out-pourings  of  the  villas  on  the  green,  and 
the  ladies  in  villeggiatura,  with  their  sunshades  and 
novels  and  embroidery — we  are  the  real  actors,  bringing 
"  some  life "  into  the  old  place.  And,  indeed,  as  a 
theatrical  background,  the  town  on  the  rock  is  superb. 
You  feel  that  the  scene-painter's  romantic  imagination  has 
run  riot,  that  never  did  town  grow  with  such  flaunting 
defiance  of  the  ordinary,  though  you  cannot  wish  him  to 
have  docked  an  inch  of  his  wild  dream.  Only  it  makes 
one  a  little  uneasy  lest  the  tame  adventures  on  the  green- 
sward should  shame  their  setting. 

And  the  picture  thus  composed  will  be  all  wrong. 
The  pretty  avenues,  the  suave  plain,  the  villas  and  the 
new-made  gardens,  and  the  Roman  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, and  ourselves — these  are  the  illusion,  and  one  that, 
looking  back  on  Tagliacozzo,  is  almost  impossible  to 
recall.  Nowhere  else  in  all  the  Abruzzi  did  we  feel  the 
tang  of  the  wild  as  here  at  the  point  nearest  Rome 
where  the  traveller  is  likely  to  get  down.  Above  the 
railway  and  the  summer  visitors,  the  old  town  hangs,  a 
magnificent  and  a  sinister  reality.  Round  the  rock  it 
climbs  in  a  series  of  twining  ladders,  with  successive 
ledges  for  palace,  or  church,  or  convent ;  till  it  pauses, 
out  of  breath,  at  the  Calvary.  But  beyond  that  rise  the 
fragments  of  the  castle  that  once   commanded    all    the 

L 


146  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

hills  and  valleys  of  the  Marsica.  In  beauty  of  detail  a 
hundred  cities  will  claim  precedence.  For  sheer  pictu- 
resqueness,  for  heroic  defiance  of  all  modern  conditions 
and  demands,  for  surprises  in  the  shape  of  prison-holes 
habitations,  and  noble  outlooks,  Tagliacozzo  is  hard 
indeed  to  rival.  There  are  streets  in  it  to  make  the 
most  uncompromising  philanthropist  stay  his  hand  before 
tampering  with  their  beauty,  and  almost  to  tempt  the 
ordinarily  inhuman  artist  to  sweep  them  away  in  horrified 
pity.  As  for  the  dwellers — we  met  many  agreeable 
persons  in  Tagliacozzo,  and  went  our  ways  freely  all 
round.  Yet  nowhere  else — not  in  the  remote  valley  of  the 
Sagittario,  nor  in  the  solitudes  round  Roccaraso,  nor  in  the 
wind-swept,  top  o'  the  world  plains  about  Ovindoli  and 
Rocca  di  Mezzo — did  we  feel  the  same  suggestion  of 
humanity  untamed  as  here.  Singly,  the  traveller  will 
find  the  people  trustworthy  and  serviceable  ;  but  stir 
them  up  in  the  name  of  their  old  gods,  their  old 
memories,  and  thirty  years  of  training  and  schooling  will 
pass  from  them  like  a  frail  and  tattered  garment.  .  .  . 
Add  a  great  many  more  bizarre  and  original  character- 
istics, and  you  have  Tagliacozzo,  whose  name  is  hardly 
known  save  as  that  of  a  battle  of  long  ago — which  was 
not  fought  here  at  all,  but  over  yonder  to  the  east,  by 
Scurcola,  full  six  miles  away. 

Look  up  at  the  place  from  the  green  below  to  under- 
stand the  name.  Tagliacozzo  is  Talus  cotmm,  the  cleav- 
age of  the  rocks.  Some  great  cataclysm  rent  the  hill- 
side asunder  from  peak  to  plain.  The  left-hand  portion 
has  been  little  built  on.  Only  a  few  lines  of  houses 
straggle  up  to  the  ledge  where  are  what  are  called  the 
sources  of  the  Imele — though  the  little  river  rises  far 
behind  among  the  mountains.  Every  place  has  its  point 
of  local  pride  ;  and  it  is  here  the  Tagliacozzesi  would 
like  to  lead  you,  to  sit  in  a  cave  amid  the  spray  and 
watch  the  water  in  the  pools  outside,   or  see  it  rushing 


c 

N 
N 
O 

U 

< 


< 


CH.  VIII.]  TAGLIACOZZO  147 

past  over  the  stones  to  work  the  little  mills  on  the  way 
to  the  lower  town.  So  fine  a  place  do  they  think  it, 
that  the  fancifully  minded  have  dreamt  of  it  as  the  haunt 
of  the  gayest  of  the  Muses,  and  have  read  their  town  as 
Thali(E  othim,  Thalia's  rest !  But  there  in  front  of  you 
is  the  great  cleft  of  the  rocks  that  plainly  gave  the  place 
its  name. 

The  town  clusters  about  the  right-hand  rock,  because 
one  of  the  arteries  of  the  Valerian  Way  ran  down  there, 
to  join  the  main  road  at  Scurcola.  Probably  the  place 
did  not  exist  at  the  time  of  the  Samnite  wars,  but  sprang 
out  of  the  ruin  of  Carsioli,  destroyed,  or  reduced  to  a 
colony  for  its  resistance  to  Rome,  about  B.C.  300.  The 
refugees  fled  eastwards  to  a  spot  where  they  could  over- 
look the  plain,  to  the  Place  of  the  Cleft.  And  when  the 
Valerian  Way  was  cut  down  here,  other  hamlets  in  the 
neighbourhood  were  gradually  deserted,  and  their  inhabi- 
tants amalgamated  with  the  exiles  from  Carsioli,  to  be 
near  the  new  road  and  the  rushing  Imele,  which  would 
turn  their  mills.  Here,  under  the  castle  rock,  archi- 
tecture can  have  changed  little  since  those  days.  The 
rows  and  tiers  of  cave-boxes  of  to-day  might  be  the 
hastily  thrown-up  shelters  of  the  flying  refugees. 

To  see  Tagliacozzo  historically  one  should  come  over 
the  mountains  on  foot  or  on  mule-back,  not  be  shot  out 
of  the  train  on  the  green  plain  below  ;  for  it  began  here 
at  the  top,  and  made  its  way  down  very  slowly,  very 
shyly.  It  was  the  end  of  the  twelfth  century  before  it 
ventured  as  far  as  the  Piazza.  But  the  normal  route  is 
upward ;  and  we  must  gather  what  history  we  can  on  our 
mounting  way.  First  through  the  Porta  de'  Marsi  to  the 
Piazza  of  the  Obelisk,  whence  we  climb  steadily,  with 
breathing  spaces  where  in  old  days  they  scooped  ledges 
deep  enough  for  church  or  convent.  Tagliacozzo  may  be 
described  as  a  Via  Crucis  ;  at  least,  you  can  say  your 
prayers  to  many  a  saint  on  many  a  level  ere  you  reach 


148  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

the  Calvary  at  the  top.     On  one  of  the  first  ledges  is 
San    Francesco.      The  cloister  is  now   used   for  public 
offices  and  for  a  school ;  and  there  is  a  constant  tread 
of  feet  under  the  arches  and  round  the  old  well,  where 
once  the  frati  walked  in  meditation.      All  round  the 
walls   are  frescoes,  not  of  the  good  time  ;    and  art  in 
austere  mood  has  nothing  to  say  to  them.     But  the  f rate 
who  painted  them  must  have  been  a  young  light-hearted 
brother,  one  who  knew  all  the  fairy-stories  of  his  Order, 
and  not  only  the  common  ones.     Most  of  all  he  liked 
the    gay  young   St.   Francis,  the    romantic   dreamer   of 
chivalry ;  and  youth  on  horseback  with  hunting  horns 
and  in  bright  raiment  he  prefers  to  emaciated  old  friars 
with  a  sense  of  sin.     The  interior  of  the  church  shines 
with  ugly  modernization  ;    and  St.    Francis  must  be  a 
stranger  here,  if  ever  he  enters  this  place  of  his  name. 
I   doubt  if  he  comes  beyond  the  steps  where  the  poor 
folks  sit.     I  saw  a  brown  frock  lingering  amongst  them. 
But  one  relic  of  beauty  and  grace  remains  from  a  better 
time — the  great  wooden  crucifix  hanging  on  the  wall, 
carved  by  a  pious  brother.     In  the  jubilee  year  of  1600, 
it  was  carried  to  Rome  in  procession  ;  and  it  roused  the 
Romans  to  such  a  pitch  of  piety  that  they  stole  it.     But 
some  of  the  Tesi  family  were  persistent,  and  Tagliacozzo 
got  it  back  again.     And  here  is  the  mummified  body  of 
him    who    was    the    Blessed    Thomas    of   Celano,    the 
biographer  of  the  Saint,  and  the  writer  of  the  Dies  Ires. 
After   the  death  of  St.   Francis,  he  was  sent   into   the 
Marsica,  his  own  land,  and  amongst  other  pious  works 
of  his  there,  he  inaugurated  the  convent  of  this  town.    A 
scholar,  a  man  of  elegant  Latinity,  a  noble  of  fine  manners, 
he  was  a   perfect   director   for   cloistered   ladies.     And 
the    Clarisses    of   Valle    de'  Varri    had    him    for    their 
spiritual  guide.     It  was  there  he  died,  somewhere  about 
1250;   and,  in  spite  of  his  beatification,  his  relics  were 
left  where  he  probably  desired  they  should  be  left,  in 


CH.  VIII.]  TAGLIACOZZO  i49 

the  convent  graveyard  in  the  woods.     They  lay  lost  and 
forgotten  for  more  than  two  hundred  and  seventy  years. 
Nowadays  his  writings  are  edited  and  commented,  and 
there  are  hot  disputes  over  them  ;  and  Franciscan  students 
nearly  come  to  blows  on  the  question  whether  he  was  the 
sole  source  of  truth  for  the  history  of  his  master,  or  whether 
he  was  but  a  cold  literary  person  with  a  correct  style  and 
an  official  mind.     Nevertheless,  his  remains  lay  neglected 
for  two  and  a  half  centuries  ;  and  then  the  abbess  of  the 
day  revealed  his    resting-place.      Three   years  after,  in 
1530,  the   ladies  went  to  Scanzano,  their  place  in  the 
woods    no   longer  safe,    being,  indeed,   a   special   mark 
for  invaders  and  robbers.     Scanzano  was  well  disposed 
to   welcome   the  ladies   for   the   sake  of  so  precious  a 
relic ;    for   the    cult   of  the  Blessed   Thomas   suddenly 
woke  up  from  its  long  sleep.     They  were  preparing  for 
the  solemn  translation  of  the  bones,  when  Tagliacozzo, 
getting  wind  of  it,  held  secret  council  thereon.     By  night 
came  a  furtive  band  of  citizens  and  frati,  and  took  the 
body  without  a  by-your-leave.     It  seems  his  own  town 
of  Celano  put  in    no   claim  to   them    at   all,  nor  ever 
honoured  its  son  by  a  single  attempt  to  steal  his  dust ! 

Winding  up  to  a  higher  level,  we  come  on  the 
palace — the  old  Orsini-Colonna,  now  the  Barberini 
palace,  a  plain,  solid,  bulky  pile,  blossoming  out  in  a 
single  carved  stone  loggia  overlooking  the  plain,  Goths, 
Lombards,  Saracens  have  held  the  heights  of  Tagliacozzo, 
and  tumbled  down  its  precipitous  sides  to  pour  through 
the  Marsica.  The  first  lord  whose  authority  it  widely 
acknowledged  was  of  Charlemagne's  race,  Berardus,  son 
of  Pepin  II.  He  and  his  descendants  were  Counts  of 
the  Marsi,  with  sway  all  round  Fucino,  till  the  thirteenth 
century.  Then  they  sided  with  Otto  IV.  against  the 
great  Ghibelline  Emperor  Frederic  II.,  who  turned  his 
arms  against  them  and  swept  them  out  of  their  fief 
In   1250  he  gave  the  investiture  of  it  to  his  son-in-law, 


ISO  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

Napoleone  Orsini.  The  rule  of  the  great  Roman  family 
gave  Tagliacozzo,  till  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
constant  opportunities  of  shedding  its  blood,  and  the 
ancient  Marsian  valour  was  at  the  service  of  the  restless 
Orsini  ambition,  now  conspiring  with  the  barons  of  the 
kingdom,  now  fighting  the  Pope,  now  the  Colonnas, 
whose  stronghold  of  Palestrina,  on  the  Sabine  heights, 
had  a  jealous,  sleepless  rival  in  Tagliacozzo  of  the 
Abruzzo. 

Roberto  Orsini  built  the  palace  here,  with  its  chapel 
frescoed  in  Giottesque  fashion,  in  the  fourteenth  centur}', 
and  its  dungeons.  Save  for  a  few  periods  of  neglect,  it 
has  been  inhabited  ever  since.  The  Orsini  were  caus"ht 
at  last  in  the  meshes  of  the  net  spread  by  Charles  VIII. 's 
invasion  of  Italy ;  and  when  Virginio  Orsini  died  in  a 
Naples  prison,  Tagliacozzo  reverted  to  the  crown,  until 
the  Colonnas,  finally  triumphing  over  their  old  rivals, 
got  it,  and  with  it  the  title  of  Duke.  The  story  of  raids, 
sieges,  and  faction  fights  repeated  itself  under  them  ; 
and  with  the  death  of  Marc-Antonio,  the  hero  of  Lepanto, 
their  great  days  were  over,  and  the  great  days  of  their 
fief  in  the  Abruzzi.  But  the  name  has  only  recently 
passed  from  their  palace,  lately  restored,  and  occupied  in 
summer  by  a  Princess  of  the  Barberini.  Here  it  stands, 
with  hardly  a  trace  of  modernization  on  its  exterior, 
cheek  by  jowl  with  the  dwellings  of  the  poor,  a  grim 
fortress  still,  though  dismantled,  and  gardenless,  so  that 
the  Principessa's  guests,  .in  their  light  summer  raiment, 
with  a  dignified  simplicity  which  the  populace  under- 
stands and  never  abuses,  seat  themselves  on  a  great  heap 
of  broken  stones  on  the  roadway  outside  to  enjoy  the 
evening  air. 

The  new  road  creeps  up  by  wide  zigzags  ;  but  you 
can  mount  by  a  rough,  short  cut,  and  reach  the  ledge 
where  is  the  Porta  Valeria.  Inside,  the  Via  Valeria 
appears  in  the  shape  of  a  mediaeval  street  that  serves 


CH.  viiL]  TAGLIACOZZO  151 

the  inhabitants  of  the  upper  town  as  their  chief  thorough- 
fare. We  climbed  it  first  by  twilight ;  but,  indeed,  there 
are  portions  that  daylight  hardly  visits.  It  is  still  the 
mountain-side :  the  displaced  cobbles,  the  jagged  steps 
on  which  you  tread  are  only  the  broken  rock.  Every- 
where it  is  narrow — two  outstretched  arms  could  almost 
span  it,  and  the  low  houses  are  set  thick,  but  irregularly, 
so  that  the  breaks  in  the  lines  make  crevices  and  caverns 
for  lurking  shadows.  Here  is  a  shrine  under  an  archway, 
and  there  a  chapel  with  children  swarming  on  the  steps. 
Through  open  doors  you  get  glimpses  of  low,  vaulted 
rooms,  like  caves.  From  the  wooden  balconies  above 
your  head  the  stab  of  dark  eyes  pierce  you  as  you  pass. 
The  place  is  alive  with  humanity — uneasy,  restless,  curious 
folk,  whom  your  presence  has  called  out.  The  beggars 
scent  you  and  begin  their  plaints  ;  but  otherwise  there  is 
a  deep  silence  as  you  pass.  Squalor  and  dirt  are  here  as 
you  hardly  find  them  now  in  great  cities — and  beauty 
too.  It  is  a  street  run  back  to  the  wild — a  wedding  of 
untamed  crag  and  dilapidated  hovel.  Eveiy  other  step 
you  try  to  efface  yourself  against  the  wall,  for  the  Angelus 
has  rung  from  the  belfries  ;  and  down  from  the  moun- 
tain, along  the  narrow  way,  come  trains  of  mules  and 
donkeys  and  cattle  and  goats,  with  their  herdsmen  and 
riders.  Now  a  beast  and  man  disappear  beneath  an 
arch,  to  be  housed  and  stabled  there  till  dawn  calls  them 
up  to  the  heights  again,  and  the  rest  pass  on  and  vanish, 
among  the  other  shadows,  into  the  uneasy  night  behind. 
Such  is  the  ancient  Valerian  Way  at  twilight  in  Taglia- 
cozzo.  Amidst  its  dark,  unholy  beauty  we  may  not 
linger,  but  it  is  unforgettable. 

Once  out  at  the  Porta  Romana — or  the  Porta  del 
Soccorso — save  for  a  few  scattered  houses,  the  town  is 
behind  us.  We  are  facing  the  little  Longobard  church, 
whose  beautiful  portico  and  campanile  we  looked  up  to 
from  the  plain  below.     This  is  a  favourite  church  ;  but  it 


152  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.it. 

is  not  very  often  open,  save  on  its  Feast  Day,  August 
15th,  when  a  holy  picture  of  the  Assumption,  with  the 
arms  of  the  town,  and  the  emblem  of  the  Colonnas,  comes 
up  here  from  San  Francesco  in  procession,  and  rests  awhile 
for  the  veneration  of  the  faithful.  But  its  devotees  are 
not  discouraged  on  other  days  by  closed  doors.  The 
wide,  deep  portico,  with  the  faded  frescoes  on  the  fagade, 
does  well  enough.  Our  Lady  of  Help  will  hear,  if  they 
kneel  on  the  threshold,  or  with  their  hands  on  the  sill  of 
the  little  shuttered  windows,  or  just  outside  at  the  base 
of  the  old  carved  stone  cross.  A  friendly  place  this 
threshold  of  the  ancient  church  on  the  edge  of  the 
mountain.  Mothers  sit  there  and  suckle  their  babes,  out 
of  the  glare  of  the  rocks.  It  is  a  nursery  and  a  children's 
club.  While  an  old  grandmother  is  at  her  devotions, 
half  a  dozen  little  girls  keep  up  a  long  sing-song  and 
dancing  game,  and  wheedle  pence  out  of  the  stranger. 
It  is  very  dramatic  ;  and  in  a  wooing  scene  a  little  maiden 
of  eight,  with  the  subjugating  air  of  a  gallant  of  twenty, 
tells  to  a  four-year-old  mite  how  it  is  "  bello  dormire  sul 
letto  de'  fiori,"  and  many  other  sweet  things,  ending  in 
"amore,"  entreating  her,  "Bella  biondina,  dammi  la 
mano." 

Tradition  has  it  that  the  Soccorso  was  built  by  the 
pietistic  Charles  d'Anjou.  Down  in  the  plain,  from  near 
Cappelle,  he  saw  on  these  heights  the  advance  of  Con- 
radin,  and  he  vowed  a  church  to  Madonna,  did  she  stand 
by  him.  Reading  his  victory  as  the  answer  of  the  Queen 
of  Heaven,  he  built  a  temple  here  to  the  Lady  of  Help. 
There  may  be  some  truth  in  the  tale  ;  but  if  so,  the  fa9ade 
and  the  door  are  much  later.  The  atrio  is  of  the  end  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  as  the  inscription  on  the  architrave 
shows — "  Santa  Maria  de  lo  Socorso  ora  pro  nobis  A.D. 
M542  a  di  xxiii  agosto." 

Just  above  the  Soccorso  stands  the  Calvario.  A  rough 
path  lined  by  "  stations  " — with  frescoes  for  the  most  part 


CH.  VIII.]  TAGLIACOZZO  153 

mercifully  obliterated,  if  they  resembled  the  few  left — 
leads  to  the  little  chapel  whose  pretty  loggia  and  tiny 
campanile  are  visible  all  round  and  from  the  plain  below. 
The  whole  town  seems  to  lead  up  to  this  hermitage  and 
sanctuary.  It  dates  from  1702,  and  was  built  by  a  Bene- 
dictine oblate  and  hermit  of  the  Madonna  del  Oriente — 
one  Angelo  Santariga — in  honour  of  the  Passion.  Later 
were  added  the  living-rooms  and  the  garden.  The  stations 
are  of  more  recent  date,  when  a  Franciscan  missionary — 
Leonardo  da  Porto  Maurizio — chose  this  rocky  hillside 
as  his  preaching-ground.  On  his  shoulders  he  carried 
up  the  great  wooden  cross  that  stands  at  the  rear.  His 
pulpit  was  a  huge  stone,  and  round  it  the  people  of  the 
wide  hills  all  about,  and  the  thick  town  beneath,  gathered 
to  listen  ;  and,  fired  by  him,  they  built  the  crescent  of 
stations  below  the  perching  chiesetta.  The  treasure  of 
the  place  is  a  portion  of  the  True  Cross,  exposed  to  the 
veneration  of  the  faithful  on  Fridays  in  March.  Inside 
it  is  the  homeliest  of  holy  places,  this  shrine  of  the  Gesit 
Morie,  all  the  colour  and  almost  the  shape  withered  out 
of  the  altar  finery.  A  door  leads  through  to  the  dwelling 
of  the  hermit — a  tiny,  wizened  atom  of  humanity,  a  frail, 
fusty-looking  bundle,  save  when,  in  full  dress,  in  his  new 
beaver,  his  best  brushed-up  frock,  new  leathern  girdle, 
and  his  wallet  over  his  shoulder,  he  goes  down  to  the 
town  for  alms.  He  is  gentle-faced,  with  crinkled  smiles 
about  his  old  eyes  and  mouth.  His  life  is  not  gay.  When 
the  winter  winds  sweep  down  the  gap  in  the  hills  they 
must  whistle  cruelly  about  his  little  body  ;  and  in  summer 
the  path  is  steep  indeed  from  the  lower  town  whence 
most  of  his  pence  must  come.  But  he  is  not  solitary. 
He  is  a  married  hermit.  The  Church  is  merciful,  and 
does  not  hold  that  the  Angelus  is  rung  in  vain  for  the 
presence  of  an  ill-favoured  wife.  She  looks  faithful,  if 
uncomely.  The  pious  little  creature  struggling  up  the 
stony  path  under  his  bisaccio,  or  his  little  pail  of  "  good 


154  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

water  "  from  the  well  below,  has  his  dreams  of  the  world. 
He  is  no  old  shepherd.  Once  he  was  "  a  merchant "  in 
Rome.  It  has  a  high  sound  ;  but  perhaps  he  has  lost 
no  princely  fortune.  It  is  far  back  into  his  childhood  he 
looks  with  longing  awe,  when  he  lived  with  his  mother  in 
"  a  house  with  two  loggias  !  "  Some  relations  who  had 
been  benefactors  to  the  sanctuary  got  him  the  hermit's 
place ;  and  dreaming  of  his  childhood's  palazzo,  he 
accepts  soldi  with  gratitude.  Still  more  does  he  like  a 
bit  of  company,  and  he  will  sit  for  hours  in  the  roadway 
below  the  hermitage  for  the  sake  of  a  word  or  two  from 
the  passing  herdsmen  and  labourers.  They  have  nothing- 
else  to  give  him.  I  have  seen  him  quivering  with  impotent 
rage  when  holiday-makers  used  his  Via  Crucis  as  a  short 
cut  by  which  to  gain  the  castle  track  ;  and  he  would  have 
broken  his  feeble  limbs  in  vain  pursuit  had  we  not  dis- 
tracted him  with  questions  about  the  guardian  mountains 
behind.  For  one  of  them  he  has  great  veneration — Monte 
Midia,  from  which  you  can  descry,  he  says,  Rome  and 
the  Tyrrhenian  Sea.  For  him  it  is  Mount  Pisgah.  Go 
up  there,  he  says,  by  night,  and  you  will  see  the  blaze  of 
light  about  St.  Peter's — that  is,  all  the  splendour  of  earth 
and  the  glory  of  heaven. 

Up  here  at  the  Calvario  you  seem  above  the  world, 
and  at  peace  ;  but  a  harsh  note  is  struck  when  in  his 
infinitesimal  garden  the  hermit  points  to  the  ruined  shrine 
of  Sta.  Scholastica.  Ruined  by  the  Piedmontese,  he  says. 
To  him  the  Piedmontese  remain  what  they  seemed  then 
to  all  the  Southerners,  heathen  barbarians,  foreign  dogs  ; 
and  it  is  doubtful  if  he  ever  connects  their  passing  with 
the  advent  of  a  time  which  has  brought  peace  to  him  and 
his,  or  with  a  Government  to  which  he  is  probably  not 
disaffected.  But  the  ruin  of  Sta.  Scholastica  awakes  one 
from  the  peace  of  the  hills  with  stormy  memories. 

Fighting  in  Tagliacozzo  did  not  cease  with  the  feudal 
quarrels  and  raids  of  Orsini  and   Colonna.     It  has  ever 


CH.  VIII.]  TAGLIACOZZO  i55 

needed  but  the  slightest  ferment  to  set  the  bells  a-ringing, 
and  bring  out  the  folks  of  the  high  town  with  knives  and 
cudgels.  The  French  occupation  caused  much  excite- 
ment and  roused  ill  blood.  The  cleavage  between  the 
educated  population  and  the  lower  classes  was  complete  ; 
and  the  Bourbon  conspiracies  which  stirred  and  bribed  the 
populace  to  reaction,  bore  unhappy  fruit  here.  The  see- 
saw of  tyranny  demoralized  a  fiery  population,  and  made 
Tagliacozzo  a  troublous  place  during  the  Risorgimento, 
It  is  just  up  here  by  the  Calvario  and  the  Soccorso,  both 
battered  in  the  skirmishes,  on  the  road  from  Rome  into 
the  Marsica,  that  we  can  best  recall  the  stormy  time. 
Throughout  the  town,  among  the  substantial  citizens 
and  the  artisans,  liberal  ideas  were  rife.  The  liberals 
were,  in  the  main,  persons  of  standing,  and  their  houses 
well  worth  sacking,  which  gave  a  peculiar  zest  to  the  task 
of  persuading  them  to  correct  opinions.  Mazzinians 
had  suffered  much  and  heroically  ;  but  among  all  the 
cultivated  gentlemen  and  intelligent  artisans  who  made 
private  sacrifices  for  the  sake  of  a  free  and  united  Italy, 
there  was  a  lamentable  lack  of  leadership.  And  the 
people  of  the  high  town  and  the  shepherds  from  the 
mountain  villages  were  flattered  into  thinking  they  were 
divinely  appointed  avengers  of  Church  and  throne  and 
morality.  Likewise,  there  were  good  pickings  to  be  had 
in  reward  of  zeal.  Even  when  the  rest  of  the  world 
knew  that  the  cause  of  united  Italy  was  won,  they  did 
not  know  it  here.  The  lying  rumours  were  louder  than 
the  truth. 

Then  came  Giorgi's  opportunity.  It  is  difficult  to 
think  of  him  now  without  laughing ;  but  Giorgi  had  his 
great  hour,  when  distracted  mayors  and  solemn  persons 
of  worth  lost  their  heads  and  took  him  at  his  own  estima- 
tion. He  was  a  native  of  Tagliacozzo,  though  brought  up 
at  Aquila  by  the  Jesuits.  He  was  bred  to  the  law,  and 
early  in  life  embraced  liberal  views,  but  discarded  them 


156  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

for  reasons  doubtless  satisfactory  to  himself  Having 
got  into  trouble  for  cattle-lifting  and  other  offences, 
he  suffered  a  period  of  forced  retirement  in  Chieti ;  but 
in  the  excitement  of  the  time  this  "  misfortune "  was 
forgotten.  He  said  he  had  a  commission  from  Francis 
at  Gaeta,  which  was  not  unlikely.  The  price  of  such 
commissions  was  proof  of  willingness  to  make  a  row  and 
annoy  the  other  side.  Giorgi  joined  La  Grance's  royalist 
troops  at  first ;  but  his  was  a  proud  spirit,  and  in  his  own 
old  home  and  the  neighbourhood  he  was  nobody's  man 
but  the  Bourbon's.  His  procedure  was  simple,  and  for  a 
time  effective.  At  Avezzano,  for  example,  he  proclaimed 
himself  Intendente  of  the  district,  and  with  this  dignified 
name,  and  riding  on  a  horse  he  had  stolen,  and  with 
a  scratch  troop  behind  him  of  deluded  shepherds,  of 
brigands  from  the  hills,  and  of  men  much  better  than 
himself,  he  cut  a  very  fine  figure  indeed.  He  was 
resisted,  of  course  ;  he  was  thought  worth  while  resisting. 
The  mayor  and  councillors  of  Avezzano  were  scared, 
sent  for  troops  in  all  directions,  but  finally  gave  in. 
Keys  of  cities  were  handed  to  him  abjectly ;  he  levied 
taxes  on  the  liberals,  which  were  paid.  He  sacked 
houses.  Avezzano,  Scurcola,  Cappelle,  and  Magliano 
were  practically  his.  In  Tagliacozzo  his  band  shouted, 
"  Garibaldi  is  dead  !  "  and  were  believed  ;  "  Long  live 
King  Francis !  "  and  were  echoed.  He  had  to  flee  some- 
times, when  news  of  Capua  came,  for  instance  ;  and  he 
took  with  him  spoil  of  money  and  valuables,  which  never 
reached  Gaeta.  But  he  came  to  the  top  again,  and  had 
a  merry  time  while  it  lasted.  At  Carsoli  he  entered  in 
grand  style,  and  from  there  came  on  for  a  determined 
attack  on  Tagliacozzo.  The  Italian  soldiers  were  waiting 
for  him  just  here  at  the  Calvario.  Giorgi's  men  made  a 
great  show ;  but  those  spread  about  the  castle  rocks  and 
the  opposite  hill  were  mostly  shouldering  staves  and  cud- 
gels for  guns.    There  were  enough  armed  ones,  however, 


CH.  viiL]  TAGLIACOZZO  157 

for   a   stiff    fight ;    and    men    of   both  sides    He    buried 
behind  the  hermitage.     The  Italian  soldiers  had  orders 
to  move  on  to   Avezzano,  and  left  the  town  but  little 
defended  from  Giorgi,  who  stirred  the  crowds  to  sack 
and  plunder.     The  lawless  were  just  breaking  out  at  the 
word  of  the  "  Intendente,"  when  a  handful  of  belated  men 
of.  the  40th,  hurrying  down  after  their  regiment,  multi- 
plied themselves  to  the  excited  mind  of  the  populace 
into  a  new  army,  and  cleared  the  streets.     Giorgi  moved 
on,  well  in  the  rear  of  the  Italians.     Enthusiasm  still 
reigned  among  his  followers  ;  and  one  of  them,  a  priest, 
proclaimed  him  "  the  Christ  of '61."     But  his  hour  was 
passing ;  and  at  Scurcola,  which  he  was  counting  on  for 
plunder,  there  were  cries  of  "  Morte  a  Giorgi  !  "     "  Fuori 
i  briganti !  "     It  was  now  or  never  for  spoil,  for  a  new 
detachment   of  troops  was   expected.     The   general    in 
charge  let  him  have  his  will  for  a  time,  pretending  to 
retire.     But  attacked  in  the  open,  the  Giorgian   valour 
oozed.     He  flew  back  to  Tagliacozzo,  leaving   seventy 
dead  behind  him,  including  the  priest  who  had  proclaimed 
him  "the  Christ  of '61."     At  dawn  he  escaped  to  Rome, 
seeking  reinforcements.     He  skulked  about  there  for  a 
time  ;    but  pay  was  not  forthcoming.     There  were  too 
many  counts  against  him  ;  and  his  jest  had  turned  sour. 
So  he  travelled  to  the  East,  to  Smyrna,  playing  a  beau 
rolesWW.,  I  suppose.     Caught,  however,  and  brought  back 
to  Aquila,  he  was  sentenced  to  penal  servitude  in  Elba, 
and  died  before  the  end  of  his  term. 

In  Tagliacozzo  it  was  long  before  they  ceased  to 
expect  his  return  ;  and  there  were  many  who  suffered  for 
fidelity  to  the  jester-Intendente.  Colonel  Quintini  was 
about  to  bombard  the  high  town,  from  S.  Cosma  up  to 
the  Soccorso,  and  only  desisted  at  the  supplication  of  the 
liberals ;  but  he  declared  a  state  of  siege  ;  and  every 
house  or  hovel  backing  on  the  rock,  and  in  the  long 
dark  street  as  far  as  the  Valerian  Gate,  was  searched  for 


I5S  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

arms.  Still  the  peasants  waited  for  Giorgi,  even  after 
Gaeta  had  capitulated,  and  there  were  more  skirmishes 
up  at  the  Calvario  ;  and  the  sentries  by  the  Roman  Gate 
knew  no  rest  till  the  contadini  went  back  to  their  flocks 
and  fields  again,  and  left  "  the  cause  "  to  the  brigands. 

But  the  Bourbons  had  a  more  imposing  witness  in 
Tagliacozzo  than  the  rascal  Giorgi.  Why  have  writers 
of  adventurous  romance  neglected  the  career  of  Jose 
Borjes  ?  I  hand  over  the  suggestion  to  them  hoping 
the  theme  may  be  handled  by  one  who  knows  the 
wild  country  the  Spaniard  sped  through  in  his  last  ex- 
pedition. Borjes  was  a  royalist  of  Catalonia,  who  had 
fought  valiantly  in  the  legitimist  war  in  his  own  country. 
After  that  his  sword  was  ready  in  defence  of  "  the  cause  " 
anywhere.  He  was  an  old-world  soldier  of  adventure, 
and  minute  scrupulosity  of  means  and  methods  was  not 
a  feature  of  his  school.  He  was  no  hired  ruffian,  how- 
ever, but  a  fervent  Catholic,  a  royalist  of  intense  con- 
viction, and  brave  and  audacious  to  the  ultimate  demands 
of  romance.  Called  to  Rome  and  hired  by  the  Bourbons, 
he  undertook  an  expedition  through  Calabria  and  the 
Basilicata  to  raise  volunteers  and  organize  an  effective 
attempt  at  Bourbon  restoration.  He  had  with  him  a 
number  of  Spanish  gentlemen,  soldiers  of  tried  valour. 
Borjes  began  his  recruiting  work  with  ability  and  en- 
thusiasm, and  kept  up  the  courage  of  his  men  through 
a  constant  discouragement  lit  by  hardly  one  gleam  of 
luck.  The  information  given  him  was  utterly  mislead- 
ing ;  the  money  and  support  promised  were  not  forth- 
coming. Only  the  poor  folks  followed  him  who  could 
not  feed  them.  Throughout  the  hopeless  expedition 
Borjes  kept  a  journal,  an  interesting  document  which 
exists  now,  a  most  poignant  revelation  of  a  brave  man, 
never  for  a  moment  blind  to  all  the  odds  against  him. 
"  The   rich,"   he  writes,  "  with  very  few   exceptions,  are 


cii.  VIII.]  TAGLIACOZZO  159 

everywhere  bad," — by  which  he  means  that  they  were 
not  Borbonesi,  or  at  least  not  disposed  to  make  any 
sacrifices  for  the  cause.  He,  or  L'i\nglois,  who  was 
nominally  in  command  of  the  expedition,  resorted  to 
means  for  which  they  had  the  sanction  and  example  of 
kings  and  cardinals  ;  that  is,  they  leagued  themselves  with 
the  brigand  Donatello  Crocco  and  his  band.  Crocco,  a 
ruffian  of  the  most  brutally  criminal  type,  professed 
correct  Catholic  and  legitimist  sentiments,  of  course  ;  but 
if  any  one  was  duped  by  this,  it  was  not  Borjes,  as  his 
Journal  testifies.  "  We  lodge  the  band,"  he  writes,  "  and 
the  chiefs  go  off  to  steal  whatever  they  please."  And 
again,  "  Crocco  has  left  us  on  the  pretext  of  finding 
bread,  but  I  fear  it  is  only  for  the  purpose  of  hiding  the 
money  and  the  jewels  he  has  stolen."  They  parted  at 
last ;  but  the  expedition  was  doomed ;  and  Borjes  made 
up  his  mind  that  retreat  with  the  few  followers  that 
remained  was  the  only  thing  left.  The  Italian  soldiers 
were  on  his  track.  He  made  for  Rome  through  the 
Abruzzi  by  forced  night  marches.  Winter  had  set  in, 
and  the  cold  was  an  enemy  that  could  not  miss  them. 
The  route  of  the  little  band,  a  handful  of  Spaniards  and 
a  few  Italian  volunteers,  lay  from  the  Terra  di  Lavoro 
over  the  terrible  plain  of  Cinquemiglia,  where  vaster 
bands  than  theirs  had  perished  before.  When  they 
gained  the  Avezzano  road  hope  must  have  stayed  them, 
for  the  frontier  of  the  Papal  States  was  nearing.  Turn- 
ing aside  to  avoid  the  town,  they  passed  Cappelle  and 
Scurcola ;  and  in  the  guise  of  chestnut  merchants  going 
to  Sante  Marie,  got  through  the  gates  of  Tagliacozzo. 
Now  they  were  on  the  threshold  of  safety.  On  the  Sante 
Marie  road,  worn  out  and  starving,  in  a  night  of  terrible 
cold,  they  halted  for  food  and  a  fire  near  the  Mastroddi 
farm.  But  on  the  way  they  had  been  watched  by  a 
shrewd  man,  who  knew  Borjes  was  being  looked  for,  and 
suspected  the  chestnut  merchants.     He  gave  information 


i6o  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

to  the  carabiniers  at  Avezzano,  who  galloped  in  pursuit 
on  fresh  horses,  and  soon  came  up  with  the  weary 
remnant  at  the  farm.  The  fight  was  desperate,  and  the 
resistance  of  the  Spaniards  gallant  to  the  end,  which  was 
never  doubtful.  Their  guns,  horses,  and  papers  seized, 
they  were  taken  back  to  Tagliacozzo,  the  coolness  of 
their  bearing  winning  them  their  captors'  admiration. 
Of  their  plans  they  would  tell  nothing.  Only  one  bitter 
word  escaped  Borj^s.  "  As  for  my  business  in  Rome,  I 
was  on  my  way  thither  to  tell  King  Francis  that  there 
are  only  rascals  and  ruffians  left  to  defend  him  ;  that 
Crocco  is  a  blustering  coward  and  L'Anglois  a  brute  !  " 
Save  for  that,  it  was — 

"  Sae  ranting! y,  sae  dauntingly, 
Sae  wantonly  gaed  he  "  ; 

Wantonly  ?  No.  They  were  Spaniards,  and  their  high- 
hearted dignity  stopped  short  of  mirth  ;  though  on  their 
way  to  execution  next  morning  in  the  Largo  del  Popolo 
of  Tagliacozzo,  they  chatted  with  charming  courtesy  to 
their  guards,  and  smoked  as  if  it  had  been  a  party  of 
pleasure.  "  Courage,  my  young  fellows  ! "  cried  Borjes 
to  the  Italian  soldiers.  "  Love  Italy ;  defend  her,  and 
do  her  honour — and,  I  beg  you,  do  not  aim  at  my 
face,  but  aim  well."  They  all  confessed,  embraced  the 
leader,  knelt  while  he  sang  a  Spanish  litany,  and  met 
death  singing.  One  of  them  had  written  on  the  eve, 
"  We  are  all  resigned  to  be  shot.  We  shall  meet  again 
in  the  Valley  of  Jehosaphat."  A  cry  went  up  even 
among  the  liberals  against  this  summary  justice,  and  it 
was  echoed  throughout  Europe.  Victor  Hugo  was 
among  the  protesters.  But  Borjes  had  never  hidden 
from  himself  the  end  of  a  leader  of  a  lost  cause. 

The  royalist  fervour  was  for  the  moment  hotter  than 
ever  in  the  Marsica  ;  but  it  died  out  for  want  of  a  head, 
leaving  well-conditioned  folk  to   settle  down  slowly  to 


CH.  viiL]  TAGLIACOZZO  i6i 

a  new  state  of  things,  and  adapt  their  minds  to  the 
thought  of  an  Italy  in  which  the  old  kingdom  of  Naples 
was  henceforth  a  mere  province.  But  a  heritage  of 
turbulence  and  suspicion  was  left  behind.  Smuggling 
over  the  Papal  frontier  was  a  source  of  considerable 
profit  and  a  cause  of  much  fighting  till,  along  with 
brigandage,  it  died  of  the  obliteration  of  the  frontier  and 
the  union  of  the  Papal  States  with  Italy. 

There  is  a  mild  scent  of  brigandage  in  the  air  here 
still.  The  little  boys  of  the  upper  town  emulate  the 
bandits  in  spirited  fashion  ;  and  alone  with  them  on  the 
hillside  one  day,  I  found  my  virtuous  refusal  of  soldi  had 
such  serious  consequences  that  I  wished  I  might  have 
demoralized  half  the  population  with  alms  rather  than 
encounter  the  volley  of  well-aimed  stones  which  showed 
their  opinion  of  foreign  meanness.  They  sit  on  the 
rocks  up  there,  with  their  one  goat  or  their  two  sheep, 
well  out  of  the  schoolmaster's  reach  ;  and  doubtless  tell 
each  other  tales  of  the  exploits  of  Crocco  or  Ninco- 
Nanco,  and  dream  of  reviving  the  good  old  days.  And 
maybe  they  will  grow  up  law-abiding  and  civil-spoken 
persons  like  most  of  their  fathers — and  maybe  not.  For 
human  nature  here  is  vivacious,  and  sometimes  a  little 
sinister — and  poverty  is  very  evident. 

In  our  lodgings  they  boasted  how  Roman  visitors 
besieged  them  in  summer  time,  willing  to  pay  anything 
for  the  privilege  of  a  corner.  But  on  the  eve  of  our 
departure  we  found  the  whole  family  known  to  us  madly 
gloating  over  our  mountain-worn-and-torn,  discarded 
boots  and  garments.  At  our  approach  they  seized  them 
and  fled  ;  but  came  back  to  present  unknown  members — 
with  "  Niente  per  questo  bambino  ?  Ah-h-h !  Niente 
per  questa  poverina  }  Ah-h-h  !  "  It  was  difficult  to  escape 
from  the  clutching  hands  and  greedy  eyes  with  our 
travelling  garments  intact.     We  felt  the  breath  of  the 

M 


i62  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

brigands.      This     was    at     Tagliacozzo,    and     nowhere 
else. 

And  speaking  of  genial  ruffians — for  such  was  Giorgi 
— I  am  reminded  of  one  who  came  here  a  long  time  ago, 
Benvenuto  Cellini.  The  goldsmiths  of  the  Abruzzo  were 
famous,  and  Ascanio,  one  of  his  cleverest  apprentices, 
was  a  native  of  Tagliacozzo.  II  Vecchino,  as  he  was 
called,  was  a  talented  little  imp  of  twelve  or  thirteen 
when  Cellini  took  him  into  his  employment.  Taking 
example  by  his  master  and  beating  the  shop  boy,  he  was 
thrashed  by  Benvenuto  and  ran  away.  Of  Benvenuto's 
wrath,  and  how  the  father  came  down  from  his  mountains 
to  entreat  the  great  man  to  leniency,  is  it  not  written  in 
the  wonderful  Vita  ?  When  Cellini  went  to  France  for 
the  first  time,  Ascanio  insisted  on  going  with  him  ;  he 
kept  his  master's  shop  when  he  was  in  the  fortress  of 
St.  Angelo,  visited  his  master  very  often,  and  was,  indeed, 
a  faithful  little  plague.  On  Benvenuto's  refusal  to  give 
him  his  blue  satin  vest  to  make  a  coat  of,  he  bade  him 
adieu  for  ever  in  a  frenzy  of  rage,  and  Cellini  begged  the 
castellan  never  to  let  him  in  again.  "  The  castellan  was 
much  distressed,  for  he  knew  the  boy  to  be  wonderfully 
talented,  and,  besides,  he  was  of  so  fair  a  shape  that  no 
one  could  see  him  without  falling  deeply  in  love  with 
him.  The  lad  went  away  weeping.  He  was  carrying, 
I  must  tell  you,  a  little  scimitar,  which  sometimes  he 
wore  secretly  under  his  garments.  When  he  left  the 
castle,  his  face  all  tearstained,  he  met  with  two  of 
my  worst  enemies.  One  of  them  was  Jeronimo,  the 
Perugian,  and  the  other  was  called  Michele,  and  they 
were  both  goldsmiths.  Michele,  who  was  a  friend  of  that 
rascally  Perugian,  and  none  to  Ascanio,  said,  '  What  is 
the  meaning  of  Ascanio  weeping  .<•  Perhaps  his  father 
is  dead.  I  mean  that  father  of  his  in  the  castle.'  Where- 
upon the  boy  replied,  '  He  is  alive,  but  you're  a  dead 
man  ! '  and,  lifting  his  hand,  he  struck  twice  at  the  man's 


CH.  VIII.]  TAGLIACOZZO  163 

head  with  his  scimitar.  At  the  first  blow  he  knocked 
him  down,  with  the  second  he  cut  off  three  fingers  of  his 
right  hand,  though  he  had  aimed  at  his  head,  and  the 
fellow  lay  there  for  dead."  (Ascanio  is  Tagliacozzese  all 
over.)  The  affair  was  likely  to  be  serious  for  Benvenuto, 
who  cleared  himself  with  some  difficulty.  "  Ascanio 
fled  home  to  Tagliacozzo,  and  from  there  he  wrote  ask- 
ing my  pardon  a  thousand  times,  saying  he  knew  he  had 
been  wrong  to  add  to  my  vexations  and  my  great  trouble. 
But,  he  went  on,  if  by  God's  grace  I  got  out  of  prison,  he 
would  never  leave  me  any  more.  I  sent  him  word  that 
he  was  to  go  on  learning  his  trade  ;  and  I  promised,  if 
God  ever  gave  me  my  liberty,  I  should  certainly  call  him 
back  to  me." 

Later,  when  a  free  man,  Benvenuto  came  to  Taglia- 
cozzo for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  and  to  visit  his  pupil. 
"  There  I  found  him,  together  with  his  father,  brothers, 
sisters,  and  stepmother.  For  two  days  I  was  entertained 
by  them  with  the  utmost  hospitality  ;  and  then  I  departed 
on  my  return  journey,  taking  Ascanio  along  with  me." 

Ascanio  had  a  distinguished  after-career.  He  went 
to  France  again  with  his  master,  received  a  salary  from 
Francis  I.,  took  part  in  Benvenuto's  triumphs  and  his 
broils,  fell  in  love,  and — with  that  bizarrerie  which  is  a 
constantly  recurring  note  in  the  true  Abruzzese — housed 
his  lady  in  the  head  of  Cellini's  great  statue  of  Mars, 
when  her  movements,  seen  through  the  eye-holes,  revived 
in  the  people  of  Paris  the  legend  of  the  spectre  Maine 
Boicrreau.  He  was  left  behind  with  Pagolo,  another 
apprentice,  in  charge  of  Benvenuto's  property  when  he 
quitted  France,  after  which  Ascanio,  once  his  "  first  and 
dearest,"  is  called  "that  traitor,  Ascanio."  But  the 
charges  of  faithlessness  to  his  former  master's  interests 
are  by  no  means  surely  founded.  It  seems  the  lads  had 
much  to  suffer  on  the  great  man's  account  after  his 
departure.     Later,  Ascanio  de'  Mari  became  goldsmith 


i64  IN  THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

to  Henry  H.,  married  a  daughter  of  the  Delia  Robbia 
family,  and  became  Seigneur  of  Beaulieu. 

From  the  Calvary  it  is  still  a  stiff  climb  to  the  long- 
deserted  castle.  The  lower  portions  of  the  central  fort 
are  standing  ;  there  are  fragments  of  outworks  running 
down  the  hill ;  and  the  whole  circuit  of  the  place  can 
still  be  traced,  as  it  rises  over  a  superb  rock,  a  magnificent 
fortress  of  nature.  No  one  knows  its  earliest  history. 
Probably  it  was  first  thrown  up  long  before  Pepin's  son 
was  lord  here.  It  sheltered  Conradin  on  his  way  to  the 
tragedy  of  the  plain  below.  It  withstood  the  Tiburtines 
in  their  constant  feuds  with  the  Orsini.  Ladislas  re- 
fortified  it  in  his  struggle  for  a  kingdom.  Long,  long  it 
has  lain  in  ruins,  and  now  it  serves  to  shelter  a  shepherd 
from  the  midday  rays,  or  a  dreamer  looking  from  it  over 
a  wonderful  world.  A  great  theatre  scene  lies  out  to  the 
east — the  plain  of  the  Marsica,  and  under  Scurcola  the 
battlefield  where  the  boy  Conradin  played  for  a  kingdom 
and  all  but  won  ;  the  little  hill  towns  thrown  up  aloft, 
or  nestling  in  the  folds  of  the  mountains — Cese,  San 
Sebastiano,  Poggio  Filippo,  Antrosano,  little,  ruined, 
once-great  Albe,  You  are  far  above  the  world  here,  and 
in  touch  with  many  mountains,  Velino,  Sirente,  Monte 
Bove  behind  to  the  left,  and,  onward,  the  ranges  across 
Fucino.  It  is  very  lonely  and  very  quiet,  yet  humanity 
is  not  far  away,  and  from  the  edge  of  the  outer  wall  you 
can  watch  its  comings  and  goings  and  its  labours.  Below 
is  the  Soccorso,  and  from  here  you  can  watch  the  whole 
process  of  primitive  threshing  that  goes  on  in  the  cobbled 
threshing-floor  behind  it.  One  day  they  burn  away  all 
the  grass,  endangering  the  church  and  filling  the  glen  with 
smoke.  Next  you  watch  a  white  horse  and  a  brown,  tread- 
ing the  corn,  and  the  severing  of  the  chaff  from  the  grain, 
and  the  sweeping  up  of  the  straw,  and  the  sacking  and 
carting  of  the  grain.     Young  Italy  shakes  his  head,  and 


CH.  VIII.]  TAGLIACOZZO  165 

tells  us  to  a  bushel  how  much  the  farmer  has  lost  for  want 
of  a  machine,  and  how  brutalizing  and  how  wasteful  is  his 
labour.  But  they  were  busy  and  expert  husbandmen 
those  fathers  and  sons  down  there.  What  they  lost  is 
calculable  ;  what  they  gained  not  so. 

The  hills  are  sudden  and  quick-change  actors.  Re- 
turning by  the  Cappadocia  road,  we  are  stayed  on  our 
way  by  enchanters  in  the  shape  of  two  little  shepherd 
boys.  One  babbles  to  us  with  the  confidence  of  those  to 
whom  all  the  world  is  friendly,  and  gives  us  wild  goose- 
berries out  of  his  wallet.  The  other  has  no  words.  A 
ragged-locked  wild  thing  of  the  hills,  he  pipes  shrill, 
sweet  melodies  to  us  on  a  wooden  pipe  of  his  own 
fashioning.  They  are  gone,  and  we  are  in  a  new  world. 
The  range  behind,  in  which  is  engulfed  the  road  to  Rome, 
is  black  and  awesome.  But  in  front  all  is  glory  and 
wonder.  The  far  hillsides  are  of  pearl  and  opal  and 
kingly  purple,  the  long  crags  of  living  gold.  The  near 
hills  run  with  us  while  we  hasten,  but  the  far  ones  retreat 
and  are  proud  ;  or  they  sink  into  a  soft  slumber  ;  and  the 
towns  we  had  an  hour  ago  pointed  to  and  named,  are  but 
as  handfuls  of  coloured  dust  about  their  eternal  steeps. 

A  soft  bell  rings  out  from  the  Calvario :  the  little 
hermit  has  seen  the  sun  set  behind  Midia  ;  and  now  the 
hillside  becomes  alive.  Down  the  craggy  paths  in  a  slow 
rhythm  come  the  men  and  the  beasts,  herdsmen  with 
their  flocks  of  sheep  and  goats,  labourers  with  loads  of 
wood  from  the  forest,  or  from  some  high-set  stony  fields. 
Now  and  then  a  mule-hoof  rings  out  sharp  on  the  rock. 
It  is  the  only  sound,  for  incredibly  soft  is  the  tread  of  the 
sandalled  feet  on  the  homeward  track.  Obeying  some 
law  of  the  twilight  sky,  no  man  speaks.  White  or  light- 
clad,  they  move  on  like  ghosts,  each  man  a  unit  in  the 
long  procession,  or  each  group  curiously  isolated  in  the 
clear,  quiet    air,  as  if  all  unconscious  of  the  rest.     So 


i66  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

would  it  be  in  a  dream.  And  this  is  a  dream,  that 
annihilates  the  ages — after  the  heat  and  stress  of  the 
day,  immemorial  labour  going  downward  to  its  rest. 
But  the  riders  have  a  proud  seat,  and  are  knights,  if  you 
will,  returning  from  raid  and  foray,  should  your  fancy 
play  that  way.  At  the  Gesu  Morte,  and  at  the  stone 
cross  of  Our  Lady  of  Help,  the  old  ones  bare  their  heads. 
And  now  their  ways  divide.  Some  go  in  at  the  Roman 
gate,  and  there  is  a  clattering  of  hoofs  down  the  narrow 
Valerian  Way,  and  a  vanishing  there  into  dark  holes  till 
morning.  The  rest,  and  we  with  them,  take  the  long 
white  road  to  the  left,  under  the  castle,  that  folds  and 
writhes  and  turns  to  make  an  easier  track  on  the  hill- 
side. A  star  shoots  a  gleam  on  us  from  above,  and  there 
are  sparse  lights  here  and  there  in  the  town.  They  are 
coming  on  behind  us.  We,  too,  are  constrained  to  silence, 
and  fall  into  the  slow  rhythm  of  the  homing  feet  on  their 
way  to  the  plain  and  into  the  night. 

The  neighbourhood  of  Tagliacozzo  is  so  beautiful 
and,  in  its  softer  as  in  its  wilder  aspects,  so  perfect  an 
epitome  of  the  Abruzzi,  that  there  is  no  reason  save 
restlessness  for  moving  on.  Behind,  in  the  high  valley 
near  Cappadocia,  where  are  the  entrancing  springs  of  the 
Liris,  or  among  the  vineyards  and  cornfields,  where  the 
Imele  flows,  there  is  every  temptation  to  linger.  The 
Imele  is  but  a  poor  little  willow-bordered  stream  after  it 
tumbles  down  the  hill ;  but  its  course  is  an  interesting 
one.  It  rises  near  Verrecchie,  behind  Tagliacozzo,  has  a 
course  of  nearly  a  mile  in  the  open,  then  rushes  into  a 
grotto  under  Monte  Arunzo,  continues  a  strange  under- 
ground career  for  about  two  miles  more — which  it  spends 
twenty  hours  over — and  issues  on  the  hillside  of  Taglia- 
cozzo. In  the  plain  it  runs  below  San  Sebastiano  to  the 
Campi  Palentini,  then  north,  under  the  name  of  the 
Salto ;  finally  joins  with  others  to  form  the  Marmore ; 
and  thus  the  little  trickling  torrent  that  turns  the  humble 


CH.  VIII.]  TAGLIACOZZO  167 

mills  of  Tagliacozzo,  gives  itself  up  in  the  vast  uproar 
and  volume  of  the  famous  falls  of  Terni. 

Wandering  by  the  Imele  near  San  Sebastiano,  you 
will  see  a  vast  convent  building  finely  placed  on  a  hill. 
The  building  is  quite  modern,  but  it  holds  the  famous 
shrine  of  the  Madonna  dell'  Oriente.     It  takes  its  name 
from  an  ancient  picture  of  the  Virgin,  which  a  legend 
declares   to   have   escaped   the   iconoclastic    fire   of  the 
Emperor  Leo  the  Isaurian    in  726.     By  the  way,  it  is 
an  oil-painting  ;   that  is  part  of  the  miracle.     It  hailed 
from   the    East,  but  was  deposed    in    the   exarchate  of 
Ravenna ;   and  two  faithful  rescued  it  and  bestowed  it 
here.     Ever  since  it  has  worked  wonders,  and  faith  in 
it  is  still  strong.     Many  pilgrims  seek  the  aid   of  this 
Lady  of  the  East ;  and  in  times  of  public  calamity  and 
on  extra  solemn  occasions  it  is  brought  to  Tagliacozzo. 
Then  it  is  that  the  temper  of  the  Tagliacozzesi  is  tried. 
They,  with  all  their  fine-clad  priests  and  dignitaries  and 
congregations,  naturally  suppose  it  should  be  given  over 
to  their  hands  freely.     Not  a  bit  of  it,  says  Villa  San 
Sebastiano.     And  over  and  over  again  there  have  been 
free  fights  as  to  who  should  carry  it,  and  who  should 
walk  first  in  the  procession.     From  threats  and  insults 
the  men  of  the  Villa  have  come  to  blows,  nor  have  the 
priests   always   been    spared  ;    and   it   has   needed   the 
intervention  of  the  mayor  and  the  carabinieri  to  bring 
about  a  semblance  of  peace.     They  take  their  religion 
seriously  in  Tagliacozzo  and  the  Villa. 

Just  beneath  and  around  Scurcola,  the  little  town  on 
the  slope  with  the  tower  of  the  old  Colonna  castle,  is 
that  portion  of  the  Palentine  Fields,  where  was  fought 
the  great  battle  to  which  Tagliacozzo,  six  miles  behind, 
has  given  the  name.  Later  historians  have  tried  to  call 
it  the  Battle  of  Scurcola,  or  of  Albe,  of  Ponte,  or  Palenta  ; 
but  the  old  name  has  stuck. 


i68  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

It  was  the  year  1268,  and  a  boy  in  Bavaria  of  restless 
heart  took  a  great  resolution.  His  grandfather  had  been 
the  Emperor  Frederic  II.,  who,  when  a  boy  himself,  had 
crossed  the  Alps  and  won  an  empire  to  add  to  his 
Sicilian  throne.  What  had  been  done  before  should  be 
done  again,  with  a  southward  course  this  time.  Conrad, 
his  father,  was  dead,  Manfred,  his  brilliant  and  unhappy 
uncle,  killed  at  Benevento.  And  now  the  Angevin 
Charles,  blessed  by  the  Pope,  had  seized  the  kingdom 
of  Naples.  "  It  is  my  throne,"  said  Conradin,  "  and  I  will 
have  it  back."  He  was  sixteen  at  the  time,  a  handsome 
lad  of  brilliant  promise,  already  a  scholar  and  a  poet— 
his  grandfather  come  to  life  again.  So  Conradin,  with 
his  dearest  friend,  Frederic,  Duke  of  Austria,  one 
year  older  than  himself,  riding  by  his  side,  and  with  a 
few  knights,  set  off  to  make  appeal  to  the  Ghibellines 
of  Italy.  He  seemed  to  be  irresistible.  No  one  called 
him  foolhardy.  They  acknowledged  the  young  captain  ; 
and  at  Pisa  he  got  men  and  money  and  horses  and 
weapons.  At  Siena,  too,  they  flocked  to  his  banner ; 
and  it  was  with  an  army  of  five  thousand  knights  he 
made  his  way  to  Rome.  There  he  was  hailed  as  the 
coming  saviour.  The  Senator  and  the  great  awaited 
him  on  the  slopes  of  Monte  Mario.  At  Ponte  Molle 
he  was  greeted  with  garlands  and  waving  branches 
and  with  songs.  The  city  was  decorated  in  his  honour, 
and  Roman  maidens  played  airs  on  the  guitar  as  he 
passed  with  young  Frederic  by  his  side.  The  Roman 
Ghibellines  were  with  him,  heart  and  soul — Jacopo 
Napoleone  Orsini,  the  Annibaldi,  the  Count  of  Sant' 
Eustachio,  Giovanni  Arlotti,  and  all  the  best  of  them. 
And  a  worthy  hero  of  such  a  triumph  seemed  the 
"  giovinotto  .  .  .  con  la  chioma  d'oro,  con  la  pupilla 
del  color  del  mare." 

But  meanwhile  Pope  Clement  was  calling  the  blue- 
eyed  Swabian  boy  "  the  sprout  of  a  cursed  tree."     And 


CH.  VIII.]  TAGLIACOZZO  169 

Charles  of  Anjou  was  commending  himself  to  all  his 
saints  ;  for  Sicily  stirred  at  the  coming  of  a  prince  of  the 
ancient  race ;  Calabria  was  in  insurrection ;  and  the 
Pisan  fleet,  with  Conradin's  friends  on  board,  had  set 
sail  for  the  mouth  of  the  Tiber,  whence  they  were  to 
rouse  the  Terra  di  Lavoro,  It  was  in  that  province 
Conradin  thought  to  meet  Charles ;  but  the  astute 
Angevin  dashed  from  Foggia  north  to  the  Abruzzi.  His 
available  forces  were  scanty,  and  he  could  not  give  the 
enemy  the  choice  of  the  ground.  On  August  9,  1268, 
Charles  was  at  Scurcola. 

Conradin  and  his  friends  set  out  from  Rome,  ten  thou- 
sand strong — Germans,  Italians,  Spaniards.  The  Senator 
was  with  him,  Guido  da  Montefeltro,  and  many  eminent 
Ghibellines  ;  and  for  two  days  they  were  convoyed  on 
their  way  by  enthusiastic  Romans.  In  vain  they  tried 
to  draw  Charles  into  the  mountains  ;  and  so  along  the 
Valerian  Way  they  came,  by  Tivoli  and  Carsoli,  and 
halted  at  the  old  castle  of  Tagliacozzo.  The  legend 
that  Charles  from  below  saw  them  coming,  and  called 
to  Mary  Virgin  to  aid  him  in  return  for  a  new  church, 
is  contradicted  by  another,  which  declares  he  had  lost 
all  trace  of  the  enemy,  and  thinking  they  had  turned 
north  towards  the  valley  of  the  Aterno,  he  acted  as  his 
own  scout,  and  was  up  at  Ovindoli  seeking  for  news  of 
them,  when  messengers  came  to  tell  him  they  were 
at  Scurcola,  and  had  camped  by  the  bridge  near  the 
Valerian  Way.  He  returned  and  took  up  his  position  on 
the  hills  of  Albe,  He  had  but  six  thousand  men  ;  but 
his  generals  were  wily.  Eight  hundred  of  the  best  were 
hidden  the  night  before  between  Antrosano  and  Monte 
Felice.  The  rest  were  in  two  divisions :  one,  under  the 
Provencal  Jacopo  Cantelmi,  advanced  as  far  as  the  Salto  ; 
the  second  was  under  Enrico  da  Cosenza,  who  was 
the  living  image  of  the  king,  and  for  the  occasion  wore 
Charles's  armour   and   crown.     Charles    himself  stayed 


lyo  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

in  the  rear,  well  hidden  among  the  thick  woods  of 
Cappelle — woods  that  have  all  vanished  now.  He  was 
no  sixteen-year-old  boy,  and  as  a  responsible  monarch 
he  thought  his  person  worth  preserving.  Antinori  says 
that  sham  ambassadors  came  down  to  Conradin  bearing 
keys  in  their  hands,  the  keys  of  Aquila,  they  declared, 
which  was  his  for  the  asking,  and  quite  ready  to  betray 
the  Angevin.  Charles  heard  of  this,  and  was  shaken 
with  a  sudden  fear.  By  night  he  rode  fast  and  furious 
up  the  heights  past  Ovindoli  and  Rocca  di  Mezzo,  got 
entrance  to  Aquila,  and  demanded  its  fealty.  The 
governor  swore  to  him  that  he  was  true,  that  the  offer 
of  the  keys  had  been  but  a  feint  to  put  Conradin  off 
his  guard  ;  and  next  day  the  Aquilesi,  men  and  women, 
came  down  to  the  help  of  the  Angevin,  dragging  loads 
of  provisions.  Yet  the  young  Swabian  was  not  left  with- 
out sympathy  from  the  people  round  about ;  and  Albe 
and  other  places  suffered  savage  reprisals  for  the  same. 

The  first  division  of  the  Ghibelline  army  was  led  by 
the  Senator,  with  three  hundred  Castilians,  Lombards, 
and  Tuscans ;  the  second  by  Conradin,  with  whom 
were  young  Frederic  of  Austria  and  all  the  Germans. 
They  crossed  the  Salto  and  set  on  the  Angevins  with 
dash.  Their  attack  was  irresistible,  and  after  some 
obstinate  fighting,  the  enemy  scattered  in  all  directions 
among  the  hills  and  woods.  Cantelmi  fled  with  his 
men  up  the  road  to  Aquila,  Da  Cosenza,  wearing 
the  royal  armour,  was  slain.  Conradin  was  dancing 
in  to  victory ;  and  Charles  in  the  shade  of  the  woods, 
with  his  priests  about  him,  was  hearing  mass,  and 
calling  on  Our  Lady  for  succour.  But  his  captain's  eye 
was  not  asleep ;  and  hearing  that  Orsini  and  several  of 
the  other  leaders  had  left  the  field  with  their  men,  in  hot 
pursuit  of  the  Angevins,  he — or  as  Dante  and  some 
historians  say,  his  general  Alardo  (Erard  de  Valery), 
thought  it  was  time  to  make  use  of  the  concealed  eight 


CH.  viiL]  TAGLIACOZZO  171 

hundred.  An  hour  ago  they  would  have  been  but  a 
mouthful  for  the  conquerors.  Now  they  were  enough  to 
rally  his  armies,  call  back  flyers,  and  simulate  a  mighty 
force.  Conradin's  men  had  exhausted  themselves  in 
pursuit.  They  were  scattered  now  and  disorganized : 
and  ere  they  could  grasp  the  change  of  fortune,  they,  the 
victors,  were  the  flyers.  Struggle  as  they  might,  one  by 
one  the  chiefs  were  taken.  Even  the  Senator  only 
escaped  capture  by  desperate  flight.  Conradin  and 
Frederic,  the  two  brothers-in-arms,  were  hurried  from 
the  field  that  had  been  theirs.  Of  the  two  armies  four 
thousand  had  fallen,  and  the  Swabian  prisoners  were 
countless.  Thus  was  gained  and  lost  the  battle  of 
Tagliacozzo, 

"Ove  senz'  arme  vinse  il  vecchio  Alardo." 

"  Now  let  the  Church,  my  Mother,  rejoice,"  wrote 
Charles  to  the  Pope,  "  and  set  up  a  cry  of  exultation  for 
such  a  triumph,  which  from  on  high,  through  the  service 
of  her  champion,  is  vouchsafed  to  her.  At  last  hath  the 
Omnipotent  Lord  put  an  end  to  all  oppression,  and  freed 
her  from  the  greedy  vengeance  of  her  persecutor."  Where- 
upon he  set  to  beheading  and  torturing  and  mutilating 
the  prisoners  with  a  fury  which  surely,  even  for  the  satis- 
faction of  the  Church,  was  not  strictly  needful. 

On  Conradin's  march  from  Rome  it  had  been  "  roses, 
roses  all  the  way."  There  were  no  roses  now.  Towns 
whose  people  had  crowded  to  cheer  him,  hustled  him 
through.  Even  in  Rome  there  was  a  sudden  panic 
among  the  Ghibellines,  and  they  would  shelter  no  van- 
quished enemy  of  Anjou  ;  and,  indeed,  such  of  his 
followers  as  stayed  only  met  their  fate  the  sooner.  It 
was  still  possible  he  might  escape  by  means  of  the  Pisan 
fleet  ;  but  Angevin  spies  were  everywhere  ;  and  he  and 
Frederic  took   a  roundabout  route  to  the  coast,  seeking 


1/2  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  il. 

a  moment's  shelter  at  Castel  Saracinesco  with  Orsini. 
From  there  they  made  their  way  through  the  Campagna 
to  Astura  on  the  coast  of  Romagna,  weary  and  worn. 

The  golden-haired  Swabian  and  his  gallant  comrade 
could  not  look  like  the  humble  folk  they  gave  themselves 
out  to  be.  The  lord  of  Astura,  Giovanni  Frangipani, 
recognized  the  two  watchers  for  the  saving  ships,  and 
took  them  prisoners.  Hurried  back  to  Rome,  they 
graced  the  conqueror's  triumph  ere  they  were  taken  to 
Naples  for  their  mock  trial.  Not  that  the  men  of  law 
were  not  in  earnest.  Charles's  highest  legal  advisers 
spoke  for  Conradin,  and  judged  him  guiltless  of  treason. 
But  nothing  availed,  and  on  October  29th,  two  months 
after  the  battle  of  Tagliacozzo,  the  two  boys  were 
executed  in  the  market-place  of  Naples.  Their  de- 
meanour was  proud  and  composed  ;  but  one  cry  was 
heard  from  Conradin's  lips,  "  O  mother,  what  terrible 
news  shall  you  hear  of  me  !  "  Their  bodies  were  thrown 
on  the  shore,  as  if  they  had  been  cast  up  by  the  sea. 
Some  faithful  friends  raised  a  cairn  of  stones  above  them  ; 
and  Charles's  son  made  no  protest  when  a  Carmelite 
chapel  was  raised  there. 

So  vanished  Conradin,  "  like  smoke,"  said  the  victor. 
He  was  the  last  of  a  great  race. 

Come  dilegua  una  ardente  stella, 
Muto  zona  lo  svevo  astro  e  disparve, 
E  gemendo  I'avita  aquila  volse 
Per  morire  al  natio  Reno. 
Ma  sul  Reno  natio  era  un  castello, 
E  sul  freddo  verone  era  una  madre, 
Che  lagrimava  nell'  attesa  amara  : 

Nobile  augello  che  volendo  vai, 
Se  vien'  de  la  dolce  itala  terra, 
Dimmi,  ai  veduto  il  figlio  mio  ? 

Lo  vidi, 
Era  biondo,  era  bianco,  era  beato, 
Sotto  I'arco  di  un  tempio  era  sepolto. 

(Aleardi.) 


CH.  VIII.]  TAGLIACOZZO  173 

In  thanksgiving,  Charles  built  a  great  church  and 
abbey  some  little  way  from  the  battlefield,  near  Scurcola, 
on  the  Tagliacozzo  road,  called  Santa  Maria  della 
Vittoria  ;  and  gave  it  into  the  hands  of  French  Cistercians. 
He  spent  profusely  on  the  building  and  its  decoration  ; 
but  there  was  economy  in  his  profusion,  for  most  of  the 
stone  he  stole  from  the  ancient  Roman  ruins  of  Albe. 
Niccolo  Pisano  had  the  planning  of  the  place,  and  the 
great  artist  carved  stones  here  with  his  own  hand.  Not 
a  vestige  of  his  work  remains.  A  few  fragments  of  wall 
are  all  that  is  left  to  tell  of  the  Church  of  the  Victory. 
Earthquakes,  neglect,  and  a  dangerous  situation  worked 
its  ruin,  and  it  never  lived  to  be  old.  One  thing  has 
survived — a  painted  image  of  the  Virgin  in  a  case  studded 
with  the  lilies  of  France  ;  and  now  it  is  in  the  parish 
church  of  Scurcola.  And  according  to  Corsignani,  this 
is  how  it  comes  to  be  there.  The  long-venerated  image 
was  lost  and  almost  forgotten,  when,  in  1524,  a  Taglia- 
cozzo woman  dreamed  that  it  lay  in  a  certain  spot  in  the 
ruins  called  the  Abbadi,  near  the  river  Salto.  She  told 
a  priest,  who  set  diggers  to  work,  "  a  heavenly  melody  " 
directing  them  to  the  place.  There  it  was,  intact,  with- 
out stain,  unblackened,  in  its  casket  of  gilded  wood. 

Said  the  Tagliacozzo  folks,  "  It  is  ours.  The 
dreamer  is  one  of  our  women."  "  Nay,"  said  the  Scur- 
colesi,  "  it  was  found  in  our  territory."  They  fought 
over  it  ;  but  finally  asked  the  Bishop  of  the  Marsica  to 
decide.  The  said  prelate,  inspired  by  God,  ordered  it 
to  be  placed  on  a  litter  drawn  by  mules,  the  beasts  to  be 
left  free  to  go  whithersoever  they  would.  Whereupon 
the  Tagliacozzo  men  threw  up  their  caps,  for  the  mules 
were  theirs,  and  would  go  back  to  their  stables.  "  But  as 
was  the  will  of  God,  once  outside  the  gate  which  leads  to 
Tagliacozzo,  that  is,  the  Porta  Sant'  Antonio,  and  past 
the  hospital,  they  turned  to  the  right  and  upwards,  and 
went  and   knelt  down  above   the    piece    of  land  where 


1/4  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  it. 

stood  a  cona  [i.e.  a  chapel  with  an  icon],  which  had  a 
picture  of  the  Most  Blessed  Virgin  of  Providence.  And 
there  was  built  a  church,  and  there  is  now  the  image,  an 
object  of  much  applause  and  no  little  devotion  to  the 
said  land  and  the  neighbourhood."  But  it  does  not 
enjoy  the  great  repute  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Orient,  whose 
power  remained  undimmed  even  when  Cese  hard  by 
owned  a  picture  painted  by  St.  Luke. 


CHAPTER   IX 

ROUND   ABOUT   FUCINO 

Ancient  FUCINUS — The  Claudian  experiment — The  Claudian  pageant — 
Success  of  the  modern  scheme — High  cultivation  and  vanished  beauty 
— Mythical  origin  of  the  ancient  Marsi — Marsi  enchanters  and 
serpent-charmers — Avezzano — The  ruins  of  Albe  (Alba  Fucentia) 
— Santa  Maria  in  Valle. 

Where  was  once  the  great  Lake  of  Fucino  (or  of  Celano) 
are  now  the  vast  corn-fields  of  Prince  Torlonia.  From  the 
heights  of  Celano,  or  from  the  hillsides  above  Avezzano, 
you  recognize  the  fact  with  horror,  or  satisfaction,  accord- 
ing as  your  interest  in  landscape  or  agriculture  predomi- 
nates. Five  and  thirty  years  are  not  enough  to  make  a 
thing  of  beauty  of  a  dried  lake,  of  course  ;  but  a  hundred 
would  be  insufficient  on  the  chosen  plan,  that  of  geo- 
metrical precision  of  design  over  an  area  of  sixty-five 
square  miles — endless  parallelograms  edged  with  spiky 
poplars,  the  whole  like  a  fancy  chessboard.  Even  its 
glorious  fields  of  waving  corn  lose  their  beauty  by  the 
neat  measurement  to  which  they  have  been  subjected. 
It  is  no  use  talking  of  a  formal  garden.  You  cannot 
have  a  garden  twelve  and  a  half  miles  long  ;  and  it  is  no 
place  for  a  garden,  this  space  in  the  great  circle  of  giant 
hills.  Seen  from  above,  Fucino  to-day  is  a  blot  on  the 
beautiful  Marsica.  The  agriculturist  will  allow  us  to  say 
so,  seeing  that  his  point  of  view  is  now  embodied  in  an 
accomplished  fact. 

The    drying   of    Fucino  had   been    a   dream    which 
practical  men  had  striven  to  make  a  reality  ever  since 

175 


176  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

the  time  of  Julius  Caesar — possibly  before  that.  The 
lake  was  an  uncomfortable  and  dangerous  neighbour, 
which  changed  its  area  and  its  level  with  such  suddenness 
that  it  swept  away  the  towns  on  its  banks,  and  worked 
havoc  on  all  the  country  round.  Ortucchio  on  the 
southern  shore  was  often  an  island  ;  and  Avezzano  nearly 
swamped  over  and  over  again.  In  its  quiet  moods  a 
useful  lake,  it  supported  a  population  of  fishers  on  its 
banks,  and  its  fish  were  famous.  But  once  the  hidden, 
and  never-understood,  springs  were  agitated,  then  rose 
the  cry,  "  Dry  up,  Fucino  !  "  The  Marsians  appealed  to 
the  Roman  Senate,  but  the  senators  thought  it  was  no 
concern  of  theirs.  Julius  Caesar,  however,  considered  the 
matter  seriously,  but  he  never  found  time  to  take  it  in 
hand.  That  was  left  for  Claudius.  "  Fucinum  aggressus 
est,  non  minus  compendii  spe,  quam  gloriae,  cum  quidam, 
privato  sumptu  emissarios  se  repromitterent,  si  sibi  siccati 
agri  concederentur,"  is  the  rather  grudging  acknow- 
ledgment bestowed  by  Suetonius  on  his  initiative. 

The  first  plan  was  to  find  an  outlet  for  the  lake  by 
means  of  a  canal  connecting  it  with  the  Salto.  Then  the 
waters  would  have  found  their  way  to  Rome  in  a  round- 
about way,  via  the  Velino,  the  Nera,  the  Teverone,  and 
the  Tiber  ;  but  the  Senate,  fearing  floods  in  the  city,  for- 
bade the  undertaking.  So  the  Liris  was  chosen  instead. 
The  engineer  was  Narcissus,  a  man  of  great  talent ;  but 
a  sensational  report  of  the  time  says  he  got  the  post 
because  Agrippina,  who  hated  him  with  a  deadly  hatred, 
felt  sure  he  would  make  a  mess  of  the  business  and  thus 
disgrace  himself.  An  aqueduct  was  made  under  Monte 
Salviano,  on  the  western  side  of  the  lake,  and  under  the 
Campi  Palentini,  by  which  the  waters  were  to  flow  to  the 
Liris  below  Capistrello,  where  you  can  see  the  structure 
of  the  wonderful  Claudian  emissary  to  this  day.  For 
eleven  years,  a.d.  43-54,  thirty  thousand  slaves  were 
working  under  the  direction  of  Narcissus.     At  last  the 


CH.  IX.]         ROUND   ABOUT   FUCINO  177 

work  was  nearly  done.  Once  again,  said  Claudius,  should 
the  people  see  the  lake,  amid  splendid  circumstances,  and 
then  no  more.  A  great  sham  naval  battle  was  organized 
on  it,  a  feast  of  tyranny  on  a  sublime  scale.  A  hundred 
ships  were  launched  on  Fucino,  and  to  make  this 
Claudian  holiday,  twenty  thousand  slaves  were  doomed 
to  fight  in  deadly  earnest.  It  needed  a  Claudian  heart  to 
look  on  ;  but  if  you  had  one,  the  scene  was  splendid : 
Claudius  and  Agrippina  on  the  slopes  above,  and  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  spectators  from  the  proud  towns 
on  the  hills,  Cliternia  and  Alba  ;  the  Imperial  galleys 
on  the  blue  water;  the  struggling,  desperate  men — and 
all  encircled  by  the  giant  hills. 

This  is  Tacitus's  description  of  the  scene — 
"About  the  same  time  the  mountain  about  Lake 
Fucensis  and  the  river  Liris  was  bored  through,  and  that 
this  grand  work  might  be  seen  by  a  multitude  of  visitors, 
preparations  were  made  for  a  naval  battle  on  the  lake, 
just  as  formerly  Augustus  exhibited  such  a  spectacle  in 
a  basin  he  had  made  on  this  side  of  the  Tiber,  though 
with  light  vessels  and  on  a  smaller  scale.  Claudius 
equipped  galleys  with  three  and  four  banks  of  oars,  and 
nineteen  thousand  men  ;  he  lined  the  circumference  of 
the  lake  with  rafts,  that  there  might  be  no  means  of 
escape  at  various  points,  but  he  still  left  full  space  for  the 
strength  of  the  crews,  the  skill  of  the  pilots,  the  impact  of 
the  vessels,  and  the  usual  operations  of  a  sea-fight.  On 
the  rafts  stood  companies  of  the  Praetorian  cohorts  and 
cavalry,  with  a  breastwork  in  front  of  them,  from  which 
catapults  and  balistas  might  be  worked.  The  rest  of  the 
lake  was  occupied  by  marines  on  decked  vessels.  An 
immense  multitude  from  the  neighbouring  towns,  others 
from  Rome  itself,  eager  to  see  the  sight  or  to  show 
respect  to  the  Emperor,  crowded  the  banks,  the  hills, 
and  mountain-tops,  which  thus  resembled  a  theatre. 
The  Emperor,  with  Agrippina  seated  near  him,  presided  ; 

N 


1/8  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

he  wore  a  splendid  military  cloak,  she,  a  mantle  of  cloth 
of  gold.  A  battle  was  fought  with  all  the  courage  of 
brave  men,  though  it  was  between  condemned  criminals. 
After  much  bloodshed  they  were  released  from  the 
necessity  of  mutual  slaughter. 

"  When  the  sight  was  over,  the  outlet  of  the  water 
was  opened.  The  careless  execution  of  the  work  was 
apparent,  the  tunnel  not  having  been  bored  down  so  low 
as  the  bottom  or  middle  of  the  lake.  Consequently, 
after  an  interval,  the  excavations  were  deepened,  and  to 
attract  a  crowd  once  more,  a  show  of  gladiators  was 
exhibited,  with  floating  pontoons,  for  an  infantry  engage- 
ment. A  banquet,  too,  was  prepared  close  to  the  out- 
flow of  the  lake,  and  it  was  the  means  of  greatly  alarming 
the  whole  company,  for  the  water,  in  the  violence  of  its 
outburst,  swept  away  the  adjoining  parts,  shook  the  more 
remote,  and  spread  terror  with  the  tremendous  crash.  At 
the  same  time  Agrippina  availed  herself  of  the  Emperor's 
fright  to  charge  Narcissus,  who  had  been  the  agent  of 
the  work,  with  avarice  and  peculation.  He,  too,  was  not 
silent,  but  inveighed  against  the  domineering  temper  of 
her  sex,  and  her  extravagant  ambition."  ^ 

Efforts  were  made  to  repair  the  disaster  ;  but  some 
years  later  a  fall  of  rock  dammed  the  opening ;  and  the 
project  was  abandoned  till  Trajan's  reign,  when  again  it 
failed.  During  the  barbarian  invasions  great  public 
works  were  out  of  the  question  ;  and  not  till  twelve 
hundred  years  after  Claudius  was  any  serious  thought 
given  to  it,  by  the  Emperor  Frederic  H.  But  like 
Caesar  he  died  ere  he  found  time  to  take  it  in  hand. 
Alfonso  v.,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  revived  the  scheme  ; 
and,  in  fact,  all  the  great  kings  dreamt  the  dream  of 
Claudius.  But  ages  passed,  and  the  thing  was  forgotten, 
save  by  a  few  scientists.     Then  some  French  engineers 

'  Annals,  ,\ii.  56,  57.     Trans.  Church  and  Brodripp. 


CH.  IX.]  ROUND   ABOUT   FUCINO  179 

formed  a  company,  and  a  royal  decree  of  1853  conceded 
to  them  the  right  of  restoring  the  Claudian  emissary. 
The  work  had  been  going  on  for  over  ten  years  when 
Prince  Torlonia  of  Rome,  already  the  largest  shareholder 
in  the  company,  bought  the  whole  concern,  and  undertook 
to  finance  the  vast  undertaking,  on  condition  that  the 
reclaimed  territory  should  be  his  at  the  end.  It  cost 
millions  ;  and  for  years,  when  Fucino  was  spoken  of,  people 
said,  "  Either  Torlonia  will  dry  up  Fucino,  or  Fucino  will 
dry  up  Torlonia."  But  Torlonia's  millions  proved  the  more 
obstinate;  and  in  1876  the  gigantic  undertaking  was 
finished,  and  through  the  new  emissary  the  waters  of  the 
lake  joined  the  Liris  under  Capistrello.  The  cultivation 
of  the  soil  began  at  once.  Roads  were  made,  trees  planted, 
and  high  farming  taken  in  hand  over  the  26,000  hectares. 
And  Avezzano  is  much  more  prosperous,  and  bands  of 
labourers  and  teams  of  great  white  oxen  work  now  in  the 
bed  of  Fucino.  At  first  the  drying  of  the  lake  caused 
malaria  ;  but  that  has  passed  away,  and  save  that  the 
fruit-trees  on  its  banks  no  longer  bear,  in  kind  or 
quantity,  as  they  did,  there  is  no  reason  to  grumble,  save 
from  a  landscape  point  of  view.  Get  down  into  it,  and 
you  forget  even  that  grievance.  We  have  never  seen 
such  corn — high  above  us  it  grows,  and  thick,  with 
monster  heads.  The  patchwork  pattern  is  not  evident, 
for  the  lines  of  trees  that  are  like  spiky  palings  from 
above,  are  hung  with  garlands,  and  the  flowers  have 
sprouted  and  clung.  And,  indeed,  the  bands  of  women 
working  in  the  fields  in  their  coloured  dresses,  are  like 
beds  of  flowers  too.  The  grassy  banks  of  the  canals  are 
edged  with  poplars  already  shady  and  tall  and  decorative. 
Close  by  a  bridge  over  the  lock  of  the  Emissario  has  been 
erected  a  huge  statue  of  the  Madonna  of  the  Immaculate 
Conception,  a  colossal  enormity,  a  terrible  example  of 
modern  sentimental  art,  hailing  from  Rome.  The 
inscription  vaunts  first  the  patronage  of  Our  Lady  Maria 


i8o  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  il. 

sine  lahe  concepta  ;  and  goes  on  to  say  that  what  kings 
and  emperors  had  failed  to  do  had  been  done  by 
Alexander  Torlonia,  Prince  of  the  City,  "by  the 
immensity  of  his  mind  and  force  of  money  "  !  There  is 
no  mention  made  of  the  engineers. 

A  vast,  rich  granary  it  is ;  but  we  shut  our  eyes  and 
see  the  sails,  and  hear  the  plashing  of  the  oars,  and  watch 
the  reflections  of  the  little  towns  on  the  southern  edge. 
Some  that  were  are  utterly  vanished.  Of  Marruvium, 
once  the  capital  of  the  Marsi,  there  are  but  a  few  poor 
remains  in  the  miserable  little  village  of  San  Benedetto. 
Valeria,  Penne,  Archippe,  are  below  the  waves.  Save 
Avezzano,  the  only  place  that  has  remained  a  town  is 
Pescina,  which  has  the  dignity  of  a  cathedral,  and  fame 
as  the  birthplace  of  Cardinal  Mazarin.  Yet  the  Abruzzi 
can  hardly  claim  Mazarin  for  its  own,  nor  his  genius  as 
at  all  characteristic.  His  birth  here  in  1602  was  some- 
thing of  an  accident,  though  doubtless  he  spent  a  portion 
of  his  childhood  in  Pescina.  His  father,  a  Sicilian  of 
Genoese  origin,  had  an  important  post  in  the  service  of 
the  Colonnas  here.  Where  did  Dumas  get  his  notion 
that  Mazarin  was  the  son  of  a  poor  fisherman .-'  In  the 
Vicomte  de  Bragelonne  the  Cardinal  says,  "  Le  fils  d'un 
pecheur  de  Piscina  je  suis  devenu  premier  ministre  du  roi 
de  France." 

The  ancient  Marsi  were  not  only  fighting  men  of 
valour  ;  not  only  did  they  wring  the  heartiest  admiration 
from  Rome,  which  they  shook  to  its  foundations  in  the 
Social  War  ;  but  they  were  likewise  a  race  of  peculiar  and 
fascinating  mental  gifts.  Their  mythical  origin  is  signi- 
ficant. According  to  one  legend,  their  ancestor  was 
Marsyas,  the  Phrygian  flute-player  who  challenged 
Apollo  to  a  contest  of  musical  skill,  nor  was  overcome 
till  Apollo  added  his  voice  to  the  music  of  his  lyre.  The 
fauns,  the  satyrs,  and  the  dryads  wept  at  his  cruel  fate  at 
the  hands  of  the  victor.    Marsyas  was  a  follower  of  C}'bele, 


CH.  IX.]  ROUND   ABOUT   FUCINO  i8i 

goddess  of  liberty.  In  the  fora  of  ancient  cities  it  was 
usual  to  place  his  statue,  to  betoken  the  freedom  of  the 
state.  A  not  unfitting  ancestry  this  for  the  race  that  so 
stoutly  resisted  Roman  oppression.  But  Cybele  signified 
more  kinds  of  liberty  than  one  ;  and  the  image  of  Marsyas 
in  Rome  was  a  rendezvous  of  courtesans,  who  wreathed  it 
with  flowers.  Nor  has  the  cult  of  Cybele  been  entirely 
alien  to  the  genius  of  this  hot-blooded  Southern  folk. 

According  to  another  account,  the  ancestor  was  Mar- 
sus,  the  son  of  Circe  ;  and  this  is  maintained  to  be  the 
more  plausible,  inasmuch  as  Angitia,  Circe's  sister,  held 
her  mystic  court  in  a  wood  near  Luco,  on  Lake  Fucino, 
which  became  a  famous  school  of  occult  learning. 

Legend  gives  to  all  the  earlier  descendants  of  Marsyas, 
or  of  Marsus,  the  gifts  of  art  and  magic.  "  The  magic 
song  of  the  Marsi  transforms  hags  into  birds,"  says  Ovid. 
Their  fame  as  doctors  and  as  serpent-charmers  was  tra- 
ditional. And  so  Virgil :  "  There  came,  moreover,  from 
the  Marruvian  [Marsian]  nation  Umbro  the  priest,  bravest 
of  the  brave,  sent  by  his  chief  Archippus,  his  helmet 
wreathed  with  leaves  of  the  auspicious  olive  ;  who  by 
charms  and  by  his  hand  was  wont  to  lull  to  sleep  the  viper's 
race,  and  hydras  of  foul  and  poisonous  breath  ;  their  fury 
he  assuaged,  and  by  his  art  disarmed  their  stings.  But 
to  cure  the  hurt  of  Trojan  steel  surpassed  his  power  ;  nor 
soporific  charm,  nor  herbs  of  Marsian  mountains  availed 
him  aught  against  its  wounds.  For  you,  Angitia's  grove  ; 
for  you,  Fucinus,  with  his  crystal  waters ;  for  you  the 
glassy  lake  lamented."  ^ 

An  old  writer  (Mazella,  Parthenopceia)  says,  "  Giulo 
Capitolino  writeththat  the  Emperor  Heliogabalus  gathered 
a  great  company  of  serpents  with  the  incantations  of  the 
Marsi,  the  which  he  caused  on  the  sudden  to  be  thrown 
in  the  place  where  the  people  assembled,  to  see  their 
publique  sports  ;  whereupon  many  being  bitten  fled  with 

'  ALneid,  vii.  750-760, 


i82  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

great  terror.  Neither  is  it  to  be  held  as  a  fable  which 
is  written  of  these  Incantations,  because  the  prophet 
David  .  .  .  makes  a  similitude  of  the  deaf  adder,  which 
stoppeth  her  ears  to  avoid  enchantments.  And  St. 
Augustine  expounding  it  saith,  That  that  similitude  was 
meant  of  the  Marso,  which  maketh  his  charm  to  draw 
the  adder  out  of  his  dark  obscure  hole  into  the  perfect 
light ;  and  the  serpent  which  loveth  darkness,  to  avoid 
the  sound  of  the  charm,  which  he  knoweth  will  inforce 
him,  layeth  one  of  his  ears  to  the  ground,  because  he 
would  not  hear,  and  the  other  he  covereth  with  his  tail." 

The  historian  of  the  Marsi,  Muzio  Febonio,  writes  : 
"  In  the  parts  which  lie  about  Lake  Fucino,  and  especially 
about  the  roots  of  Monte  Penna,  there  is  such  an  abun- 
dance of  serpents  that  in  the  summer  heat  they  are  wont 
to  come  out  of  the  mountain,  and  go  down  to  the  water ; 
and  they  may  be  seen  coiled  up  like   bundles   of  vine 
twigs  on  the  stones,  or  sitting  on  the  rocky  ledges  above 
the  lake.     And  albeit  their  fangs  are  not  poisonous,  yet 
have  they  so  deadly  an  odour   that    it    may  be  called 
poisonous.     This   we   learnt,  to  our   misfortune,   in   the 
person  of  a  certain  religious.     When  they  came  out  of 
the  caverns  in  the  hot  hours,  he  was  wont  to  amuse  him- 
self by  killing  those  he  could  with  a  stick.     He  continued 
this  play  through  the  summer  till,    overcome   by  their 
odour,  he  little  by  little  fell  into  a  malady  which  increased 
and  raged,  till  the  matter  being  referred  to  the  judgment 
of  the  doctors,  they  assigned  it  to  poison,  and  he  was 
cured.     Which  thing  happened  to  many  others  who  were 
in  the  habit  of  catching  or  killing  them.     And  out  of  the 
same  mountain  earth  is  dug,  what  is  vulgarly  called  terra 
sigillata,  which  overcomes  poison  by  its  wonderful  virtue, 
and  is  judged  by  the  skilled  to  be  far  better  than  that 
which  comes  from  Etruria  and  Greece."     Febonio  quotes 
the  classic  writers  that  have  told  of  the  Marsian  magi- 
cians, and  adds  from  his  own  knowledge  that  Don  Paulo 


CH.  IX.]  ROUND   ABOUT    FUCINO  183 

Ciarallo,  archpriest  of  Bisignano,  of  the  old  race  of  the 
Marsi,  had,  with  all  his  family,  the  power  of  catching 
serpents,  and  of  curing  their  bites  merely  with  the  saliva 
of  the  mouth.  On  their  shoulders  they  bore  the  effigy 
of  a  serpent. 

This  faculty  of  the  Marsi  is  well  attested,  and  is  by 
no  means  lost.  Charmers  from  the  Marsica  used  till 
lately  to  be  met  with  in  all  parts  of  the  kingdom  of 
Naples.  They  carried  boxes  full  of  snakes,  which  they 
played  with  ;  or  they  offered  to  render  the  spectators 
innocuous  by  scratching  their  hands  with  a  viper's  tooth 
divested  of  its  venom,  and  then  applying  a  mysterious 
stone  to  the  puncture.  Afterwards  they  gave  their  clients, 
now   ingermati,   a    little    image    of    San    Domenico    di 

Cocullo. 

In  D'Annunzio's  Abruzzo  tragedy.  La  Fiaccola  sotto 

il  Moggio,  the  villainess,  who  is  called  after  the  sorceress 

Angizia,  is  the  daughter  of  a  serpent-charmer,  and  the 

father,  the  man  from  Luco,  comes  on  the  scene  with  his 

bags  of  creeping,  venomous  things. 

"  Sopra  Luco  evvi  un  monte  erto  e  serposo 
Nomato  Angizia  .  .   . 
.  .  .  dove  salgo  per  far  preda.     E  v'era 
una  cittk,  nei  tempi,  una  citta 
di  re  indovini,  E  son  vi  le  muraglie 
di  macigni  ed  i  tumuli 
di  scheggioni  pel  dosso.     E  quivi  su 
cercando  in  luogo  cavo, 
trovai  dintorno  ad  uno  ossame  tre 
vasi  di  terra  nera  coperchiati." 

To-day  the  art  is  mainly  to  be  seen  in  religious 
festivals.  At  the  festa  of  San  Domenico  di  Cocullo,  at 
Cocullo,  at  Villalago,  and  elsewhere  too,  serpent-charming 
forms  a  main  feature  of  the  ceremonial.  On  the  hermit 
saint  who  lived  in  caverns  in  the  rocks,  and  made  friends 
with  the  wild  things  of  the  mountains,  has  fallen  the 
mantle  of  the  early  enchanters.     For  the  rest,  something 


i84  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

of  it  falls  about  the  shoulders  of  all  the  religious 
enthusiasts.  In  Marsica,  as  throughout  the  Abruzzi,  the 
Church  took  so  fast  a  hold  because  it  used  the  pagan 
rites,  and  never  shut  out  the  hope  of  penetrating  the 
dark.  That  is  one  part  of  the  explanation  of  the  convent 
on  convent,  the  church  on  church,  the  chapel  on  chapel, 
that  lie  thick  on  every  hillside,  in  every  valley.  And 
the  "  backwardness  "  of  the  people  is  but  a  dumb,  instinc- 
tive resistance  to  a  modern  life  which  offers  them  nothing 
that  ministers  to  their  most  primitive  need. 

At  Avezzano  we  are  in  the  full  Marsica.  And 
Marsica  it  remains  to-day  ;  the  name  is  no  romantic 
revival.  The  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction  has  always  kept 
up  the  ancient  racial  demarcations,  and  the  Bishop  of  the 
district  is,  and  always  has  been.  Bishop  of  the  Marsica. 
There  is  an  old  pride  of  race  left  which  adverse  modern 
circumstances  have  never  eradicated,  and  a  consciousness 
of  their  early  history  among  the  people  which  you  will 
hardly  find  to  the  same  extent  elsewhere  in  the  Abruzzi. 
Coming  here  from  Rome,  the  distinctive  type  of  the 
peasants  in  the  market-place  is  very  noticeable.  The 
exuberant  handsomeness  you  do  not  find,  nor  the  heavi- 
ness ;  and  the  male  Southerner  will  not  so  often  apply 
the  words  of  praise,  "  bel  pezzo"  to  a  woman  of  these 
parts.  They  are  a  slender,  wiry,  agile  race,  dark  for  the 
most  part,  with  quick-moving  eyes,  not  a  little  mysterious, 
and  now  and  then  just  a  little  sinister.  I  speak  more 
of  the  hill  people  than  of  those  of  Avezzano,  who  are 
thicker  and  sleeker,  perhaps  owing  to  their  recent 
prosperity. 

As  for  Avezzano,  we  used  it  only  as  a  lodging  for 
the  night,  though  it  is  by  no  means  an  ungenial  place. 
There  are  no  slums,  and  it  is  restful  after  climbing  the 
ladder  streets  of  other  places.  It  is  very  ancient,  but 
has  done  its  best  to  hide  all  traces  of  its  history,  and, 
save  the  fine  facade  of  San  Bartolommeo,  built  on  the 


CH.  IX.]  ROUND   ABOUT    FUCINO  185 

site  of  a  temple  of  Augustus,  and  the  strong,  squat 
fortress  of  the  Colonnas,  built  by  Gentile  Virginio  Orsini, 
and  strengthened  by  Marc- Antonio  Colonna,  which  now 
drags  on  a  dowdy,  meritorious  existence  as  a  school, 
there  is  little  to  arrest  the  seeker  of  the  picturesque. 
The  town  is  growing  after  an  ugly  fashion,  and  looks 
distinctly  prosperous. 

Febonio  says  his  native  place  was  made  from  the 
ruins  of  Albe.  It  probably  grew,  like  Tagliacozzo,  out 
of  a  conglomeration  of  villages.  The  name  of  one  of 
these  has  been  interpreted  as  Pantheon  Jani.  Hence, 
Ara  Jani,  Ara  di  Giano,  Aveano,  Avezzano.  This  sounds 
doubtful ;  but  that  there  was  a  temple  of  Janus  here  is 
attested  by  many  coins  and  medals  found,  with  Janus 
Bifrons  on  one  side,  and  a  ship,  which  is  called  Noah's 
ark,  on  the  other.  In  the  people's  belief,  Noah  and 
Janus  were  one,  because  the  patriarch  looked  before  the 
Flood  and  after  !     Noah  came  twice  to  Italy,  they  say. 

If  the  town  offers  little  of  great  interest,  the  wild 
upper  valley  of  the  Liris,  reached  by  train  from  this  point ; 
the  dead  cities  of  Fucino  ;  the  ruins  of  Albe,  and,  if  he 
be  a  climber,  Monte  Velino — will  keep  the  traveller  for 
some  time  in  the  neighbourhood,  which  is  enchanting, 
even  with  Lake  Fucino  turned  into  a  vast  field  for 
agricultural  experiments. 

Avezzano  is  now  the  chief  town  of  the  Marsica.  As 
the  residence  of  the  Dukes  of  the  Marsi  and  of  Tagliacozzo, 
it  gained  official  dignity  early  ;  but  its  position  on  the 
verge  of  the  drained  lake,  now  turned  to  fruitful  fields,  has 
developed  it  at  the  expense  of  its  neighbours  during  the 
last  thirty  years  or  so.  But  even  in  its  prosperity 
Avezzano  does  not  take  itself  very  seriously  as  a  lodging- 
place  for  travellers.  This  fact  was  emphasized  to  us  by 
the  extreme  depression  of  a  waiter  at  our  inn.  He  was 
a  Roman,  and  his  standard  was  doubtless  too  lofty. 
Still,  we  owned    he  had   reason   for  lowness  of  spirits. 


1 86  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

when  we  found  him  hour  after  hour,  day  after  day,  sitting 
in  a  dark  passage  on  the  landing,  that  he  might  be  ready 
to  calm  the  fury  of  guests  rushing  out  of  bedroom  doors 
after  trying  for  the  twentieth  time  to  ring  bells  that  had 
never  rung  within  any  one's  memory.  "  Tutt'  h  rotto 
qui ! "  he  moaned,  in  a  voice  that  might  have  heralded 
the  death  of  an  empire.  Now,  the  native  waiter  down- 
stairs was  a  more  philosophic  person.  When,  morning 
after  morning,  you  could  get  no  coffee,  because  the 
coffee-pot  was  broken  and  the  new  one  expected  from 
Rome  every  day,  he  announced  the  fact  as  a  simple 
happening  of  nature.  The  leaves  fall  in  autumn  ;  and  do 
not  coffee-pots,  too,  have  their  seasons  of  decay  and 
death  ?  He  was  sympathetic,  but  not  so  to  any  lowering 
degree.  Thus  did  he  disarm  complaints,  and  was  almost 
as  good  a  stimulant  as  the  missing  coffee. 

I  should  be  telling  of  ruined  Albe  instead  of  ruined 
coffee-pots,  and  I  shall  do  so  presently.  But  even  my 
great  exemplar,  Mr.  Keppel  Craven,  was  not  above  the 
mentioning  of  trifling  topics.  He  would  have  read  the 
downstairs  waiter  a  seemly  lecture ;  condoled,  and,  I 
hope,  handsomely  tipped,  the  melancholy  Roman  on  the 
dark  landing.  Mr.  Craven  liked  Avezzano,  but,  on  his 
departure,  he  made  the  following  sententious  reflections  : 
"  The  inhabitants  of  Abruzzo,  though  considered  a 
hard-working,  laborious  race,  appear  totally  insensible  to 
that  avidity  towards  gain  which  characterizes  those  of 
the  northern  districts,  and  which  supplies  in  some  degree 
the  deficiency  of  better-regulated  habits  of  speculation 
and  industry :  this,  I  apprehend,  is  attributable  to  a 
constitutional  slowness  of  organs,  both  physical  and 
mental,  which  assimilates  them  to  some  portions  of  our 
northern  tribes,  and  renders  an  intercourse  with  them  in 
the  ordinary  matters  of  life  far  from  agreeable." 

This,    because    he    couldn't    get    all    the    mules    and 
muleteers     he    wanted — though    it    would    have    been 


CH.  IX.]  ROUND   ABOUT   FUCINO  187 

profitable  to  the  inhabitants  to  leave  their  own  miserable 
avocations  to  serve  a  gentleman  like  him  !  It  is  annoy- 
ing, of  course,  when  you  rattle  the  money  in  your  pocket, 
and  find  no  one  eager  to  run  for  the  sixpences.  But 
why  expect  the  shopkeeping  instinct  in  the  Marsica  of 
all  places  ? 

Albe  lies  four  miles  north  of  Avezzano.  A  road  at 
the  east  end  of  the  public  gardens  leads  you  to  the  railway, 
which  you  should  cross  to  the  west  of  the  station.  The 
way  after  that  is  little  more  than  a  cart-track,  and  when 
you  have  cut  the  upper  high-road,  it  continues  as  a 
mountain-path.  We  footed  it  one  early  morning  in  the 
time  of  harvest  ;  but  the  yellow  corn  was  still  standing 
in  the  uplands,  and  the  world  was  resplendent  and 
singing  to  itself  and  the  birds.  We  met  only  one  little 
band  of  outlandish  mountaineers  riding  down  on  their 
mules  to  their  reaping  in  the  plain.  Their  coloured 
jackets  were  thrown  over  their  shoulders  like  the  rem- 
nants of  an  ancient  mantle,  and  their  feet  were  encased 
in  sandals  of  hairy  skin,  turned  up  at  the  toes  and  tied 
with  leathern  thongs.  Dark,  mysterious  eyes  questioned 
us  from  under  the  battered  sombreros  as  we  passed. 

Ancient  Albe  (Alba  Fucensis)  stood  on  three  hills. 
On  the  first  of  these,  Monte  d'Oro,  an  oblong  mound, 
planted  with  corn  and  almond  trees — probably  an  earth- 
work— makes  a  magnificent  outlook,  or  a  place  for 
meditation  on  the  ruin  of  things.  In  front,  on  the 
neighbouring  hill,  stands  the  little  Albe  of  to-day,  superbly 
placed  under  the  twin  peaks  of  Velino,  that  change,  as 
we  watch,  from  blue  to  dove  colour  and  opal.  Set  high 
and  steep,  it  commands  all  the  country  round,  and  the 
plain  that  once  was  Fucino,  whose  waters  of  old  came  up 
nearly  to  its  rocks.  Left  of  the  golden  hill  is  a  third, 
with  San  Pietro  on  its  height.  All  round  is  a  solemn 
circle  of  great  mountains  that  darken   as  we  sit,  for  a 


i88  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [PT.  ii. 

wind  from  the  north  rises  and  blows  through  the  gaps  a 
cold  breath  from  regions  of  unmelted  snow. 

After  all  their  digging  and  searching,  the  archaeo- 
logists are  not  very  sure  yet  about  the  history  of  Alba 
Fucensis — the  white  town  on  Fucino.  Were  its  people 
Equi  or  Marsi  ?  It  lay  on  the  borderland.  Says  Strabo, 
"  Alba  Marsis  finitima  in  excelso  locato  saxo."  It  is 
said  to  have  been  founded  by  the  Pelasgi,  whoever  they 
were,  an  uncountable  number  of  years  B.C.  At  least, 
it  probably  had  a  long  history  before  the  Romans  made 
it  a  colony  and  one  of  the  strongest  fortresses  in  Southern 
Italy.  This  was  after  its  revolt  in  the  Samnite  War. 
The  Roman  colony  consisted  of  six  thousand  persons  ; 
but,  according  to  one  computation,  its  inhabitants 
numbered  ten  times  six  thousand.  It  had  an  amphi- 
theatre, and  baths,  and  aqueducts,  and  temples,  and 
statues,  and  all  the  dignity  of  a  highly  developed  city. 
Its  walls,  built  by  the  Pelasgians  or  the  Romans,  are 
still  a  wonder.  There  are  few  finer  specimens  anywhere 
of  these  cyclopean  walls,  and  the  traces  of  the  triple  line 
of  the  vast  circuit  are  still  plain  and  formidable.  Even 
to-day  they  strike  into  one  a  kind  of  fear  of  the  men 
who  built  like  that,  of  the  giant  world  that  needed  such 
masonry.  Nor  is  it  strength  alone  they  suggest,  but 
sumptuous  beauty,  too,  by  their  choice  of  material. 
Poor  dismantled  Albe,  like  a  dead  king,  was  good  to 
steal  from.  When  it  had  been  sacked  and  burnt  by 
Goths  and  Saracens,  there  was  still  enough  left  of  its 
ancient  grandeur  to  tempt  the  greedy  ;  and  Charles  of 
Anjou  found  it  a  rich  quarry  from  which  to  dig  marble 
and  granite  to  build  his  abbey  and  church  of  Santa 
Maria  della  Vittoria.  The  great  statues  of  Hannibal 
and  of  Scipio  Africanus  were  taken  to  Rome  by  the 
Colonnas  for  their  palace  ;  and  the  contadini  have  had 
their  pickings  too. 


CH.  IX.]  ROUND   ABOUT   FUCINO  189 

There  is  something  sinister  in  the  memories  of  Albe 
in  its  strongest  days.  When  these  walls  rose  high  and 
formidable,  they  shut  in  dark  tragedies.  The  place  was 
used  as  a  state  jail  for  Rome,  and  ruined  captive  kings 
came  here  and  looked  up  to  the  great  free  hills  from 
behind  these  grim  stones.  Here  were  brought  Bituitus 
King  of  the  Arverni,  Syphax  King  of  Numidia  ;  and  here 
came  Perseus  of  Macedonia  with  his  young  son  Alexander, 
after  they  had  graced  a  Roman  triumph  in  the  year  of 
the  City,  583.  According  to  some,  Perseus  survived  his 
disgrace  and  exile  four  years  ;  others  say  only  two. 
Diodorus  Siculus  declares  that  a  dream  came  to  him 
that  his  kingdom  should  be  restored  ;  whereupon  his 
guardians  said  he  must  dream  no  more.  So  they  would 
not  let  him  sleep  ;  and  of  this  he  died.  They  gave  him 
a  great  funeral.  His  son  Alexander  was  a  humble- 
minded  person  of  nice  quiet  tastes,  who  gave  no  trouble. 
He  was  content  to  serve  as  a  clerk  in  the  office  of  the 
magistracy  at  Alba,  and  did  metalwork  in  his  leisure 
hours. 

In  the  wars  between  Octavius  Csesar  and  Mark 
Antony  it  favoured  the  latter ;  and  a  marble  statue  of 
him,  set  up  in  Alba,  sweated,  and  continued  to  do  so 
however  much  it  was  wiped  dry,  as  warning  to  him  of 
coming  disaster.  Alba  was  always  independent,  and 
not  a  little  capricious  ;  it  turned  against  Mark  Antony 
later,  and  in  revenge  he  killed  the  centurions  of  the 
Marsica  who  were  in  Brindisi.  But  it  won  the  praise  of 
Julius  Caesar. 

Albe  lost  importance  after  the  third  century  of  our 
era,  though  in  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  it  was  good 
enough  to  shelter  the  decayed  fortunes  of  the  anti-Pope 
Gilberto  and  of  Pasquale  II.  Many  envious  lords 
struggled  for  it,  Guelfs  and  Ghibellines,  Aragonese  and 
Angevins,  ere  it  fell  into  the  fief  of  Tagliacozzo.    To-day 


190  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  it. 

there  is  hardly  a  poorer  village  in  the  Marsica.  All  that 
is  left  of  it,  apart  from  the  cyclopean  walls  -and  San 
Pietro,  runs  along  the  ridge  of  the  hill  nearest  Velino. 
The  church,  San  Nicola,  is  set  on  strong  walls  that  have 
served  an  ancient  secular  purpose.  The  apse  gives  on 
a  cobbled  threshing-ground,  where  men  and  women  are 
wielding  the  flail  as  we  pass.  Through  a  great  arch  we 
come  into  a  little  piazza  that  has  lost  all  pride  in  itself. 
The  church  has  a  fine  rose  window  and  a  fresco  on  its 
fagade,  but  inside  is  the  poorest  of  humble  places.  I 
only  remember  a  strangely  pagan  picture  of  a  gaudily 
attired  lady,  with  an  arrow  in  her  hand,  to  whom  cherubs 
are  -bringing  an  anchor  and  other  gifts.  No  Madonna, 
I  warrant.  The  one  street  is  broken,  irregular,  insuffi- 
cient ;  yet  something  relieves  it  from  squalor.  It  is  a 
bit  of  patchwork.  The  material  is  worn,  but  not  shoddy  ; 
and  at  every  step  you  are  conscious  of  the  great  site  and 
the  majesty  of  the  setting.  It  is  Sunday  afternoon.  All 
the  world  is  out  of  doors  ;  but  it  is  the  scantiest  world. 
Once  past  the  old  dismantled  castle,  you  strike  on  some 
round  towers,  and  that  is  the  end.  There  the  rock  runs 
sheer  down. 

We  have  a  guide  to  San  Pietro,  in  the  person  of  the 
keeper  of  the  keys,  one  of  the  ancient  Marsi  come  to 
life.  Nearly  sixty,  and  his  hair  tinged  with  grey,  slender, 
graceful,  well-knit  and  sinewy,  lithe  as  some  wild  thing, 
he  steps  lightly  and  swiftly  in  his  leathern  sandals  worn 
over  linen  hose.  His  head  is  well-shaped,  and  his 
features  finely  cut ;  the  large,  dark  eyes  are  deep  set  in 
a  strong-lined  face.  An  austere  person,  very  silent  and 
mysterious.  His  movement  over  the  stones,  down  one 
rocky  path  and  up  another,  is  a  light  run.  But  once  on 
the  top  of  the  third  hill,  and  near  San  Pietro,  he  thrills 
with  enthusiasm  and  finds  words.  He  can  tell  us  about 
it.  He  has  books,  and  at  his  fireside  of  an  evening  he 
reads  and  reads. 


en.  IX.]         ROUND   ABOUT   FUCINO  191 

He  has  brought  us,  indeed,  to  a  strange  and  wonderful 
place.  Even  purists  in  architecture  who  will  gasp  at  the 
marriage  of  incongruous  elements,  must  breathe  deep 
and  thrill  at  the  history  written  here,  each  chapter 
incisive  and  alive.  Not  even  ''n  the  Pantheon  of  Rome 
have  diverse  ages  and  fashions  dared  so  boldly  to  clash 
as  here.  The  foundations  of  San  Pietro  are  cyclopean. 
They  are  like  the  fortress  walls  below  in  material, 
strength,  and  probably  date.  On  these  were  raised  a 
Roman  temple  which  exists  substantially  to-day,  almost 
unique  in  its  state  of  preservation.  The  naves  are 
upheld  by  eight  fluted  Corinthian  columns  of  the 
original  sixteen,  stately  and  beautiful.  The  richly 
carved  door  is  fine  twelfth-century  work.  The  apse 
is  of  the  thirteenth.  Frescoes  of  every  Christian 
age  are  on  the  walls,  half  obliterated.  The  hands  of 
the  primitives  have  worked  here  ;  and  some  that  have 
learnt  in  a  Sienese  school  ;  and  others  of  late  date. 
There  are  no  masterpieces,  but  many  fragments  of 
charm.  The  pulpit  is  a  splendid  specimen  of  inlaid 
Gothic  work,  marble  and  gilt,  porphyry  and  serpentine — 
"  a  not  inelegant  kind  of  labour,"  says  Mr.  Keppel 
Craven,  in  a  fit  of  expansiveness.  The  eighteenth 
century  has  added  altars  to  Saint  Francis  and  Saint 
Bernardino  of  Siena — for  the  convent  attached  to  the 
great  church,  originally  Benedictine,  has  often  changed 
hands,  and  the  Franciscan  Conventuals  have  had  it 
From  the  prehistoric  to  the  rococo,  all  is  here  ;  but  the 
dominating  things  are  still  the  great  columns.  The 
marble  mosaic  and  the  delicate  fresco  fragments  fill  up 
the  picture  lightly.  The  rest,  whatever  space  it  takes,  is 
nowhere  in  the  memory. 

The  place  is  a  national  monument,  and  is  well  cared 
for.  Since  1866  or  1867,  on  the  suppression  of  the  con- 
vent, it  has  been  the  property  of  Count  Pace.  The 
convent  buildings  are  now  a  farm.     In  the  cloisters  are 


192  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

ancient  inscriptions  set  into  the  wall,  and  old  carved 
stones,  by  no  means  all  of  a  Christian  pattern.  What  a 
strange  subject  of  meditation  must  that  siren  have  been 
to  the  frati!  In  the  tiny  neglected  garden  we  were 
given  roses.  The  rest  of  the  flowers  have  died  since 
the  brothers  ceased  to  tend  the  place. 

Our  companion  preserved  an  attitude  of  rapt  devotion 
in  the  church.  But  it  was  not  the  simple  devotion  he 
feels  in  San  Nicola.  This  peasant  of  a  little  ruined 
hamlet  in  the  hills  is  thrilled  by  the  great  stones.  San 
Pietro,  and  the  ancient  fragments  all  about,  have  been  his 
only  school.  He  loves  them  all,  touches  every  bit  with 
reverence,  knows  every  corner,  every  inch  of  storied 
carving  within  and  without.  His  name  is  Carmine 
Santacasa ;  he  is  the  sacristan  of  San  Nicola,  and  his 
sandals  are  very  worn.  But  he  has  the  instincts  of  an 
artist  and  a  scholar.  Once  outside  the  holy  place,  he 
runs  us  up  and  down  the  hills  pitilessly  ;  for  he  is  not  of 
those  who  say  difficult  roads  are  not  for  signore.  Signore 
who  come  here  must  see  Albe.  Albe  is  worth  seeing. 
So,  then,  up  and  down,  to  see  the  walls.  He  has  studied 
their  plan  in  his  book  by  the  fireside,  the  aqueduct,  the 
traces  of  the  Valerian  Way,  the  places  of  the  gates,  with  the 
marks  where  they  hung  still  to  be  seen  on  the  stones. 
What  an  antiquary  this  peasant  would  have  made  !  His 
dark  eyes  gleam  and  flash  as  he  revivifies  old  dramas, 
made  out  of  his  book  and  his  own  strong  imagination. 
Curious,  he  makes  no  apology  for  poor  Albe  of  to-day, 
as  his  like  are  wont  to  do.  Albe  is  rich  to  him — rich  in 
great  stones  and  memories.  He  has  the  self-forgetting 
look  on  his  face  of  the  born  enthusiast.  Carmine  loves 
his  country-side,  too ;  and  he  is  almost  the  first  we  have 
met  who  openly  regrets  the  draining  of  the  lake.  He 
regrets  the  fishing  ;  for  he  is  old  enough  to  have  fished 
in  it ;  but  he  also  regrets  its  beauty.  It  has  brought 
riches,  we  suggest.     Riches  !    Riches  !     He  values  riches 


CH.  IX.]         ROUND   ABOUT   FUCINO  193 

coolly,  this  peasant  of  the  threadbare  coat  and  the  worn 
sandals.  "  Yes.  Torlonia  got  riches.  And  then  he  died." 
He  seemed  to  be  weighing  wealth  and  death  together 
for  a  moment  or  two  ;  and  he  concluded,  "  The  best  gift 
the  good  God  gave  to  this  world  was  death  ;  and  that  He 
gave  to  poor  and  rich  alike." 

Carmine  has  a  son  in  America,  who  wears  a  black 
coat,  and  sits  at  a  desk,  and  gets  good  pay,  and  sends 
some  of  it  home  to  Albe.  But  I  can  hardly  imagine  him 
the  equal  of  his  threadbare  father,  the  free  man  of  the 
hills,  with  his  entry  into  another  world  through  the  ancient 
stones  and  his  book.  By  "  threadbare  "  I  do  not  mean 
poverty-stricken.  Carmine  owns  his  own  house  and  some 
land.  His  picturesque  threadbareness  is  but  the  sign 
of  a  man  distracted  from  himself  by  impersonal  things. 
Did  he  never  think  of  going  to  America .''  No,  the  idea 
had  never  come  into  his  head.  When  one  is  "  appassionato 
pella  famiglia " 

It  is  very  easy  to  miss  S.  Maria  della  Valle,  for  it  lies 
far  away  from  the  high-road  to  anywhere,  and  cannot 
be  "taken  with"  other  monuments  of  importance.  It  is 
known  to  archaeologists  and  some  architects,  but  guide- 
books dare  not  star  anything  so  inconveniently  placed. 
The  road  to  it  lies  through  Cappelle,  which  you  reach  by 
train  from  Avezzano,  and  thence  by  the  posta  to  Magliano. 
Magliano  de'  Marsi  is  an  ancient  place  set  on  a  hill  to  the 
west  of  Albe,  much  the  worse  for  wear,  but  imposing  still, 
and  cheery  ;  and  its  inhabitants  keep  up  their  old  reputa- 
tion for  strength.  The  air  is  inspiriting,  and  the  view  of 
the  beautiful  Valley  of  Porcaneta  draws  us  on.  We  leave 
many  stares  behind  us  at  our  refusal  of  a  carrozzella  to 
Rosciolo ;  but  it  is  good  to  foot  it  upwards  through  this 
golden  country,  exuberant  and  suave,  the  bare  hills  on 
each  hand  softened  by  the  shady  trees  that  walk  along 
and  keep  us  company.     In  the  porch  of  the. /rati' s  church 

o 


194  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  II. 

we  can  rest  and  take  possession  of  the  valley  beneath. 
The  road  to  the  temple  of  the  Guardian  of  the  Vale  lies 
under,  not  through,  the  village,  and  thus  we  never  saw 
the  fine  church  there.  Rosciolo  is  the  place  from  which 
climbers  start  by  night  for  the  ascent  of  Monte  Velino. 

Monte  Velino  is  a  favourite  and  a  kindly  mountain. 
The  German  climber  we  met  at  Sulmona,  who  had 
"  done  "  all  the  Alps,  scoffed  at  the  Apennines,  pronounced 
the  Gran  Sasso  and  Majella  puny  and  dull,  had  still  a 
good  word  for  Monte  Velino.  Easy,  of  course,  a  thing 
to  be  sauntered  up ;  but  he  owned  the  beauty  and  charm 
of  the  surroundings.  To  all  the  folks  round  about  Velino 
is  a  friend.  They  gather  medicinal  herbs  on  its  slopes, 
and  look  up  to  it  for  guidance.  If  the  first  snows  of 
the  year  cover  only  the  three  peaks  (Velino,  Cafornia, 
and  Sevice),  a  stern  winter  is  to  be  looked  for  ;  a  mild  one 
if  the  snow  comes  halfway  down.  And  so  the  old 
rhyme — 

"  Quando  il  Velino  si  mette  il  capello, 
Vendi  le  capre  ed  acquista  il  mantello, 
Quando  il  Velino  le  brache  si  mette, 
Vendi  il  mantello  e  compra  le  caprette." 

["When  Velino  puts  on  his  hat,  sell  your  goats  and  get  you  a  cloak. 
When  Velino  puts  on  his  hosen,  sell  your  cloak  and  buy  little  goats. "] 

From  Rosciolo  the  road  is  rough,  but  not  shadeless, 
and  just  when  we  seem  to  be  running  against  the  back 
wall  of  the  valley,  we  find  our  Santa  Maria.  There  it 
lies,  close  under  the  steep,  wooded  hill,  at  the  end  of  the 
world,  and  very  solitary.  There  are  not  more  than  two 
houses  near  it,  where  once  was  a  flourishing  town,  the 
Villa  Maggiore,  rased  by  Charles  of  Anjou,  presumably 
for  the  support  it  gave  to  Conradin.  Its  people  fled  to 
Magliano.  All  that  is  left  of  the  church  looks  little 
remarkable,  a  barn-like  structure  with  a  pretty  apse  and 
a  window  looking  to  the  south.  The  porch  is  open,  and 
seems  to  be  used  as  a  casual  stable.     A  most  convenient 


CH.  IX.]         ROUND    ABOUT    FUCINO  195 

shelter  in  the  storm,  doubtless,  is  this  "  national  monu- 
ment." Above  the  door,  in  a  lunette,  is  a  delightful  fresco 
of  Our  Lady  with  an  angel  on  each  side,  of  the  early 
fourteenth  century.  A  travelling  Englishman  passing 
here  thought  it  wasted  in  this  wilderness,  and  offered 
to  buy  it.  He  bid  quite  high,  and  was  surprised  he  did 
not  have  his  way.  One  might  well  be  alarmed  for  its 
safety  ;  yet  the  herds  who  stable  the  cows  and  mules 
underneath  have  respected  it.  The  door  of  the  church  is 
locked  ;  the  houses  near  are  empty  ;  but  far  down  in  the 
fields  we  see  some  peasants  working,  and  we  make  for 
them.  Yes,  there  used  to  be  a  key  here,  but  not  now. 
There  is  a  volunteer,  however,  to  fetch  the  one  at 
Rosciolo.  Little  Antonietta  jumps  on  her  shabby  donkey 
and  jolts  over  rough  craggy  fields  and  stony  paths,  and 
is  back  in  an  hour.  The  family,  father  and  four  daughters, 
convoy  us  back  to  the  church  ;  and  on  the  strength  of 
the  lira  earned  by  Antonietta,  they  all  feel  dispensed 
from  further  labour  that  day.  We  have  their  company 
for  the  rest  of  the  time. 

What  is  left  of  the  interior  is  little  and  exquisite. 
The  place  was  begun  in  1048  by  Berardo,  Count  of 
the  Marsi,  who  made  it  rich  by  giving  it  the  castle 
and  town  of  Rosciolo  before  he  gave  the  whole  to  the 
Benedictines  of  Monte  Cassino,  in  1080.  From  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fifteenth  century  it  began  to  decay ;  but  the 
decay  was  very  gradual,  and  Febonio  says  in  his  time 
it  was  still  unharmed.  Even  now  Mass  is  said  several 
times  a  year,  and  at  Easter  a  procession  comes  up  to 
greet  Our  Lady  of  the  Vale.  It  is  very  broken.  A 
blessed  poverty,  and  its  remoteness  in  these  wilds,  have 
hindered  restoration.  The  floor  is  gone.  The  walls  are 
crumbling.  Now  it  looks  like  an  old  wan  and  shrunken 
face,  with  the  glamour  of  beauty  still  about  it :  chastened, 
rarified,  menaced  by  death,  but  serene.  Menaced  it  has 
been,  indeed.     It  is  cracked  and  seamed  by  earthquakes, 


196  IN    THE  ABRUZZI  [rx.  ii. 

the  latest  fissures  but  three  years  old.  On  a  column 
of  the  porch  is  an  inscription  in  honour  of  the  founder. 
Opposite  is  a  rough  Latin  verse  to  the  glory  of  the 
architect  Nicolo — 

"hoc  opus  est  clari 
manibus  factu  nicolai 
gui  laus  viventi 
gui  sit  reqes  morienti 
vivus  onoretur 
moriens  sup  astra  lo 
cetu  .  vos  quoque  psentes 
et  fag  tu  tale  videntes 
lugiter  oretis  .  quod 
regnet  in  rge  qetis." 

["This  work  was  made  by  the  hands  of  the  famous  Nicholas,  to  whom  be 
praise  in  life,  to  whom  be  rest  in  death.  Alive  let  him  be  honoured.  Dead 
he  shall  win  his  place  above  the  stars.  And  you  here  seeing  this  deed,  pray 
without  ceasing  that  he  may  reign  in  the  city  of  peace."] 

Nicholas  found  in  the  Vale  his  entry  into  peace,  and 
was  laid  to  rest  in  the  church.  His  tomb  is  in  the  right- 
hand  corner.  The  efifigy  is  gone.  Only  the  half-ruined 
inscription  remains — 

"  HOC   OPUS    EST    .    .    .    FATUM    NICOLAUS    QUI    JAGET    HIC." 

What  is  left  is  probably  of  the  twelfth  century. 
There  is  now  but  one  aisle  with  mutilated  arches  ;  but 
the  pulpit  of  white  stone  is  a  masterpiece.  The  carving, 
of  intertwined  designs,  with  grotesques,  and  a  vigorous 
presentment  of  the  story  of  Jonah,  is  nearly  the  same  as 
that  of  the  ambone  in  Santa  Maria  del  Lago  in  Moscufo, 
though  not  so  well  preserved.  Bindi  says  both  are  the 
work  of  one  Nicodemus,  an  Abruzzese  sculptor  of  re- 
nown, and  that  his  name  is  to  be  read  in  a  mutilated 
verse  in  the  pulpit.  The  pillared  screen  is  from  the 
same  hand.  The  little  place  is  not  quite  stripped  bare 
of  objects  of  devotion,  nor  reduced  to  the  cold  condition 


CH.  IX.]         ROUND   ABOUT    FUCINO  197 

of  a  specimen.  It  is  still  a  much-loved  sanctuary. 
Between  the  columns  on  the  right  of  the  screen  hangs 
the  Crucified,  young,  slender-limbed,  patient ;  not  think- 
ing any  more  of  earthly  pain.  To  the  left  stands  a  red- 
robed  Santa  Constanza  wreathed  with  flowers,  a  thing 
of  no  artistic  worth,  but  graceful  and  warm  in  this  old 
white  place.  The  hand  of  the  mysterious  Nicodemus  is 
perhaps  to  be  seen  in  the  canopy  over  the  altar-piece, 
above  the  late  and  faded  picture  of  St.  Luke  painting 
the  Virgin.  The  walls  are  tinted  with  the  remains  of 
frescoes  ;  and  where  these  have  not  been  completely 
mutilated,  the  colour  has  kept  well.  Antonietta,  an 
active  cicerone,  shows  me  what  she  calls  the  fratis 
prison,  under  the  altar,  where  they  did  penance.  She 
knows  the  place  as  her  own  father's  house,  and  is  full  of 
stories  of  the  "  molte  grazie,"  done  by  the  Madonna  di 
fuori — the  lady  of  the  lunette,  whom  the  Englishman 
wished  to  carry  away — to  those  in  peril  of  death.  But 
still  more  potent  is  she  of  the  side  chapel,  whose 
miraculous  image  was  dug  up  in  18 14,  and  has  had 
many  devotees  ever  since.  Antonietta  shows  me  some 
brown  stains  in  the  vault  underneath,  where  the  blood 
of  Christ  was  shed.  I  cannot  follow  the  legend,  but 
divine  that  when  the  blood  was  dispersa  qui,  it  was  not 
as  a  relic,  but  in  some  visitation  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows 
to  His  brethren  in  this  remote  valley  of  Porcaneta.  No 
use  questioning  her.  She  is  definite  about  her  main 
facts,  but  to  minor  circumstances  and  ramifications  she 
is  indifferent. 

She  lies  very  lonely,  St.  Mary  of  the  Valley.  Not 
very  often  is  her  lamp  lit  now,  since  the  key  is  gone  from 
the  cottage  hard  by.  The  peasants  speak  to  her  in  the 
porch,  looking  up  at  her  image  in  the  lunette  above  ; 
and  the  porch  is  very  hospitable  to  the  shepherds,  the 
cowherds,  and  the  swineherds  of  the  hills,  who  have  a 
favourite  rendezvous  just  above  at  the  well  of  clear  cold 


198  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [ft.  ii. 

water  from  the  rocks  ;  hospitable  to  their  beasts,  too,  and 
doubtless  to  the  prowling  wolves  that  come  down  in  the 
time  of  the  snows  from  the  steep  beech-covered  hill 
above. 

There  is  some  talk  of  bringing  the  railway  up  this 
road  from  Avezzano  to  Rieti.  Meanwhile  let  the 
pilgrim  take  his  staff  in  his  hand  and  go  up  the  lovely- 
valley,  and  its  Lady  will  give  him  what  she  has,  beauty 
and  peace,  while  these  are  left  to  her. 


CHAPTER   X 

CELANO 

A  splendid  ruin — Old  disasters — The  story  of  the  Castle — The  Church  as 
hospice — S,  Francis  in  Celano — Our  padrona — Deserted  Ovindoli — 
Rocca  di  Mezzo — A  nightmare  of  light  and  of  stones — Wolves — Bettina 
Serena. 

Above  the  lake  towers  Celano,  Celano  claimed  a  great 
part  in  the  lake,  to  which  it  gave  its  name  except  in 
ancient  and  in  quite  modern  times.  "  The  fishy  lake  of 
Celano,"  says  Mazella.  Once  it  was  the  chief  place  in 
all  the  Marsica,  and  it  bears  the  signs  of  past  grandeur, 
still  rearing  itself  proudly  aloft  in  its  tattered  russet  and 
gold.  Avezzano  has  stepped  well  in  front  of  it  ;  and 
there  are  few  signs  of  its  deriving  any  benefit  from  the 
cultivation  of  the  lake.  If  it  deigned  to  compete,  one 
would  think  it  might  throw  out  some  new  sprouts  below 
the  rock  near  the  railroad  ;  but  it  holds  aloof  and  rots  in 
splendid  scorn.  There  is  a  low  wall  in  the  Piazza,  where 
beggars  and  philosophers,  or  both  rolled  in  one,  are  wont 
to  loll  and  meditate.  And  here  in  Celano  we  should  be 
driven  to  philosophy  lest  the  tragedy  of  the  place  should 
overcome  us  utterly.  A  pungent  scorn  is  helpful,  too  ; 
and  among  the  loungers  by  the  parapet  are  some  one 
may  imagine  as  having  taken  a  great  vow  never  to  go 
down  to  the  plain  that  cannot  use  their  noble  Celano — 
the  plain  once  a  far-spreading  mirror  for  mountain  and 
sky,  now  laid  out  with  the  teasing  regularity  of  a  chess- 
board. The  careless  beggars  and  philosophers  are 
reasonably  protected  from  the  north  winds  by  the  slopes 

199 


200  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

of  the  Sirente  chain ;  they  face  the  sunny  southern 
fields  ;  and  have,  for  setting  to  their  dreaming  or  their 
dreamless  content,  the  glorious  amphitheatre  of  hills, 
double  and  triple  lines  of  these,  serrated,  crested,  and 
changing  from  dove  colour  and  dim  peach-bloom  to  the 
purple  of  the  storm.  For  closer  incident  there  lie  the 
little  dots  and  patches  that  once  were  fishing  towns 
round  Fucino,  and,  nearer,  the  tree-clad  slopes  and 
gardens — for  Celano,  hanging  on  the  edge  of  the  wild, 
has  yet  its  soft  and  kindly  aspect. 

More  than  once  after  fell  disaster  it  has  begun  again 
a  new  career ;  and  the  philosophers  of  the  parapet  can 
tell  themselves  that  their  city  was  thought  much  of  in 
better  days  than  ours,  and  may  yet  have  its  revival, 
even  its  revenge,  in  the  whirligig  of  time.  Here  in  old 
Roman  days  was  probably  Cliternia,  and  the  flourishing 
colony  may  have  replaced  an  Italian  city  recalcitrant  to 
Rome  in  the  wars  of  independence.  The  Lombards 
occupied  it  as  a  strong  place,  and  it  was  the  chief  seat 
of  the  Counts  of  the  Marsi.  As  it  sided  with  the 
Guelfs,  Frederic  II.  sacked  it  ruthlessly,  and  expelled 
its  inhabitants,  banishing  them  with  characteristic 
thoroughness  to  Malta,  Sicily,  and  Calabria.  But  they 
were  hard  to  exile  ;  the  Pope  intervened,  and  a  good 
number  of  the  banished  came  back.  Meanwhile 
Frederic  was  building  up  a  new  city  on  the  ruins  of  the 
old,  whose  name  he  determined  should  never  be  heard 
any  more.  This  city  was  to  be  Caesarea.  But  the  new 
name  dropped  from  it  lightly,  and  Celano  it  became 
again,  under  its  old  inhabitants.  It  was  involved,  too, 
in  Masaniello's  revolution  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
yet  again  survived  sacking  and  burning,  only  to  be 
shaken  to  its  foundations  about  fifty  years  later  in  the 
earthquake  of  1695. 

The  castle  that  stands  now  is  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
the  chief  portion  built  by  Leonello  Acclozamora.     It  has 


»  3  3        )  i     ^,  3      .         J    ,   ,'      ,    5,3     3      3,' 

^.,5^%r3    3?      i  >3'       3      S'       '5      '' 


o 

< 

u 


CH.  X.]  CELANO  201 

known  many  fickle  changes  and  chances  of  fortune,  and 
there  are  dark  stories  cHnging  to  its  walls.  Even  now  it 
is  the  finest  in  the  Abruzzi,  substantial  still,  of  bulk  to 
keep  a  province  in  awe,  and  with  its  main  walls  intact. 
On  the  western  side  of  the  town  it  is  piled,  looking 
down  on  the  beautiful  Valle  Verde,  on  the  drained  lake, 
and  over  all  the  country  which  once  it  ruled,  golden 
brown  in  colour,  and  glorious  in  the  evening  sun.  The 
battlements  remain,  and,  seen  from  the  vineyards  on  the 
hillsides,  it  cheats  you  into  a  belief  that  it  is  still  alive 
and  dangerous.  The  houses  fall  from  its  sides  like 
humble  vassals  to  be  trampled  on,  or  used  as  props, 
according  to  its  temper.  Now  it  is  very  easy  of 
access.  Thread  the  steep  street  from  the  Piazza,  and 
you  will  find  the  great  gates  open,  and  no  one  to 
challenge  your  entry.  To  all  appearance  the  place  is 
restorable,  and  Prince  Torlonia  tried  to  buy  it  for  a 
residence  ;  but  it  belongs  to  several  owners,  who  all 
neglect  it,  and  evidently  cannot  combine  to  sell  it  profit- 
ably. So  now  it  is  let  out  in  tenements,  and  houses 
besides  a  boys'  elementary  school.  In  the  great  vaulted 
chambers  poor  folks  lead  their  humble  lives,  and  in  the 
huge  chimney-places  make  their  frugal  blaze  of  twigs  ; 
their  children  swarm  and  wrangle  below  round  the  well 
in  the  pillared,  arcaded  courtyard  ;  and  little  boys 
scribble  over  the  frescoes  in  the  galleries.  Nobody,  save 
it  be  a  rare  visitor,  ever  mounts  to  the  battlements.  An 
eerie  place  it  must  be  when  the  children  and  their  tired 
elders  are  asleep.  There  should  be  unquiet  ghosts  there, 
and  some  of  them  ugly.  Rugerotto,  for  instance,  greedy 
and  dispossessed.     He  belongs  to  the  Covella  story. 

Giovanna,  or  Covella,  of  Celano,  was  its  mistress,  a 
woman  of  strong  passions  and  of  strong  will.  She  had 
married  a  Colonna,  the  nephew  of  a  Pope  ;  but  she  gave 
him  up,  and  without  a  by-your-leave  to  his  uncle, 
Martin    V.,    she    wedded    her    own    nephew,    Leonello 


202  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [PT.  II. 

Acclozamora.  After  his  death  their  son  Rugerotto 
quarrelled  with  his  mother,  disputed  her  rights,  took 
the  other  side  in  the  dynastic  struggles  of  the  time,  he 
favouring  the  Angevins,  she  the  Aragonese,  and  de- 
manded to  rule  at  Celano  as  master.  "  Not  till  my  death," 
said  she.  Finally  Rugerotto  besieged  the  town  and 
castle  ;  and  found  a  formidable  ally  in  the  great  Con- 
dottiere  Piccinino.  For  months  she  held  out  with 
bravery  and  skill  in  the  citadel  ;  and  in  the  meanwhile 
her  son  had  his  will  of  the  lands,  though  the  Celanese 
sympathies  went  with  the  lady,  as  genial  as  she  was 
stout  hearted.  She  cheered  her  men,  telling  them  Ferdi- 
nand was  at  hand  with  help.  Now  he  was  at  Chieti 
with  troops,  she  said ;  or  now  at  Sulmona.  But 
Ferdinand  delayed  ;  Piccinino  was  an  obstinate  besieger, 
and  Rugerotto  was  merciless.  At  last  she  had  to 
surrender.  The  walls  of  the  Rocca  were  thrown  down 
on  November  25,  the  palace  sacked  ;  and  not  a  little  of 
the  spoil,  jewels  and  money,  and  raiment  and  wool,  fell 
to  Piccinino's  share.  The  wool  alone  was  sold  at 
Aquila  for  4000  ducats.  Giovanna  was  thrown  into  the 
dungeons  below,  and  there  she  lay  for  long  dark  years. 
It  was  the  Piccolomini  Pope  who  intervened  at  last,  and 
procured  her  release  ;  and  she  ruled  again  in  her  own 
castle.  Before  her  death  she  willed  the  place  away  from 
all  her  kin  to  the  Piccolomini,  who  were  masters  here 
till  they  died  out. 

Other  houses  famous  in  the  annals  of  Rome  and  of 
the  Marsica  held  the  castle,  the  Peretti,  the  Savelli — 
whose  escutcheon  is  still  fresh  on  the  walls — and  the 
Bovadilla,  who  lingered  on  to  a  hideous  close.  The  last 
of  them,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  was  a  monster, 
physically  and  mentally.  Yet  his  kindred  married 
him,  by  proxy,  to  a  little  Sicilian  princess !  When 
she  rode  up  to  the  castle,  she  was  without  a  thought 
of  ill    to   come.      As   soon   as    she    set    eyes  on    her 


CH.  X.]  CELANO  203 

husband,  she  called  for  the  horse  that  had  brought 
her,  and  rode  away  on  the  instant  straight  to  Rome, 
to  the  Pope's  feet.  He  listened,  good  man,  in  horror, 
and  prohibited  the  Bovadilla's  marrying  ;  -which  did 
not  prevent  a  certain  Cardinal  Arezzo  from  persuading 
his  niece  to  take  the  monster  for  husband — with  her 
eyes  open — and  all  the  lands  and  fortune  in  his  keeping. 
When  he  died,  as  he  had  never  had  wits  enough  to  make 
a  will,  there  was  endless  confusion.  The  property,  was 
divided.  The  Arezzos  got  one  part,  the  Torres  of 
Aquila  another.  But  the  place  was  abandoned  ;  and  there 
are  still  several  owners  whose  claims  and  disputes  bar 
the  way  to  the  restoration  of  the  grand  old  place,  fast 
running  to  decay  within  its  stout  outer  shell. 

And  so  is  the  town.  A  little  faubourg  running  round 
the  hill  is  half  deserted,  and  there  seems  to  be  no 
prosperous  quarter  at  all.  The  market-place,  where  the 
beggars  and  the  fruit-stall  women  and  the  philosophers 
congregate,  has  bright  spots,  but  there  is  no  general 
gaiety.  Yet  the  place  has  a  life  of  its  own,  and  its  own 
joys.  As  we  sit  in  the  vineyards  under  the  castle,  up 
the  road  from  the  plain  comes  the  sound  of  singing. 
It  is  the  pilgrims  from  a  shrine  in  the  valley  of  the 
Liris,  coming  home  to  Celano,  and  to  Ovindoli,  and  San 
Petito,  and  Rovere,  in  the  mountains  behind.  They 
have  been  two  days  on  the  way,  long  bands  of  them, 
on  foot,  or  packed  into  market  carts.  Through  the  trees 
comes  up  an  interminable  song  to  the  Virgin.  Now 
the  men  sing  apart,  and  now  the  women  answer  in 
chorus — 

"  Evviva  Maria, 
Maria  evviva  ! " 

The  town  is  soon  full  of  them.  In  the  caf^s  or  the 
churches,  according  as  they  have  soldi  or  not,  they  take 
their  rest. 

The  churches  of  Celano  have  been  great.     To-day, 


204  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

if  you  thread  your  way  among  the  heavy  rubbish  under 
which  later  ages  have  buried  their  ancient  beauty,  you 
do  not  seek  in  vain  for  gems  of  a  purer  day — the  door  of 
the  Celestines'  church,  for  instance,  though  inside  you 
find  a  gilded  parlour  with  the  audacious  inscription, 
"  Restored  and  beautified  by  the  Celanese  in  1903." 
But  our  aesthetic  standards  are  for  ourselves,  and  answer 
to  no  needs  of  the  people  who  come  to  pray  here.  These 
gilded  parlours  are  homes  of  ecstasy.  Our  horror  and 
indignation,  our  thrill  of  interest  in  some  trace  of  past 
simplicity,  still  faintly  descried  through  the  heavy 
trimmings,  have  no  power  to  call  back  the  spirits  of  the 
suppliants  kneeling  here.  Nay  more,  the  gilded  parlours 
are  very  hospitable.  One  of  them  at  least,  which  we 
find  swarming  with  women  and  children,  has  served  as 
refuge  for  the  night.  It  has  been  a  station  on  the 
pilgrims'  road.  The  children  play  about  the  floor  with 
a  discreet  but  confident  cheerfulness.  Others  are  sitting 
on  the  altar  steps  eating  their  breakfast,  near  a  mother 
suckling  her  infant ;  and  the  respectable  citizens  and 
citizenesses  who  come  in  for  their  devotions,  show  no 
repugnance  or  impatience.  .  .  .  As  I  write,  a  bitter 
wind  has  been  blowing  for  a  week  past,  and  the  news- 
papers tell  of  the  wandering,  shivering  shadows  on  the 
embankment,  and  of  crowded  lodging-houses  shutting 
their  doors  fast  against  them.  But  the  churches  and 
the  chapels  do  not  give  the  shelter  of  their  roof-trees 
to  these  guests  of  Christ.  If  they  were  only  clean,  we 
murmur.  But  the  guests  of  Christ  are  often  not  clean 
• — and  our  English  cleanliness  is  very  cruel. 

As  for  beauty,  crude  hearts  find  it  in  strange  places. 
We  are  dragged  round  the  town  by  an  eager  woman, 
who  tells  us  Celano  has  one  thing  we  must  not  miss. 
Oh,  but  it  is  beautiful  and  famous !  And  she  plants 
us  before  an  awful  black-walled  chapel  decked  with 
skulls,  a   hideous   pile    of  iiioviento   niori's,  a   ghoulish 


CH.  X.]  '  CELANO  205 

altar  to  King  Death.  But  she  transmutes  the  horror 
into  something  great.  This  awful  show  of  dead  bones 
she  has  faced,  till  she  has  grown  to  love  it,  as  the  nether 
side  of  peace.  And  as  we  move  off,  we  are  touched 
by  a  gaunt  woman  who,  without  preface,  bids  us,  if  we 
are  bound  for  Rome,  go  to  Queen  Margherita  and  beg 
for  the  release  of  her  son  lying  now  in  a  German  prison. 
Yes,  he  did  use  his  knife  ;  there  is  no  denying  that, 
he  being  quick  tempered,  and  his  provocation  great. 
And  the  other  man  has  died  since.  But  of  what  good 
is  it  to  anybody  that  her  son  should  waste  his  days  in 
jail  while  his  wife  and  children  starve  ?  Margherita  will 
understand.  She  is  good,  and  a  mother ;  and  she  has 
suffered  herself. 

The  devotee  of  the  chapel  of  the  skulls  and  the 
mother  of  the  homicide,  give  the  old  brown  place  a 
sombre  hue.  Celano,  with  the  trees  growing  gracefully 
about  its  feet,  but  hanging  on  the  edge  of  a  fearsome 
wild  country,  has  ever  been  a  mark  for  disaster,  and 
known  close  acquaintanceship  with  death.  It  was 
Thomas  of  this  town  who,  looking  back  on  past  con- 
vulsions, and  foreseeing  those  to  come,  read  the  warning 
to  the  world,  and  sang  the  hymn  of  judgment.  Dies  Ircz. 

The  poor  have  always  been  in  Celano,  and  one  of 
their  best  friends,  he  who  aspired  to  be  poorer  than 
themselves,  once  stayed  in  the  town.  It  may  have  been 
then  that  Thomas,  perhaps  the  son  of  the  Count  of  the 
place,  first  set  eyes  on  the  Poverello.  He  tells  one 
incident  of  the  visit  in  his  "  Second  Life  of  S.  Francis." 

"  It  happened  at  Celano  in  winter  time  that  S. 
Francis  was  wearing  a  cloth  folded  like  a  cloak,  which  a 
friend  of  the  brethren,  a  man  of  Tivoli,  had  lent  him  ;  and 
when  he  was  in  the  palace  of  the  Bishop  of  the  Marsica, 
he  met  an  old  woman  asking  alms.  Immediately  he 
unfastened  the  cloth  from  his  neck,  and  though  it  did 
not   belong   to   him,  gave   it   to   the  poor  old  woman. 


2o6  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

saying,  '  Go  and  make  thyself  a  gown,  for  thou  art  in 
sore  need  of  one.'  The  old  woman  smiled,  being  over- 
come either  by  shyness  or  joy,  took  the  cloth  from 
his  hands,  hurried  off,  and  fearing  that  it  might 
be  asked  for  again  if  she  delayed,  cut  it  up  with  her 
scissors.  But  finding  that  the  cloth  she  had  cut  would 
not  be  enough  for  a  gown,  she  was  encouraged  by  his 
former  kindness  to  go  back  to  the  holy  man  and  point 
out  that  there  was  too  little  cloth.  He  looked  round 
at  his  companion,  who  had  just  such  another  cloth  on  his 
back,  and  said,  '  Hearest  thou,  brother,  what  this  poor 
woman  is  saying  ?  Let  us  bear  the  cold  for  the  love  of 
God,  and  do  thou  give  her  cloth  to  finish  her  gown  with.' 
Whereupon  his  companion  gave,  even  as  he  had  given, 
and  both  remained  naked  that  the  old  woman  might  be 
clothed."  1 

I  would  not  have  you  believe  that  all  the  Celanesi 
walk  about  with  tragedy  in  their  eyes.  There  are  the 
philosophers  of  the  parapet ;  and  there  are  the  proud — 
the  haughtily  and  the  complacently  proud.  Of  the  latter 
was  the  padrona  of  the  inn.  I  gather  that  she  believed 
the  fact  of  the  existence  of  her  inn  to  be  known  in  Rome 
and  Jericho  and  even  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth. 
At  least  she  would  not  stoop  to  emphasize  it  to  the 
ignorant.  What  was  the  name  of  her  inn  }  Name  ?  It 
had  no  name.  It  was  the  inn.  Why  should  it  have  a 
name  .?  There  were  no  recognizable  signs  of  a  hostelry 
outside — nor  anywhere  else  for  that  matter — not  even 
a  bunch  of  shrivelled  twigs  stuck  out  of  the  first-floor 
window.  Well  ?  Everybody  knew  it  was  the  inn.  But 
were  a  passing  traveller  to  demand  accommodation  as  a 
matter  of  course,  there  was  a  volte-face.  Inn  ?  Yes,  it 
was  an  inn  in  a  manner  of  speaking — but  not  an  inn 
for   everybody.     She  was  willing  to  convenience  certain 

'  Celano  Vita  II.  53.     Trans.  Ferrers  Howell. 


CH.  X.]  CELANO  207 

persons — ingegneri  e  signori,  now.  Always  quite  willing 
to  do  them  a  favour.  We  inferred  that  a  marchesa  from 
Rome  on  her  way  to  "  take  the  air  "  of  Rocca  di  Mezzo 
— a  frequent  occurrence,  evidently — would  not  be  refused 
lightly ;  and  we  were  honoured  by  her  not  rejecting  us. 
As  for  her  favours — it  is  better  to  dwell  on  her  bearing, 
which  almost  hypnotized  us  into  humble  gratitude  for 
the  least  and  the  worst  of  them ;  on  her  manner, 
betokening  boundless  leisure  in  which  to  bask  in  the 
sunshine  of  her  own  beneficence  ;  on  her  unruffled  dignity, 
which  squalor  could  not  stain.  Her  point  of  view  is  that 
of  many  innkeepers  in  the  Abruzzi.  Innkeepers — but 
they  can  hardly  be  said  to  keep  an  inn.  (And  why 
should  they,  they  might  reply,  as  their  inns  do  not  keep 
them  T)  As  for  their  attitude  of  selection,  real  or  feigned 
— the  "  engineers  or  gentlemen  "  test,  or  that  of  "  persons 
whose  faces  please  me  " — it  is  a  survival  of  the  time  when 
travellers  in  the  province  were  guests  all  along  their  route. 
In  those  days  the  native  nobility  were  starved  of  society 
in  their  mountains,  and  were  said  to  fight  for  the  honour 
of  showing  hospitality  to  the  stranger. 

The  pride  of  our  padrona  was  a  personal,  not  a  local 
matter.  Her  house,  not  Celano  ;  and  herself,  her  large, 
portly,  unkempt  self,  were  its  sources.  But  she  was 
independent  of  our  patronage,  and  sped  us  willingly 
enough  to  Rocca  di  Mezzo — where  all  Rome — noble 
Rome — went  in  villeggiatura.  With  a  word  or  two — she 
was  not  voluble — she  built  up  in  our  minds  an  imposing, 
an  alarming  idea  of  the  grandeur  of  this  new  health- 
station.  We  felt  our  pockets  anxiously,  but  "  the  inn  of 
Celano  "  was  calculated  to  give  us  a  hunger  after  some 
place  and  some  enterprise  new  enough  to  be  forced  to 
make  an  effort. 

From  the  box  of  the  little  diligence  we  feel  pity  for 
the  eight  persons  squeezed  inside ;  but  as  they  are  not 
7narchese  or  contesse,  not  even  signori  or  ingegneri,  they 


2o8  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

bear  it  cheerfully.    The  coachman  has  gathered  us  a  good 
hour  too  soon,   perhaps  more  from  a  love  of  ceremony 
than  from    any    delay    of  the  postman  in   handing    us 
the  letter-bags.     A  large  portion  of  the  inhabitants  of 
Celano    gather   round,    give  us  messages  and    packets, 
examine  the  skinny  horses,  and  hold  a  kind  of  social  club 
all  about  us,  bidding  us  long  and  leisurely  farewell — for 
unless  we  are  to  be  dropped  very  soon  we  cannot  catch 
the  return  coach  that  day.     Aquila  is  the  goal  of  the 
diligence,  and  ithere  our  coachman  will  spend  the  night. 
Jingling  and  cracking,  a  scurry  of  children,  last  messages 
and   precautions,   and  we   are   off    by    half-past  seven. 
Round  we  swing  to  a  full  view  of  the  great  old  castle  ; 
and   Celano,  russet-brown,  stands   'Out    in   its    frame    of 
mountains    and    green    plain.     On    and   up,   above   the 
beautiful  Valle  Verde,  climbing,  climbing,  till  below  us  is 
a  dim  fairyland  of  glinting  torrent  and  toy  feathery  trees. 
Above,  the  mountains  grow  in  bulk,  giant  walls  of  furnace 
red  and  slaty  blue.     The  sky  is  of  an  infinite  height  that 
flees  the  world  and  draws  it  on.     San  Petito  is  passed. 
Our   meagre  horses  show  their  mettle,  and  our  driver 
proves  himself  a  famous  whip.     The  fairyland  below  has 
vanished  ;  there  is  only  the  abyss,  and  we  are  clinging 
like  flies  to  the  side  of  Sirente,  and  across  the  gulf  lies  a 
long  bulwark  still  spotted  and  streaked  with  snow.    Here 
begin  the  tales  of  the  road,  tales  of  days  when  the  summer 
sun  is  not  whirling  there  aloft.     For  three  months  last 
winter  the  posta  never  ventured,  so  deep  and  lasting  were 
the    snows.     Letters  were   delivered   by   an   occasional 
horseman.     With  December  winds  sweeping  down  these 
gullies  and  driving  the  snow  to  a  smothering  mist,  the 
postman  has  need  to  be  hardy  and  venturesome.     And 
here  at  this  point  a  great  rock,  loosened  in  some  earth- 
quake, fell  down  last  year,  and — the  saints  be  praised  ! — 
missed   the  postd,   but   only   by   a   hair's   breadth.     So 
cheerfully  do  we  beguile  the  wa}-,  telling  of  ventures  and 


CH.  X.]  CELANO  209 

escapes,  till  the  road  becomes  a  sharp-angled  wriggle, 
fivefold  at  least  ;  and  all,  save  the  old  and  very  patient, 
get  out  and  climb  up  the  face  of  the  mountain,  cutting 
the  road  over  and  over  again  by  a  path  which  is  a  ladder 
of  uncertain  footholes  and  loose  stones.  Far  below,  the 
diligence  crawls  like  a  beetle  on  its  winding  way. 

At  the  top  we  are  in  Ovindoli,  a  grey,  forsaken  place 
of  the  dead,  surely.     In  the  nearer  houses  there  is  no  one. 
Even  the  approach  of  the  posta  calls  nobody  out.    Where 
are  they  all  t     Son'  tiitti  ftwri.     And  "  fuori "  does  not 
mean  in  the  harvest-fields  below,  but  across  the  sea,  in 
America.    What  is  there  to  do  here  t    Life  is  at  its  barest 
in  this  grey  village  at  the  top  of  the  world,  girt  on  three 
sides  by  the  mountains,  and  with  the  great  upland  stony 
plain  in  front  stretching  away  to  Aquila.     There  are  a 
few  women  in  the  street  as  we  penetrate  further,  a  young 
sleepy  priest,  and   some   boys  driving  cows  to  pasture. 
Why  did   people   ever  choose  such  a  place,  4800  feet 
high,    wrapped  for    more  than  half  the  year  in  snow } 
This  year  the  snow  lay  well  into  June  ;  and  in  the  winter 
it   was   sometimes   ten   feet   deep.      A  usual   mode   of 
entrance  to  your  house  was  by  the  first-floor  window. 
When  the  posta  did  not  come  you  were  left  to  your  own 
resources.     What  resources  !     The  town  is  topped  by  an 
old  tower,  called   Roman.     Once  it  was  a  strong  place, 
commanding  the  pass  to  Celano  and  the  upland  plain  and 
the  road  to  Aquila.     Its  terrible  barrenness  is  a  thing  of 
yesterday  and  to-day.     Its  flocks  and  herds  were  famous, 
and  there  were  woods  to  give  shelter  and  some  gracious- 
ness  to  life,   beside  winter  fuel,  which  now  has  to  be 
fetched  from  a  considerable  distance.     Ovindoli  woods 
were  all  cut  down  because  they  gave  cover  to  wolves  and 
brigands.     Were  there  brigands  now,  they  would  surely 
be  in  a  piteous  case  did  they  see  anything  worth  robbing 
here.     But  the  wolves  have  not  died  out  ;  and  in   the 
winter  they  are  daring  and  clamorous  enough  to  require 

P 


210  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

to  be  kept  in  check  ;  and  a  wolf-hunt  presents  some 
sport  to  the  few  adventurous  men-folk  left  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. But  even  in  its  frozen  decrepitude  Ovindoli 
makes  efforts.  In  what  stands  for  a  piazza  we  saw  a  few 
shaky  poles,  from  which  hung  meagre  coloured  rags,  in 
evidence  of  a  recent  festa.  Even  ruined  Ovindoli  says 
it  is  a  poor  heart  that  never  rejoices. 

On,  and  a  little  downwards,  over  the  bare  plain,  past 
Rovere  to  Rocca  di  Mezzo.     We  are  on  the  alert   for 
touting  porters  from  the  new  hotels,  and  other  signs  of 
the  villeggiatura  of  the   Roman   nobility.     They  seem 
rather  remiss  in   coming  to  meet  the  posta,  though  we 
swing  in  in   fine  style,  with  great  cracking  of  whip  and 
jingling  of  bells.     Hotels  ?     The  driver  points  to  a  non- 
descript tumble-down  place,  evidently  in    the   hands   of 
the  masons.    With  some  persuasion  a  lad  takes  a  hod  of 
bricks  from  his  head,  and  hoists  our  baggage  instead. 
Carried    inside,    it    brings    consternation.       Travellers! 
Inn  ?     Yes,  this  is  the  inn — if  it  was  only  rest  or  food 
we  wanted— but,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  town  had  had  a 
misfortune   in  the  winter.     The  snowfall   had   been   so 
great  that  the  municipio  had  fallen  under  its  weight,  and 
was  now  a  useless  ruin.     And  so  the  inn  was  housing  the 
municipio,  and  the  mayor,  and  the   councillors  ;  and  of 
spare  room  it  had  none.     But  the  town  afforded  a  choice 
of  the  best  accommodation.     We  had  never  come  across 
more  amiable  hosts.     Up  in  this  wild  plain,  open  to  all 
the  winds  of  heaven,  we  find  tempers  of  almost  flower- 
like sweetness.     We  eat  our  macaroni  with  the  contadini, 
and   set   off  with   our   genial    landlord   as  guide.     The 
streets  we  climbed  and  the  stairs  in  search  of  the  perfect 
quarters  recommended  by  the  Roman  doctors  !     As  for 
the  town,  the  catastrophe  of  the  winter  that  befell  the 
municipio  was  plainly  a  visitation  of  God  on  the  mayor 
and  councillors  for  the  condition  of  the  streets — and  they 
have  not  recognized  it !     A  slum  or  two  in  such  air  is  of 


CH.  X.]  CELANO  211 

little  consequence  ;  and  the  contesse  and  inarchese,  if  ever 
they  are  anywhere  about,  probably  take  little  harm.  But 
that  is  an  after-reflection.  On  the  spot  we  must  have 
felt  differently,  for,  not  on  account  of  interior  defects,  but 
for  the  outlook  on  ancient  grime,  we  declined  all.  There 
seemed  to  be  nothing  for  it  but  the  sign  of  the  Belle 
Etoile,  and  up  here  the  night  accommodation  is  chilly. 
Then  mine  host  cried  "  Bettina  ! "  And  mine  hostess 
echoed  "  Bettina  !  "     To  Bettina  we  were  led. 

Bettina  lives  outside  the  area  of  muck,  and  with 
nothing-  between  her  little  house  and  the  mountains. 
She  keeps  a  cafe  of  a  humble  kind,  where  homely  folks 
of  an  evening  come  and  talk  over  her  fire  on  the  hearth, 
and  take  a  hand  at  cards,  and  sing  a  bit,  and  tell  old 
stories,  and  drink  a  penn'orth  of  wine,  and  then  go  home 
to  an  early  bed.  By  day  she  tends  a  little  shop,  sells 
hap'orths  of  groceries,  or  oil,  and  spoils  the  children  of 
her  customers.  Our  guide  introduced  us  as  Inglese  from 
London.  "  Londra ! "  said  Bettina,  opening  wide  her 
blue  eyes,  "  Cosa  c'^,  Londra  ?  "  "  Inglese  !  Cosa  c'e." 
London  having  been  defined  as  a  bundle  of  houses 
somewhere  over  the  mountains,  beyond  Naples  even, 
and  ourselves  more  vaguely  explained,  we  were  passed 
into  the  sweet,  serene  atmosphere  of  Bettina's  home,  and 
to  the  spotless  purity  of  Bettina's  upper  chambers.  We 
are  strange  museum  specimens  to  her  for  a  little  quarter 
of  an  hour,  and  then  her  curiosity  melts  in  her  humanity, 
and  we  are  guests  not  only  to  be  served  with  the  fine 
capacity  that  lodges  in  her  blonde,  blue-eyed  person,  but 
to  be  spoiled  and  made  much  of  in  return  for  our  opening 
a  few  chinks  into  an  unknown  world. 

And  thus  the  imposing  hotels  of  Rocca  di  Mezzo 
resolved  themselves,  and  very  gratefully,  into  well- 
scrubbed,  sweet-smelling  cottage  garrets.  If  Rocca  di 
Mezzo  desires  success  as  a  health  resort,  let  it  make 
Bettina  mayor ! 


212  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

All  round  is  a  vast  clean  plain,  walled  to  the  west 
by  Velino  and  Puzzello,  to  the  east  and  south  by 
Sirente.  It  ends  far  away  to  the  north  at  Aquila  in 
the  jagged  range  of  the  Gran  Sasso,  its  horn  clear 
cut  and  blue — blue,  in  the  dazzling  air.  Great  meadows, 
thick  with  mountain  flowers,  stretch  on  to  Rocca  di 
Cambio  and  to  Fontecchio.  In  one  of  them  a  troop 
of  ponies  are  scampering  wild  and  free.  The  sun  sinks 
behind  Monte  d'Ocre.  Keen  winds  blow.  Here  in  the 
highlands  the  summer  nights  are  austere  ;  and  the  stars 
come  out  like  steelly  gems.  On  the  road  asses  and 
mules,  shapeless  under  their  loads  of  scented  hay  that 
stretch  from  marge  to  marge,  move  on  their  slow 
way  home.  The  driver  stops  his  song,  and  sends  them 
off  at  a  heavy  trot.  The  clatter  of  hoofs  in  your  ears, 
and  the  falling  night  about  you,  an  old  tale  becomes  a 
reality  of  yesterday,  the  tale  of  the  Angevin  riding  fast 
and  furious  along  this  road  through  the  starlight,  the 
looming  horn  of  Monte  Corno  his  guide,  on  to  Aquila 
to  test  the  faith  of  the  Aquilesi.  Was  it  his,  or 
Conradin's  ?  And  following  fast  on  his  returning  foot- 
steps come  the  men  and  women  of  Aquila,  a  wild,  dis- 
ordered band,  on  foot,  on  muleback,  laden  with  stores, 
filled  with  a  sudden  fury  of  help  to  the  Angevin,  and  of 
hate  to  the  unknown  gallant  young  grandson  of  the 
founder  of  the  greatness  of  their  city. 

At  night,  from  our  windows,  we  see  lights  up  in  the 
near  wooded  hills  above  us,  and  they  are  still  there  just 
before  dawn.  They  are  shepherds'  fires,  not  for  warmth 
alone,  but  to  keep  off  the  wolves. 

Next  day's  walk  is  still  a  nightmare  of  light  and  of 
stones.  Our  way  lay  about  the  hillsides  above  the  town, 
low  spurs  of  Sirente.  From  a  point  here  and  there  we 
see  the  whole  range  of  the  Gran  Sasso,  so  clear  defined, 
it  seemed  as  if  we  could  touch  every  crag  and  summit. 


cii.  X.]  CELANO  213 

Not  a  cloud !  Were  there  ever  any  clouds  ?  With 
Bettina,  we  say,  "  Cloud  ?  Cosa  c'e  ? "  The  light  intoxi- 
cates. The  sun  is  not  yet  high,  yet  it  dazzles  us  into 
restlessness,  and  we  must  on,  from  rock  to  rock.  There 
are  points  where  the  great  range  with  its  uplifting  force 
is  lost,  and  we  look  out  on  an  endless  waste  of  stones — 
stones — stones  ;  and  the  light  above  is  like  myriads  of 
circling  piercing  discs  and  wheels.  A  terrible  land,  its 
aridity  mocked  by  the  sun  that  has  split  itself  into 
glinting  diamonds  whirled  in  space.  The  beech  copses 
behind  are  almost  too  steep  to  give  a  footing,  but  on  the 
margin  we  sit,  glad  of  the  slightest  shade  to  veil  us  from 
the  mighty  light  and  the  wide  waste  of  stones.  Some 
peasants  pass  down  with  their  loads  of  wood.  Two  men 
w  ith  a  gun  are  challenged  by  the  giiardia.  This  rural 
guard,  a  gay,  jaunty  young  fellow,  with  a  meek,  aged 
attendant,  satisfied  his  immense  curiosity  about  us,  and 
then  waxed  rhapsodical  on  the  glories  of  his  life.  There 
never  was  such  a  life  1  Ever  in  the  woods  and  on  the 
hills  !  Indoors — it  would  be  death  !  "  Wolves  .^  Oh, 
yes,  no  end  of  them.  Why,  yesterday,  where  you  are 
sitting,  they  killed  a  donkey.  But  they  don't  want  you 
now,  and  would  run  if  they  saw  you.  In  the  summer 
there  are  plenty  of  sheep  in  the  mountains.  In  winter 
it  would  be  another  thing." 

Back  to  Rocca  di  Mezzo  by  a  precipitous  path.  We 
stumble  down,  glad  to  look  to  our  feet,  for  the 
whirling  intoxication  is  up  there  again,  and  the  endless 
outlook  on  stones,  stones.  The  world  is  stripped  very 
bare  here.  You  see  its  skeleton.  If  you  could  live  at 
all,  you  might  live  lustily.  But  something  like  madness 
might  seize  on  you  in  this  air  that  has  the  purity  of 
spears,  where  the  face  of  day  has  no  overhanging 
shade  of  locks,  no  lashes  on  its  gleaming  eye. 

Bettina's  little  home  is  as  a  cool  cavern,  and  we  rest 
in  her  serenity.     Her  own  light  burns  low  at  times,  and 


214  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

she  sits  in  the  shadow  of  a  living  sorrow.  There  is  a 
son  very  far  away  across  the  seas,  who  has  lain  month 
after  month  in  prison  without  trial,  a  suspect,  accused 
of  having  taken  life — the  gentle  creature,  she  says,  he 
who  never  hurt  any  one.  It  is  so  far,  so  far ;  Rome 
from  where  help  might  come,  is  far,  too.  Giovanni,  her 
husband,  has  gone  there  twice  ;  but  Rome  forgets. 
Meanwhile  there  is  a  busy  life  to  be  lived,  and  old  habits 
of  cheeriness  and  duty  to  help  the  day  along.  And 
strangers  now  and  then  do  not  come  amiss.  Besides, 
they  widen  your  experience.  "  I  am  glad,"  says  Bettina, 
"  to  see  the  English  before  I  die.  I  always  thought 
they  were  black." 


j'      J      )       J      3 

0   3,)      3         3  3 


o 


CHAPTER    XI 

SULMONA 

Ifortus  inclusus — Mellow  Sulmona — A  stormy  past — Legend  of  San  Pan- 
filo  — Market-day — Badia  of  Pope  Celestine- — The  Santone  in  the 
Abruzzi — San  Spirito  in  Majella — Sant'  Onofrio— Rienzi  as  hermit— 
Ovid's  villa — Ovid  as  magician — Celestine  and  the  treasure — Cor- 
finium  to-day — Rajano — The  trattiiro. 

The  Valley  of  Sulmona  lies,  in  summer,  soft  and  smiling, 
half  asleep,  caressed  by  dreams,  as  if  confident  in  its 
guardians,  the  giant  hills,  that  make  for  it  a  world  apart. 
Its  eastern  boundary  is  the  long  wall  of  Majella  and 
Morrone,  stretching  with  hardly  a  break  to  the  Gran 
Sasso.  West  is  the  range  that  shuts  out  the  Marsica 
from  this  Pelignian  country,  with  the  lower  hills  that  join 
Monte  Sirente  to  Monte  Grande.  The  slopes  of  Genzano, 
with  Pettorano  on  their  face,  close  it  to  the  south.  The 
valley  is  watered  by  the  little  Gizio  and  the  turbulent 
Sagittario,  which  give  themselves  up  to  the  greater 
Aterno,  near  Popoli.  It  lies  here,  a  long  oval  cup,  made 
as  if  by  two  different  artificers,  the  sides  rough-hewn  and 
of  barbaric  pattern,  the  hollow  of  fine  and  exquisite 
detail,  and  soft  and  rich  of  surface.  Winter  lasts  long, 
for  the  valley  is  high  set — more  than  thirteen  hundred 
feet  above  the  sea  ;  but  the  snows  form  a  warm  protective 
covering.  When  they  melt  in  the  sun  of  the  late  spring 
the  flowers  below  are  eager  for  release,  and  they  rise  up 
with  quick  joy  like  blessed  souls  on  the  Resurrection 
morn. 

I  hardly  know  from  which  point  the  valley  looks  its 

215 


2i6  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

best ;  but  two  views  of  enchantment  I  remember.  One 
is  seen  as  the  train  tumbles  down  out  of  the  mountains 
from  Aquila.  Then,  beyond  Rajano,  the  eyeballs,  hot 
with  gazing  on  the  red  rocks,  rest  and  bathe  in  a  soft 
mist  of  green,  in  long  vine-slopes,  on  verdant  lawns  and 
festooned  hedges,  in  trees  set  out  in  ordered  lines  of 
beauty.  The  Sulmona  Valley  is  an  old,  mellow,  high- 
walled  garden — a  Jiortiis  incliisiis  for  the  softer  senses  to 
expand  in  after  the  savage  grandeur  of  the  mountain 
country  round  about.  Another  meets  you  coming  back 
from  Pettorano,  looking  north  along  the  grassy  vale  of 
the  Gizio  across  Sulmona  to  the  far  blue  peaks  of  the 
Gran  Sasso.  The  sense  of  the  garden  is  lost ;  but  the 
eye  revels  in  the  great  sweep  of  the  hills,  in  the  bounding 
road,  with  its  green  margin  of  sheep-walk.  Here  beauty 
does  not  sit  and  brood  in  groves  and  gardens,  but  is 
swift  and  has  wings. 

The  town  of  Sulmona  is  set  on  a  little  height  above 
the  valley  in  the  midst  of  orchards  and  vineyards — an 
old-modish  place  of  discreet  and  unassuming  charm. 
Fifty  other  places  in  the  Abruzzi  give  you  keener  sen- 
sations at  first  sight  by  their  bold  piling  and  grouping. 
Sulmona,  despoiled  of  most  of  its  towers,  has  no  jagged 
edges  left ;  and,  anyway,  set  right  under  Morrone  as  it 
is — for  the  mountain  seems  to  rise  sheer  out  of  the  public 
gardens — it  would  have  little  chance  of  wearing  a  tower- 
ing aspect.  It  has  grown  to  a  fitting  harmony  with  the 
valley  round.  Long  ages  have  smoothed  it,  and  turned 
it  to  soft  old  hues,  ivories,  ochres,  rosy  browns.  It  is  still 
nearly  all  set  within  its  gates,  though  the  walls  are  mostly 
down.  There  is  no  rich  quarter  ;  and  if  there  are  slums, 
they  are  on  the  edge  of  the  green  country,  and  swept  by 
the  winds  from  the  mountains.  No  obvious  picturesque- 
ness  meets  your  eye.  Earthquakes  have  destroyed  all  its 
finest  monuments,  save  the  Annunziata,  and  the  beauty 
is  everywhere  of  a  shy  discretion — almost  unconscious. 


CH.  XL]  SULMONA  217 

There  is  something  cloistered  about  it,  something  aristo- 
cratic ;  and  though  it  be  threadbare  and  out-at-elbows,  yet 
prosperous  Aquila  seems  plebeian  by  comparison.  You 
imagine  to  yourself  how  in  this  hidden  house  or  that,  up 
a  dark  alley,  or  in  some  first  floor  overlooking  one  of  the 
piazzas,  live  the  elderly  barons  and  the  counts  who  have 
never  found  their  place  in  the  new  regime,  who  dream 
away  their  days  here,  or  do  a  little  archseological  digging 
about  Corfinium,  or  once  a  month  add  a  paragraph  or 
two  to  the  work  on  the  ancient  Peligni,  which  is  never 
quite  ready  to  see  the  light. 

What  the  place  lives  on  it  is  not  easy  to  make  out. 
Its  staple  industry  is  sugar-plums.  Every  other  shop- 
window  in  the  Corso  is  full  of  huge  bouquets,  thick  chap- 
lets,  and  crosses,  and  garlands  made  of  gaudily  coloured 
sweet-stuff.  These  are  not  for  the  delectation  of  children. 
On  birthdays,  christenings,  weddings,  and  all  anniversaries, 
compliments  take  this  form  ;  and  a  bouquet  made  of 
globulous  scarlet  and  yellow  sugar-flowers,  tricked  out 
with  green,  spiky  foliage,  is  an  elegant  gift  to  a  lady, 
especially  if  accompanied  by  a  sonnet.  Is  it  this  industry 
that  feeds  the  not  very  buoyant  life  which  flows  through 
its  veins,  and  keeps  alive  its  numerous  clergy,  its  semi- 
nary, its  college,  and  its  markets  .'' 

Sulmona  in  its  time  has  endured  many  knocks  and 
blows  of  fortune,  for  it  is  a  very  ancient  place  indeed. 
Ovid,  its  most  brilliant  son,  says  it  was  founded  by  a 
companion  of  ^neas,  one  "  Solymus,  who,  quitting 
Phrygian  Ida,  came  here  and  gave  his  name  to  cold 
Sulmo,  our  birthplace."  It  has  barely  escaped  a  hundred 
deaths,  suffering  in  the  wars  of  the  Italian  confederates, 
at  the  passing  of  Hannibal,  in  the  struggles  between  Marius 
and  Silla,  between  Caesar  and  Pompey.  It  opened  its 
gates  to  Caesar  after  a  stiff  siege.  In  spite  of  all,  it  grew 
into  a  place  of  importance,  and  in  the  twelfth  century  was 


2i8  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

the  seat  of  justice  in  the  Abruzzi.  From  its  defiance 
of  the  Papal  army  under  Jean  de  Brienne  it  found 
favour  with  Frederic  II.,  who  founded  here  a  chair  of 
canon  law  ;  but  this  was  abolished  in  1308,  owing  to  the 
jealousy  of  Naples.  Nevertheless,  it  opposed  Conradin, 
and,  in  return,  Charles  of  Anjou  endowed  its  Franciscan 
convent.  Still  it  continued  to  attract  misfortune,  ever 
involved  in  dynastic  strife,  or  in  the  quarrels  of  neighbour- 
ing nobles  like  the  Caldora  and  Cantelmi,  or  the  squabbles 
of  its  own  rival  houses,  or  at  the  hands  of  the  condottieri, 
Braccio  da  Montone,  and  Piccinino.  The  last  became 
Prince  of  Sulmona.  In  the  wars  between  Louis  d' Anjou 
and  Carlo  di  Durazzo  it  upheld  the  latter,  who  made  it 
his  favourite  residence,  and  granted  it  the  privilege  of  a 
mint.  Its  coins  had  on  one  side,  "  S.M.P.E.  "  {Sulmo  mihi 
patria  est),  and  on  the  reverse  the  head  of  Pope  Celestine. 
Minting  ceased  when  the  town  passed  to  its  new  prince, 
Lannoy,  the  hero  of  Pavia — passed  only  in  name,  for  he 
never  enjoyed  its  ownership.  The  all-absorbing  Colonnas, 
into  whose  house  he  had  married,  got  it ;  and  to-day  you 
see  the  double  arms  of  Lannoy  and  Colonna  cut  in  the 
brilliant  ochre- coloured  stone  of  the  picturesque  Porta  di 
Napoli. 

Sulmona  in  its  best  days  was  a  home  of  artists  and 
skilled  craftsmen,  and  its  goldsmiths  were  famous  through- 
out Europe.  The  names  of  Barbato,  Di  Meo,  Maestro 
Masio,  Andrea  di  Sulmona,  makers  of  processional  crosses, 
croziers,  and  chiselled  chalices,  stood  for  noble  and  ex- 
quisite design,  and  some  of  their  work  is  still  identifiable. 
The  place  was  rich  enough  to  employ  artists  and  architects 
from  outside,  and  at  one  time  a  colony  of  them  came 
here  from  Lombardy.  Above  the  Chapel  of  St.  Elizabeth, 
in  San  Francesco,  was  this  inscription  :  "  Sacellum  Visi- 
tationis  Deiparae  ad  Elisabeth  a  Lombardoru  natione 
A.D.  MDVIII.  constructum." 

Now  the  monuments  are  sadly  broken,  for  the  earth- 


CH.  XL]  SULMONA  219 

quake  of  1703  was  specially  disastrous  at  Sulmona,  and 
the  restoration  has  been  as  unhappy  here  as  elsewhere. 
The  cathedral  stands  outside  the  town  proper,  above  the 
steep  banks  of  the  Gizio,  and  near  the  bridge  that  leads 
to  the  Badia  of  Celestine.  It  is  built  on  the  site,  and  its 
foundations  are  the  remains,  of  an  ancient  temple  of 
Apollo  and  Vesta.  The  first  Christian  church  was 
dedicated  to  the  Virgin  ;  but,  later,  a  local  saint,  San 
Panfilo,  was  chosen  as  patron  of  the  town.  This  is  the 
legend  of  the  bishop-saint  and  the  building  of  his  church — 

"  San  Panfilo,  protector  of  Sulmona,  was  born  at 
Pacino,  which  is  a  place  between  Sulmona,  Petterano, 
and  Canzano.  San  Panfilo  had  embraced  the  religion 
of  Christ,  but  his  father  was  a  heathen.  And  so  they 
didn't  agree  in  the  family.  The  father  hated  the  son, 
and  thought  how  he  could  make  him  perish.  He  ordered 
him  to  mount  on  a  waggon,  and  from  Pacino,  which 
stands  on  a  steep  rock,  he  had  to  go  down  to  the  valley 
in  the  direction  of  the  Gizio,  The  son  obeyed.  The 
father  thought,  *  Now  he'll  tumble  down  that  rock, 
waggon  and  oxen  and  all,  and  so  much  the  better ! ' 
But  the  angels  guided  Panfilo.  Slowly,  slowly  he  came 
down  on  the  waggon,  without  any  hurt.  On  the  rocks 
are  still  to  be  seen  the  imprint  of  the  oxen's  feet  and  the 
ruts  made  by  the  wheels. 

"  Panfilo  was  made  Bishop  of  Sulmona,  but  he  had 
to  stay  six  months  at  Sulmona  and  six  months  at 
Pentima,  among  the  ruins  of  Corfinium.  When  he 
died,  he  was  at  Pentima,  and  four  canons  of  Sulmona 
were  with  him.  Said  one  of  these  canons,  '  Ah  !  but  we 
are  unlucky !  Now  the  body  of  our  holy  bishop  will 
remain  at  Pentima  !  Why  should  we  not  take  it  back  to 
Sulmona .-'  It  is  night,  and  no  one  will  see  us.'  And 
the  other  three  answered,  '  Yes,  yes  !  Put  him  on  our 
shoulders  and  let  us  go.' 

"  And  so  they  did.     They  were  near  the  city,  when 


220  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

in  the  Ficoroni's  place  they  could  go  no  further,  for  their 
great  thirst.  One  of  them  touched  the  earth  with  his 
hands,  and  said,  '  Ah !  if  only  there  were  a  fountain 
here  ! '  Hardly  had  he  said  it  when  he  found  his  hand 
wet.  A  fountain  of  fresh  water  had  sprung  up.  And 
that  fountain  is  there  still  to-day,  and  it  is  called  the 
fountain  of  San  Panfilo. 

"When  it  had  passed  the  Ponte  della  Vella,  the 
corpse  became  heavy  as  lead,  and  they  could  get  it  no 
farther.  So  they  stopped,  and  in  that  spot  was  built  the 
church."  1 

The  story  of  the  rivalry  between  San  Panfilo  and 
San  Pellino  of  Corfinio  is  not  mere  legend.  For  ages 
there  raged  a  bitter  war  between  the  two  chapters  as  to 
which  church  had  authority  in  the  district.  Finally  it 
was  decided  in  favour  of  Sulmona.  To-day,  San  Panfilo, 
with  its  little  red  domes,  and  without  a  tower,  has  not 
much  to  show  outside  save  its  beautiful  doors.  Inside 
it  has  been  modernized  in  the  usual  barbarous  fashion. 
But  there  is  something  in  it  to  tempt  you  to  linger.  It 
is  a  church  of  beautiful  proportions,  with  fine  choir  and 
ambulatory,  and  interesting  crypt.  Here  the  eighteenth 
century  has  offended,  but  in  its  grandiose  style.  Our 
own  mean  quarter  of  an  hour  has  done  worse.  In  what 
purgatorial  fires  can  be  expiated  the  ecclesiastical 
decorations  of  the  modern  Catholic .''  The  eighteenth 
century  made  a  state-room  for  its  God,  if  not  a  sanctuary. 
The  nineteenth  has  for  its  model  the  front  parlour  of  the 
little  grocer's  wife,  or  the  local  linen-draper's  advertise- 
ment. There  are  some  treasures  left,  however,  which 
have  had  narrow  escapes  in  the  various  burnings  and 
restorations  :  the  tombs  on  each  side  of  the  central  door,  for 
instance,  especially  that  of  the  bishop.  Only  at  Mass  do 
the  poor  folk  linger  long  under  the  brand-new  simpering 

'   De  Nino,  Usi  e  Costumi,  vol.  iv.  p.  227. 


CH.  XL]  SULMONA  221 

angels  of  the  choir.  Their  place  of  recollection  is  below 
in  the  crypt,  where  the  shabby  old  things  are  kept  that 
are  not  good  enough  for  the  best  parlour  above.  Here 
the  heart  of  the  old  cathedral  still  abides.  The  curious 
old  (Byzantine  .'')  Virgin  has  her  adorers  now,  as  for  ages 
and  ages  past  ;  but  it  is  the  Crucified  the  poor  folks 
come  for.  The  person  of  refined  sensibilities  will  turn 
away  in  horror  from  this  representation  of  Christ,  which 
is  a  very  common  one  in  the  Abruzzi.  It  is  a  terrible 
realization  of  physical  pain.  The  artist's  whole  soul  has 
gone  out  into  the  expression  of  the  marks  of  pain  ;  the 
emaciation,  the  stretched  tendons,  the  bleeding  sides, 
the  falling  mouth,  the  dishevelled  hair,  the  sweat  upon 
the  brow,  the  head  that  cannot  hold  evenly  the  crown  of 
thorns.  This  Christ  cannot  help,  but  knows  all  pain, 
and  so  is  companionable  to  souls  in  agony.  He  is  utterly 
pitiable,  and  so  they  can  be  friends  with  Him.  A  young 
thing  is  there  as  I  enter.  Her  figure  tells  her  youth. 
She  clings  so  close  about  His  feet  I  cannot  see  her 
face.  Every  time  I  go  back  to  the  dim  crypt  she  is 
there.  I  cannot  see  her  face,  so  close  she  clings  to 
His  feet. 

Past  the  narrow  green  strip  of  public  gardens,  where 
the  fountains  play  so  prettily,  pitter-patter  all  day  and 
all  night  long  about  the  feet  of  Giant  Morrone,  you  reach 
the  town  gate.  The  narrow  Corso  leads  you  to  the 
Annunziata,  now  mostly  turned  into  the  municipio,  with 
its  beautiful  fifteenth-century  carved  fagade — the  best 
specimen  of  civic  architecture  left  in  the  Abruzzi.  In 
front  of  the  college  is  the  so-called  statue  of  Ovid,  a 
crude  figure  of  uncertain  date,  but  no  antique.  Once  it 
stood  against  the  wall  of  the  Praetorian  palace,  now 
destroyed,  and  there,  in  old  days,  it  used  to  be  decked 
with  garlands  every  St.  John's  Day.  Some  say  the 
statue  is  that  of  Petrarch's  Sulmonese  friend,  Marco 
Barbato,  the  Angevin  courtier  and  man  of  letters ;  some, 


222  '  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

Remigio   Fiorentini,  translator  of  the   Heroides ;  others 
declare  it  to  be  a  genuine,  if  worthless,  antique. 

Onwards,  to  the  left,  is  the  thirteenth-century  aqueduct, 
one  of  the  most  picturesque  features  of  the  town.  It 
still  serves  its  ancient  purpose,  and  its  row  of  Gothic 
arches  forms  the  western  boundary  of  the  great  piazza, 
the  centre  of  the  life  of  Sulmona.  On  summer  market- 
days  the  piazza  is  like  a  vast  garden  of  blooming  flowers 
of  every  hue.  The  site  is  magnificent — topped  to  the 
west  by  the  old  distowered,  earthquake-riven  church  of 
San  Francesco,  railed  by  the  Gothic  arches,  from  which 
fall  a  wide  flight  of  steps  ;  and,  to  the  east,  snow-capped 
Morrone.  Santa  Chiara  at  one  end,  San  Martino  at  the 
other,  have  the  place  in  their  special  keeping.  Here, 
twice  a  week,  the  folks  pour  in  from  all  the  country 
round.  Nowadays  the  Sulmonese  have  mostly  given 
up  their  costume  ;  but  the  women  of  the  mountains  and 
the  valley  come  still  in  their  traditional  splendour — 
women  of  Pettorano,  of  Pacentro,  of  Introdacqua,  of 
Roccapia.  The  Saturday  market  here  is  one  of  the 
gayest,  the  most  coloured  sights  in  the  Abruzzi.  The 
place  swarms  with  life  and  swims  in  light,  and  the  hum 
of  the  selling  and  chaffering  rises  to  the  terrace  of  Santa 
Chiara  like  a  chorus.  Round  the  playing  fountains  in 
the  centre  gather  the  horses,  the  asses,  and  the  mules. 
At  the  western  end,  so  spacious  is  the  place,  there  is 
room  for  out-of-door  smithies  and  rope-walks,  and  for  all 
kinds  of  occupations  and  industries  to  be  carried  on 
irrespective  of  the  market,  which  is  concentrated  near 
the  steps  and  the  aqueduct.  Petterano  lends  the 
greatest  magnificence  to  the  scene.  The  white  head- 
dresses of  the  women  falling  down  behind  below  the 
waist ;  the  green  and  the  red  and  the  purple  of  bodice 
and  apron  are  splendid  and  brave.  There  is  a  dash  of 
orange  or  yellow  in  ribbons  or  embroideries,  and  some 
other  vivid  note  in  stocking  or  stay-lace.     Red  corals  or 


CH.  XL]  SULMONA  223 

thick  gold  beads,  and  the  heavy,  massive,  barbaric  ear- 
rines  set  off  the  dark  faces,  the  bare  throats  and  bosoms. 
The  Introdacqua  dress  is  handsome,  but  Pettorano  is 
always  the  best.  The  local  male  costume — known  as  the 
Spanish  dress — once  general  in  the  Abruzzi,  now  fast 
disappearing,  but  still  seen  on  market-days,  and  often  in 
the  fields,  consists  of  a  blue  coat,  red  waistcoat — or,  if  none 
be  worn,  a  red  sash,  and  white  knee-breeches.  The  shirt 
is  wide  open  at  the  neck,  and  its  deep  collar  falls  about 
the  shoulders.  The  stockings  are  of  a  vivid  blue.  Buckled 
shoes  replace  the  sandals  left  behind  in  the  Marsica. 

The  fruit-stalls  are  splendid  with  cherries  or  golden 
apricots,  or  ruddy  "  nespoli,"  or  green  and  purple  figs ;  or 
they  are  hung  with  the  sashes  and  the  handkerchiefs  and 
the  apron  stuffs  which  the  country-folk  throng  to  buy. 
But  indeed,  as  the  sun  gleams  on  the  great  space,  it  gives 
value  to  mere  nothings.  A  pedlar  carries  a  long  stick, 
from  which  is  hung  what  seems  a  waving  rainbow.  It  is 
but  a  bunch  of  long  gay  stay-laces,  green,  and  blue,  and 
pink,  and  red,  and  yellow.  Or  a  stall-keeper  has  hoisted 
the  tricolor,  and  beneath  it  he  stands  like  a  splendid 
figure  in  a  pageant. 

The  famous  Badia  of  San  Spirito,  founded  by  Pope 
Celestine,  lies  rather  more  than  two  miles  north  of  the 
town.  You  reach  it  by  the  road  to  the  right  at  the  back 
of  San  Panfilo.  Now  the  place  is  a  penitentiary.  You 
cannot  enter  it  without  a  very  special  permission  ;  and  it 
is  doubtful  whether  this  be  worth  any  effort  to  obtain. 
Outside,  were  it  not  for  the  soldiers  clustering  about  the 
door,  and  the  edifying  inscription  above  it,  "  Parum  im- 
probos  incarcere  nisi  probos  efiicies  disciplina,"  there  is 
little  to  suggest  a  prison.  The  walls  of  a  golden  yellow, 
the  green  shutters,  the  noise  of  the  warders'  family  life, 
and  the  faces  of  children  at  the  window,  give  it  a  cheerful 
front  to  the  world. 


224  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

This  is  not  Celestine's  first  San  Spirito.     Let  us  trace 
shortly  his  wanderings  in  the  province. 

The  Santone,  the  big  saint,  so  is  he  called  throughout 
the  Abruzzi,  was  a  native  of  the  neighbouring  province 
of  Molise,  born  near  Isernia,  about  i2i5,Pietro  de'  Ange- 
lerii  by  name.  He  entered  the  Benedictine  Order,  but 
while  still  a  youth  he  felt  the  need  of  greater  isolation 
to  gain  a  knowledge  of  his  own  soul.  So  he  crossed  the 
river  Sangro,  and  his  after-history,  save  for  the  few 
unhappy  months  when  he  was  Pope,  is  mostly  concerned 
with  the  Abruzzi.  He  sojourned  a  little  at  the  church 
of  San  Nicola,  which  stands  still  near  the  bridge  at 
Castel  del  Sangro ;  then  mounted  the  steep  hillsides 
above,  where  the  lust  of  the  world  tempted  him  in  the 
shape  of  demons  of  lovely  form.  They  fled  before  his 
spiritual  valour,  and  he  knew  peace.  In  his  next  cell,  on 
Monte  Palena,  he  was  wakened  every  morning  to  Matins 
by  a  mystic  bell.  An  old  woman  gave  him  a  cock.  It 
crowed  him  awake  ;  but  he  heard  no  more  the  mystic 
bell.  It  was  on  Monte  Palena,  too,  that  he  was  seen 
hanging  his  cowl  upon  a  sunbeam.  In  1238  he  went  to 
Rome  to  be  made  a  priest ;  but  ere  two  years  had  passed 
he  was  in  the  Abruzzi  again.  This  time  he  made  his 
cell  above  Sulmona,  just  below  the  present  hermitage  of 
Sant'  Onofrio.  Brethren  gathered  round  him.  They 
worked  and  prayed  ;  and  under  their  care  the  barren 
hillside  blossomed.  Again  his  soul  said,  "  Away — away 
— and  higher!  "  and  he  fared  off  to  Majella.  Up  there  in 
the  wild  mountain,  the  haunt  of  wolf  and  bear  and  wild 
cat — and  not  in  his  days  only — he  built  himself  a  cell  on 
the  spot  where  a  dove  alighted  that  had  guided  his 
steps.  It  was  here  he  dreamt  of  the  great  Reform 
of  St.  Damian  and  of  the  Dove.  The  friends  of 
his  soul  gathered  about  him  ;  and  so  dear  did  the 
place  become  to  him,  and  so  loud  grew  its  call,  "  Lift 
up   your    hearts ! "    that    he    was    moved    to    build    a 


CH.  XL]  SULMONA  225 

church  and  abbey.  The  scheme  was  approved  in  signal 
fashion. 

This  is  the  legend — 

"  While  the  Holy  Father  was  thinking  of  consecrating 
his  church,  already  a  beautiful  and  spacious  place,  the 
Lord,  who  was  its  Architect,  signified  His  desire  that 
it  should,  with  all  due  ceremony,  be  dedicated  to  the 
Holy  Spirit.  .  .  .  Our  Father  the  Pope  then  was  at  the 
window  at  dawn,  reading  in  a  spiritual  book  .  .  .  when 
he  saw  a  numerous  company  of  angels  and  of  blessed 
ones,  clad  in  shining  and  glorious  raiment.  Among 
them  he  perceived  an  old  man,  whom  he  divined  to  be 
King  David,  who  announced  it  to  be  God's  will  it  should 
be  dedicated  to  the  Holy  Spirit.  All  the  company 
followed  him,  and  sang  the  songs  and  the  office  of  the 
dedication.  Said  Peter,  '  What  is  this  ?  Now  I  do  not 
sleep.  .  .  .  These  are  no  dream  visions.'  Then  the 
glorious  company  entered  the  church,  going  round  and 
round  several  times,  and  with  resounding  voices  sang, 
*  This  is  a  terrible  place !  This  is  the  House  of  God, 
and  the  Gate  of  Heaven !  It  shall  be  called  the  Court 
of  the  Holy  Spirit.  The  work  of  God's  hands  it  is,  and 
cannot  be  taken  away.'  Then  St.  John  the  Evangelist 
served  the  Mass  ;  and  at  the  beginning  of  the  sacrifice 
appeared  in  a  great  light  all  the  glorious  host  of  Heaven, 
and  the  omnipotent  majesty  of  the  Son  of  God,  with  the 
Blessed  Virgin  and  St.  John  the  Baptist.  The  benedic- 
tion was  given  by  God  the  Father  Himself,  and  the 
multitude  of  angels  sang,  '  This  church  is  consecrated  to 
the  Holy  Spirit,  as  a  medicine  to  the  sick,  as  a  light  to 
the  blind  ;  and  here  all  the  faithful  contrite  of  Christ 
shall  have  their  sins  taken  away !  " 

Peter  was  rapt.  When  he  woke  from  his  ecstasy  he 
found  his  garment  changed  to  a  shining  white  one.  An 
angel  took  it  off,  and  the  vision  faded. 

After  Peter's  day,  this  temple  and  convent,  built  on 

Q 


226  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

the  terraced  crag  and  out  of  it,  grew  in  fame.  A  blessing 
had  descended  on  Majella,  the  home  of  the  old  pagan 
gods,  the  haunt  of  demons.  Pilgrims  came  for  many 
ages  to  the  wild  spot,  tamed  by  the  resting  of  the  Holy 
Dove  ;  and  privileges  were  granted  to  the  place  equal  to 
those  given  to  Subiaco  and  Monte  Cassino.  Only  a 
little  remains  now — some  broken  walls,  one  arch  of  the 
portico.  The  pilgrims  have  long  ceased  coming.  Long 
since,  whatever  was  left  of  value  has  been  housed  in  the 
neighbouring  church  of  Rocca  Morice. 

It  was  on  Majella  he  planned  the  great  home  for  his 

Order.      Nearer   the  world  it    must   be.      The  Majella 

house  would  remain  for  the  contemplatives.     His  fame 

as  a  teacher,  administrator,  and  saint  had  grown.    Money 

poured  in,  and  the  great  Badia,  near  Sulmona,  was  built. 

He  was  here,  setting  the  place  in  order,  teaching  his 

monks  to  be  good  farmers  as  well   as  men  of  prayer, 

when  word  came  to  them  that  his  congregations  were 

in  danger  from  the  decree  of  Pope  Gregory  X.,  which 

suppressed  many  new  orders  and  communities.     From 

Sulmona,  the  sturdy  old  mountaineer  of  fifty-eight  went 

on  foot  to  Lyons,  received  the  Pope's  reassurance,  and 

walked    back.       In    1293,    an    old   tired    man — he   was 

seventy-eight,   and   had   earned   his   rest — he   went   up 

above  the  Badia  to  Sant'  Onofrio  with  his  dear  disciple, 

Roberto  di  Salle.     The  path  to  Sant'  Onofrio  is  steep 

to-day,  and  strait  and  rough.     You  will   find  it  to  the 

right  at  the  top  of  the  Badia  village  ;  and  it  will  land 

you,  if  you  persevere,  on  a  narrow  ledge  of  rock,  with  a 

steep  precipice  on  one  side.      His  rocky  cell  is  still  there 

behind  the  little   hermitage,  which,  of  recent  years,  is 

deserted.      A   stern   place    in    itself,  and  terrible  when 

Monte  Morrone  has  its  white  mantle  on,  and  storms  cut 

it  off  from  the  world  below.     But  once  Spring  comes, 

she  brings  a  smile  even  here,  and  leaves  it.     The  rocky 

path  has  a  flowery  margin.     Sulmona  and  its  pleasant 


CH.  XL]  SULMONA  227 

vale  and  the  great  Badia  lie  below.  The  kindly  world 
of  men  is  not  so  far  away  ;  and  if  too  near,  by  moments, 
then  the  great  ranges  lift  the  hermit's  eyes  to  Heaven. 
They  never  blundered,  those  old  hermit  builders ;  and 
Peter  Celestine,  whom  they  have  treated  as  an  idiot,  had 
the  soul  of  a  great  poet. 

It  was  up  in  Sant'  Onofrio  that  he  said  farewell  to 
peace.  It  was  for  the  visions  of  peace  he  had  known 
here  that  he  made  //  gran  rifiiito.  A  ragged,  unkempt, 
and  most  happy  saint,  he  was  here  when  the  dispute 
about  the  papacy  was  being  fought  out  at  Rome  and  at 
Perugia.  The  conclave  sat  and  sat,  full  of  bitter  envy 
and  hatred  ;  and  then  a  cry  arose,  "  Peter  of  Morrone 
shall  be  Pope !  "  It  sounded  like  a  jest.  It  was  no 
jest.  It  was  an  affair  of  politics  ;  and  to  his  rocky  cell 
came  up  two  kings,  Charles  of  Anjou  and  his  son,  and 
cardinals  and  bishops ;  and,  against  his  will,  dragged 
the  old  hermit  down  to  be  crowned.  The  crowning,  a 
ceremony  of  uncommon  splendour,  took  place  at  Aquila, 
at  the  Badia  of  Collemaggio  ;  and  at  Aquila,  in  his  own 
Abruzzi,  he  would  fain  have  stayed.  But  Charles  forced 
him  away  to  Naples,  to  be  tormented  by  the  rival  factions, 
the  prisoner  of  the  king,  and  the  butt  of  Gaetani.  For  a 
little  time,  nevertheless,  he  was  the  hope  of  the  Spirituals 
and  of  the  simple,  the  giver  of  liberty  to  the  Franciscan 
zelanti,  who  said,  "  Lo,  the  fall  of  the  kingdom  of  the 
proud  is  at  hand !  "  Then  Gaetani's  machinations  had 
their  way,  and  he  made  il  gran  I'ifiuto.  To  Monte 
Morrone  he  would  fain  have  fled  back  at  once ;  but 
Gaetani,  now  Boniface  VIII.,  sent  him  elsewhere  under 
guard.  He  escaped,  however,  to  his  rocky  cell,  where 
prayer  grew  like  a  flower  ;  but  warned  that  harm  was 
meant  him,  he  left  it,  purposing  to  go  beyond  seas.  For 
two  months  he  wandered  about  the  secret  desert  places 
of  the  Abruzzi,  this  old  frail  man  of  eighty,  who  only 
desired  peace.     In  Apulia  he  was  taken,  when  his  boat 


228  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

ran  ashore  near  Viesti.  "  Let  him  go  back  to  Morrone," 
said  some  of  the  pitying  cardinals ;  but  Boniface,  who 
would  not  believe  himself  safe  while  an  old  man  prayed 
in  the  freedom  of  the  mountain-side,  gave  him  a  fortress 
for  a  cell.  Then  followed  the  tragedy  of  Fumone.  But 
Aquila  that  had  crowned  him  got  back  the  bones  of  the 
Santone,  the  treasure  of  Collemaggio. 

To  return  for  a  moment  to  the  Majella  sanctuary. 
In  the  year  1 349  there  were  living  there  a  little  company 
of  remarkable  men,  Franciscan  Spirituals,  Fraticelli,  all 
of  them  ascetics,  contemplatives,  visionaries,  with  the 
daily  prospect  before  their  eyes  of  being  dragged  away 
from  their  solitude,  and  imprisoned  or  exiled  beyond 
seas  for  daring  to  conceive  of  the  Church  as  a  spiritual 
power,  and  visible  signs  and  symbols  and  pomps  as 
time-ruined  things,  soon  to  drop  away  like  a  worn 
garment.  In  that  year  there  came  to  them  a  wanderer, 
sick,  distraught,  dejected,  to  do  penance,  to  find  shelter  i| 
and  peace  in  their  wild  retreat.  He  gave  no  name,  but 
his  name  was  Cola  di  Rienzi.  The  name  of  Rienzi  is, 
by  the  way,  a  common  one  in  the  province.  Had  Cola  1 
fled  back  to  the  home  of  his  race  when  he  sought  for  ' 
peace  among  these  mountains  1  Rome  behind  him  was 
a  nightmare.  He,  the  dreamer,  had  made  his  dream  a 
reality  for  one  glorious  hour.  He  had  been  the  tribunal 
who  was  to  bring  back  the  great  age  and  kindle  the 
soul  of  Romans  to  a  new  and  nobler  life.  But  after  the 
miracle  of  his  first  success  the  dream  was  shattered. 
The  great  age  was  still  afar,  and  he  a  fugitive  from 
shame,  craving  only  the  peace  of  the  mountains  and  the 
cell. 

At  San  Spirito  he  found  the  home  of  his  sick  heart's 
desire  ;  and  all  that  year  he  lived  there,  an  unknown 
penitent,  his  eyes  turned  from  Rome  to  the  towers  of  the 
New  Jerusalem.    Was  he  really  unknown  }    He  believed 


CH.  XL]  SULMONA  229 

so,  when  Frate  Angelo  one  day  called  him  by  his  name, 
and  said,  "Thou  hast  lived  long    enough   in    solitude. 
Thou  art  not   of  us.     Thy  place   is  out  in  the  world, 
which  the  Lord  God  calls  thee  to  regenerate.     Once  it 
was  nearly  saved  by  Francis  and  Dominic ;   but  their 
successors  have  been  only  as  other  men  ;  and  the  world 
is  sick  and  under  a  ban.     One  is  wanted  to  lead  men 
into  light.     Thou  art  the   man  ! "     And  Rienzi's  mind 
swung  back  again  from  the  New  Jerusalem  to  Rome. 
But    the    chosen    of    the    Lord    must   work   with   the 
Emperor ;  and  both  combine  to  cleanse  the  Church  and 
the  world.     Men  would  rise  from  the  dead  to  help — 
martyrs  of  wicked  Popes  and  despotic  kings.     And  the 
new  pastor,  the  new  Francis,  should  build  a  great  temple 
called  Jerusalem,  and   there  should   be    none  on  earth, 
Christian  or  heathen,  but  should  come  there  to  worship 
and   adore.     All    Cola's  visions  returned,  and  were  fed 
by  the  fiery  minds  of  Frati  Andrea  and  Angelo.     But 
he   loved   the    peace  of  Majella,  and  they  would  have 
him  out.     "  Thou  art  the  man  !  "  they  said  ;  and  when 
he  told  of  his  doubts,  they  fortified  him  with  prophecies, 
Joachim's,  the    Carmelite   Cyril's,  and — Merlin's !     But, 
indeed,  the  hand  of  destiny  was  thrusting  him  out.     His 
enemies,  once  his  friends,  the  Orsini,  had  got  wind  of 
his  retreat.     At  any  moment  he  might  be  seized  and 
imprisoned.     Giovanni    Orsini    urged   him   to   come   to 
Rome  for  the  Jubilee  and  the  absolution   of  Clement. 
His  keen-sighted  hermit  friends  persuaded  him  against 
this  ;   and   he    made  his  way  to  Prag  to  the  Emperor 
Charles    IV.,   to   whom    he    prophesied   strange   things, 
pouring  out  to  him  the  visions  that  had  visited  him  on 
Majella.     The  present  Pope  would  die.     In   1357  there 
would  be  but  one  religion  on  the  earth.     Then  the  new 
Pope,  the   Emperor,  and    himself  would  be  a  Trinity, 
representing  the  Godhead  to  men.     No  question  what 
person    of   the    Trinity  Cola   was   to   represent,  seeing 


230  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

where  he  had  been  Hving — though  afterwards  he  de- 
clared he  had  but  claimed  to  be  the  "  white-clad 
defender  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 

The  Emperor  stared  ;  said  he  didn't  want  to  be  a 
third  in  any  such  Trinity ;  that  Rienzi  was  a  dangerous 
man,  and  his  advisers  in  the  Abruzzi  were  most  repre- 
hensible persons.  If  he  would  only  give  them  up.  But 
he  hotly  declared  their  holy  inspiration.  As  proof,  had 
they  not  emancipated  him  from  all  hate  .-*  But  Charles 
clapped  him  into  prison  to  please  Clement ;  and  from 
there  it  was  that  Rienzi  wrote  his  Responsoria  Oratio 
Tribimi  ad  Ccssm'em,  in  defence  of  the  hermits  who  had 
rekindled  his  visions  and  his  hopes  for  the  remaking  of 
Rome  and  of  the  world.     It  is  a  noble  defence. 

The  dreams  dreamt  on  Majella  haunted  him  in 
prison ;  when  he  was  set  free  they  followed  him  to 
Rome,  and  brooded  about  him  in  his  new  lease  of 
power.  But  these  dreams  of  the  reign  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  are  ill  to  translate  to  the  understanding  of  a 
carnal  world.  Other  visions  more  earthly  strove  with 
them.  Frate  Angelo  was  far ;  and  to  the  world  the 
"white-robed  defender  of  the  Holy  Spirit"  was  but 
an  upstart  tribune  fighting  for  his  life  with  a  capricious 
populace.  They  killed  him  like  a  dog  on  the  steps 
of  the  Capitol.  The  visions  whirled  before  his  eyes 
and  dazzled  him.  Yet  perhaps  no  more  than  Petrarch, 
who  had  earlier  looked  to  Rienzi  with  hope,  was  Frate 
Angelo  of  Monte  Majella  deceived  when  he  looked 
in  his  eyes  and  said,  "  Thou  art  the  man  ! " 

Beyond  and  to  the  left  of  the  Badia  lies  the  little 
village  Lof  Bagnidura.  Through  it,  and  just  under 
Morrone,  runs  the  old  mule-track  to  Roccacasale.  It 
remains  in  my  memory  as  unforgettably  lovely.  Above, 
all  the  way  along,  rise  the  steep  mountain,  dark  blue 
and    craggy.     On    each    side   of   the    stony   track    is   a 


CH.  XL]  SULMONA  231 

fringe  of  oaks,  widening  here  and  there  into  Httle 
groves.  Hedges  hang  with  honeysuckle  and  wild  roses, 
and  summer  lies  about  our  feet,  holds  out  hands  to 
us  as  we  pass,  and  dangles  garlands  above  our  heads. 
Below  are  the  sunny  vineyards,  where  bronzed  men 
and  women  in  cool  white  raiment  are  working,  and 
singing  at  their  work,  and  beyond  is  the  soft  valley 
swimming  in  light.  In  front,  on  the  mountain-side,  is 
Roccacasale,  the  shaft  of  its  castle  lifted  high  into  the 
air.  Above  this  track,  on  a  little  conical  hill,  an 
excrescence  of  the  lower  slopes  of  Morrone,  lies  what 
is  known  as  Ovid's  Villa.  Every  one  knows  the  "  villa  " 
and  the  "  Fonte  d'Amore."  The  ruins  are  the  remains 
of  a  Roman  settlement.  From  below  they  are  imposing ; 
seen  from  above  they  are  of  some  extent  and  interest. 
They  might  be  Roccacasale,  or  many  another  town  in 
the  country-side,  left  neglected  for  a  few  score  years. 
Below  them,  near  the  path,  sits  a  little  farm,  near  the 
oak  groves  and  at  the  gate  of  the  vineyards.  Who 
would  not  desire  it  for  a  hermitage  .<•  The  path  here 
is  made  for  meditative  pacing.  It  was  this  path  surely 
the  poet  saw  and  yearned  after  in  his  Scythian  exile. 

Ovid  was  born  at  Sulmona,  and  if  there  be  anything 
in  persistent  tradition,  near  this  spot,  in  B.C.  43,  the 
second  son  of  a  minor  noble  of  the  province,  a  country 
squire  of  no  great  fortune.  "The  first  of  my  house," 
he  says,  "  was  a  knight.  My  fields  are  not  turned  up  by 
innumerable  ploughs.  My  father  and  my  mother  were 
both  perforce  of  frugal  habit."  Again,  "  I  am  of  ancient 
equestrian  nobility.  ...  It  is  not  in  the  tumult  of  arms 
I  have  gained  my  rank  as  knight."  He  left  Sulmona 
early,  when  he  was  nine  years  old,  to  be  educated  at 
Rome  ;  but  he  often  returned,  perhaps  to  recruit  after 
the  pleasures  of  the  capital ;  and  he  never  forgot  it. 
Again  and  again  he  describes  it,  not  in  very  precise 
terms,  perhaps,  but  he  is    eloquent    on    the  beauty   of 


232  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

its  fertile  slopes  and  limpid  streams,  and  very  insistent 
on  the  coldness  of  its  winters.  "  Sulmona  retains  me, 
one  of  the  three  cantons  of  the  Pelignian  country,  a  little 
place,  but  the  streams  that  water  it  are  health-giving.  .  .  . 
Rich  grows  the  corn  here,  richer  still  are  the  grapes  ;  nor 
is  there  wanting  the  olive  dear  to  Pallas.  The  running 
waters  give  yet  another  harvest  after  the  hay  has  been 
mown." 

Sulmona's  chief  claim  to  respect,  he  held,  was  that  it 
had  given  him  birth.  "  Sulmo  mihi  patria  est."  "  Lucky 
Sulmona ! "  is  his  burden.  "  I  am  the  nursling  of  the 
Pelignian  land.  Mantua  vaunts  Virgil,  Verona  Catullus. 
They  shall  call  me  the  glory  of  the  Pelignian  nation.  .  .  . 
Some  day,  contemplating  the  walls  of  Sulmona,  a 
stranger  will  say,  '  City  which  could  give  birth  to  such  a 
poet,  little  though  you  are,  I  proclaim  you  great  amongst 
cities ! '  " 

The  fame  of  Ovid  has  left  deep  traces  round  Sulmona. 
As  he  foretold,  he  is  the  Pelignian  pride  and  glory.  He 
was  not  as  other  men,  and  so  they  have  made  of  him 
a  demi-god,  or  the  greatest  of  the  magicians.  Every 
peasant  knows  his  name  and  legendary  history ;  and  to 
swear  by  him  is  one  of  the  oldest  and  strongest  of  the 
local  oaths.  "  When  the  Sulmonese  peasant,"  says 
Finamore,  "  wants  to  bring  out  a  big  blasphemy,  worse 
than  cursing  San  Panfilo,  he  throws  his  hat  on  the  ground 
and  cries,  '  Mann'  aggia  Uiddiu  ! '  (Abbia  un  malanno 
Ovidio !)."  Here  is  the  local  legend  of  "  II  gran  Mago 
Uiddiu":— 

"  Ovid  fled  away  from  home  and  disappeared.  At 
last  he  was  found  in  the  wood  of  Angizia — that  is,  in  the 
mystic  grove  of  the  sorceress  near  Luco,  on  Lake  Fucino. 
There  he  was  learning  magic  from  an  astrologer,  or  a 
witch  of  the  Marsica.  When  they  had  brought  him  home 
he  began  to  work  wonders  unspeakable.  Hardly  had  he 
opened  his  mouth  when  all  were  enchanted  at  his  words, 


CH.  XL]  SULMONA  233 

for  he  knew  how  to  imitate  the  singing  of  birds  ;  and  each 
heard  the  song  that  pleased  him  best.  When  he  grew 
up  he  resolved  to  be  a  great  magician.  In  one  night  he 
built  on  Morrone  a  magnificent  villa,  surrounded  by- 
gardens,  vineyards,  and  orchards,  and  watered  by  a 
spring  which  to  this  day  is  called  the  Fount  of  Love. 
The  villa  was  very  beautiful.  It  had  porticos,  loggias, 
terraces,  baths,  and  the  loveliest  pictures.  And  because 
the  place  had  before  been  a  rocky  hillside,  with  jagged 
peaks  and  precipices,  a  great  many  people  now  ran  to 
see  the  marvel.  So,  to  punish  their  curiosity,  Ovid  by  a 
single  word  changed  the  men  into  birds,  and  the  maidens 
into  a  long  file  of  poplars.  When  this  was  known,  the 
whole  countryside  was  seized  with  terror ;  and  many 
people  went  and  prayed  his  mother  to  beg  Ovid  to  have 
pity  on  the  place  where  he  was  born.  Then  Ovid  caused 
a  great  chariot  to  appear  with  horses  of  fire,  and  mount- 
ing in  it,  he  was  at  Rome  in  a  trice.  There  he  worked 
his  magic  for  a  long  time.  From  the  teeth  of  a  great 
monster,  and  from  sparks  of  fire,  he  created  warriors, 
gave  living  breath  to  statues,  changed  men  into  flowers, 
and  stags  into  black  swine.  One  woman's  hair  he  changed 
to  snakes,  and  turned  the  legs  of  others  into  fish's  tails  ; 
and  some  there  were  he  made  into  islands.  At  his  word 
stones  spake,  and  all  he  touched  was  transmuted  to  gold. 
Plres  devoured  the  land  ;  and  the  sea  was  peopled  with 
lovely  ladies.  But  one  day  the  daughter  of  the  king  fell 
in  love  with  the  wizard,  and  the  wizard  with  her  ;  and  her 
father  was  not  pleased  about  it.  Then  Ovid  said  to  the 
king,  '  If  you  do  not  consent  I'll  turn  you  into  a  great 
billy-goat  with  seven  horns.'  The  king  made  no  answer  ; 
but  one  night  he  sent  his  soldiers  to  the  wizard's  house, 
where  they  stole  his  magic  wand.  Then  they  chained 
him  and  took  him  away  to  a  far,  far  land,  where  there 
were  only  wolves  and  bears,  where  the  snow  always  lay 
in  the  woods  and  on  the  mountains,  and  where  it  was 


234  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

never  warm.  There  the  poor  wizard  died.  But  after  his 
death  he  came  back  here  to  his  villa  ;  and  every  Saturday 
night  he  goes  off  with  the  witches  to  the  nut  tree  of 
Benevento."  ^ 

This  is  an  uncommonly  complete  legend,  which 
contains  a  version  of  all  the  main  circumstances  of  the 
poet's  life. 

There  are  other  stories  of  him  of  a  more  broken  kind. 
For  instance,  he  foretold  the  coming  of  Christ — though 
he  also  professed  Christian  doctrine  in  the  Church  of  the 
Tomb,  and  liked  hearing  Mass  in  San  Francesco.  Per- 
haps that  was  towards  the  end  of  his  life,  when  he  forsook 
wizardry,  and  made  his  villa  into  a  hermitage.  He  could 
read  with  his  feet,  and  when  he  wished  to  extract  the 
marrow  of  a  book  he  stood  on  it,  and  that  is  why  in  his 
statue  he  is  represented  as  standing  on  a  big  volume. 
All  his  writings  are  lost.  One  that  survived  was  borrowed 
by  a  French  general  of  Napoleon's  army,  who  never  gave 
it  back.  And  the  French  have  done  pretty  things  by  its 
help !  It  was  by  the  Fonte  d'Amore  he  met  his  love. 
Opinions  differ  whether  she  was  Caesar's  daughter  or  an 
enchantress  from  Santa  Lucia.  All  the  wealth  he  amassed 
by  magic  he  hid  somewhere  about  his  villa.  It  has  been 
seen  sometimes  on  the  Eve  of  the  Annunciation  ;  but 
evidently  only  one  man  has  ever  had  the  efficacious  libro 
del  commando ;  and  that  was  St.  Peter  Celestine.  And 
he,  after  all,  did  not  exhaust  the  treasure. 

This  is  the  legend  of  the  hermit  Pope  and  the  treasure 
of  Ovid  the  magician — 

"  While  he  was  Pope,  San  Pietro  Celestino  studied  the 
works  of  Ovid  ;  and  he  learned  that  amongst  the  ruins 
of  the  poet's  villa  on  the  slopes  of  Monte  Morrone  was 
hidden  a  great  treasure.  He  thought  of  building  the 
Badia  di  San  Spirito  near  Sulmona,  and  had  a  very  fine 
plan  of  it  made.     People  who  saw  the  d^ign  said, '  Holy 

■  Finamore,  Archiv.  per  le  Trad.  Pop.,  iv.  p.  293. 


CH.  XL]  SULMONA  235 

Father,  how  ever  will  you  build  so  great  a  building  as 
that  ? '  The  Pope  answered,  '  Stones  and  lime  may  fail ; 
but  we  shall  not  want  for  money.'  Nobody  knew  that 
the  Pope  had  at  his  disposal  a  treasure  without  end. 

"  The  Pope  gave  up  being  Pope.  He  left  Rome,  and 
returned  to  the  slopes  of  Monte  Morrone,  where  he  had 
done  penance.  Then,  by  night,  he  went  to  dig  for  the 
treasure,  and  began  bringing  money  to  the  place  where 
the  Badia  was  to  be  built.  The  building  commenced. 
They  needed  coins  by  the  shovelful,  but  they  never  failed. 
Every  Saturday,  when  San  Pietro  had  to  pay  the  labourers, 
he  went  and  fetched  three  bags  of  gold  and  three  of 
silver. 

"  When  the  Badia  was  finished  the  treasure  withdrew 
itself  from  sight.  And  no  one  since  has  ever  known  the 
precise  spot  where  it  is,  or  how  to  set  about  getting 
possession  of  it.  The  Badia  finished,  what  did  San  Pietro 
want  with  the  treasure  ?  The  treasure  of  the  soul  he 
already  possessed,  and  that  sufficed  him."  ^ 

From  Sulmona,  or  from  the  vineyards  above  on  the 
way  to  Introdacqua,  you  see  the  valley  dotted  with  little 
towns,  set  remote  and  isolated  on  the  hillsides,  mere 
patterns  and  decorations  at  this  distance,  hewn  out  of 
Morrone  by  a  master  carver.  Some  of  them  reward  a 
visit,  and,  in  any  case,  the  road  to  them  is  always  worth 
the  effort.  But  the  person  of  sincere  archaeological  tastes 
must  go  to  the  ruins  of  Corfinium.  Every  one  will  tell 
him  so.  Every  one  told  us  so,  and  we  went  prepared  for 
thrills.  We  dropped  out  of  the  train  at  Pentima,  and 
made  our  way  up  the  hill  to  the  village — a  poor  and 
insignificant  place  to  the  eye,  but  with  a  high  sense  of 
its  position,  nevertheless,  on  the  threshold  of  the  sacred 
spot.  The  humble  streets,  with  their  cottages  and  cow- 
houses, go  by  such  names  as  the  Via  dei  Peligni,  Via  dei 
Marrucini,  Via  (^i  Vestini ;  in  fact,  by  the  names  of  all 

'  De  Nino,  iv.  p.  230. 


236  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  il. 

the  tribes  in  the  ancient  confederacy.  Our  curiosity  was 
whetted,  and  we  hastened  on  some  half-mile  or  so  to 
where,  quite  isolated,  rises  San  Panfilo's  rival,  San  Pel- 
lino.  The  cathedral  has  a  lonely,  incomprehensible  look 
out  here  in  the  open  country,  with  no  dependencies  near 
it  to  explain  its  position.  But  once  Corfinio  stood  round 
about  it,  for  Corfinio  of  the  great  hopes  lingered  still 
when  all  its  hopes  had  died.  The  patron  San  Pellino 
was  Bishop  of  Brindisi,  martyred  at  Rome  under  Julian. 
His  disciple  Ciprio  brought  his  body  here,  and  the  ghost 
of  the  holy  man  seems  not  to  have  been  infected  with  the 
rebellious  spirit  native  to  his  new  home.  For  when  a 
revolt  arose  in  Valentinian's  army  there,  he  appeared  to 
the  Imperial  generals  besieging  it,  and  announced  victory 
to  them.  In  thanksgiving  a  temple  was  raised  to  him, 
and  Valentinian  allowed  the  ruined  portions  of  the  city  to 
be  rebuilt.  The  cathedral  has  known  many  vicissitudes. 
The  earlier  church  was  besieged  by  the  Saracens,  and 
burnt  by  the  Hungarians.  The  actual  building  belongs  to 
Swabian  times,  but  has  been  extensively  and  disastrously 
modernized.  The  eastern  portion,  however,  with  its 
beautiful  apse  and  fine  cornices,  is  untouched  ;  the  pulpit 
is  of  particular  interest ;  and,  indeed,  the  ancient  cathe- 
dral of  Valva  is  still  imposing  enough  to  be  worth  a 
pilgrimage. 

And  Corfinium  }  We  had  been  saving  up  our  emotion 
to  spend  it  there.  From  the  remains  we  had  hoped  to 
reconstruct  a  picture  of  the  ancient  place,  to  feel  the 
thrill  of  "  Italica  "  come  out  to  us  from  the  old  stones  of 
the  birthplace  of  Italian  unity  and  liberty.  But  one  might 
as  well  make  the  effort  sitting  comfortably  at  home,  for 
all  the  help  the  stones  give.  Such  stones  as  are  there  are 
concentrated  in  two  tall,  fairly  massive  blocks,  one  on 
each  side  of  the  high-road.  That  is  Corfinium  to-day ! 
There  are  bits,  perhaps,  in  the  neighbouring  fields,  but 
nothing  more  for  the  general  passer-by. 


CH.  XL]  SULMONA  237 

If  you  have  come  out  by  the  very  slow  train  from 
Sulmona  on  a  burning  day,  and  are  not  a  sincere 
archaeologist,  your  wrath  may  be  roused.  There  is  one 
way  of  appeasing  it,  if  San  Pellino  fails  to  satisfy  you. 
Make  your  way  onward  to  Rajano,  not  for  the  sake  of  that 
forlornest  of  villages — which  will  account  for  your  presence 
on  the  supposition  that  you  are  some  new  kind  of  pedlar, 
or  will  not  account  for  you  at  all,  and  possibly  view  you 
with  morose  suspicion.  But  the  walk  back  to  Sulmona 
along  the  trattojo  is  a  delight  at  the  time,  and  a 
blessed  memory  ever  after.  Just  beyond  the  washing- 
place  at  the  stream,  where  the  women  gather,  you  find 
yourself  in  a  wide,  grassy  tract — a  kind  of  never-ending 
common,  delicious  to  the  tread  and  to  the  eye.  On  each 
side  the  great  hills  walk  in  step  with  you.  The  strips  of 
fertile  country  fringe  the  green  all  the  way,  and  along 
your  path  there  are  singing  riders  and  idle  shepherd-boys, 
and  flocks  huddled  in  the  shade,  and  groups  and  lines  of 
decorative  trees — for  the  place  is  at  once  a  vast  avenue, 
a  pasture,  and  an  eight-mile-long  track.  You  may  meet 
no  one  on  foot  save  yourselves  and  the  herds,  for  none 
walk  here  who  can  get  the  sorriest  nag  to  ride,  and 
mounted  on  such  a  contadino  will  take  on  the  airs  of  a 
D'Artagnan.  It  was  here  we  met  our  beplumed  yokel 
urging  his  mule  to  a  fiery  pace  to  the  tune  of  "  All'  America 
maladetta,  non  ritorneremo  piu  ! " 

A  little  way  along  this  green  delicious  trattiiro  you 
will  pass  a  little  pond,  a  favourite  bathing-place.  It  has 
been  explained  variously  as  the  crater  of  an  extinct 
volcano,  or  as  the  tcrme  of  Corfinium.  But  the  country- 
folks have  another  tale  about  it. 

The  place  was  once  a  barn,  and  one  St.  Anne's  Day  a 
farmer  and  his  men  were  threshing  there.  A  passer-by 
reproved  them,  and  they  laughed  and  whipped  up  their 
horses  again.  "  Qua-qua,"  and  again  "  qua  " — the  sound  of 
the  impious  work  was  heard.    The  barn  sank  and  became 


238  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

a  lake,  and  up  from  the  water  came  the  voices  of  the 
drowned  men.  "  Quaqua-ra,  qua-quara!"  Hence  the  name 
of  the  lake — La  Quaglia.  Whoever  is  without  sin  may 
still  hear  on  St.  Anne's  Day  the  voices  of  the  threshers  ; 
and  it  is  not  seemly  on  that  day  to  disport  yourself  in 
the  waters  of  the  lake. 

Near  Sulmona  the  wide  green  road  rises  and  spreads, 
then  falls.  On  the  edge  of  the  last  slope,  on  the  green 
lawn,  the  i^ocks  are  kept  by  earth-coloured  shepherds,  too 
old  to  go  up  any  more  to  the  high  pastures.  Singing 
comes  up  from  the  valley,  and  the  old  shepherds  and 
their  fierce  white  dogs  under  the  trees  seem  the  last 
guardians  of  Arcady. 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   SAGITTARIO 

A  wild  glen— Scanno — The  beautiful  Scannese— The  beginning  and  the 
end  of  life  at  Scanno— Santa  Maria  del  Lago— The  hermits'  Rule- 
San  Domenico  di  CocuUo,  serpent-charmer — Tasso  in  the  Valley^ 
Anversa  and  its  memories — Italy  again  ! 

Even  guide-books  devote  a  line  or  two  to  the  Valley  of 
the  Sagittario.  Local  patriots  cry  indignantly  to  the 
travelling  Neapolitans  and  Romans,  "Why  go  all  the  way 
to  Switzerland,  when  you  have  such  scenery  near  home  ?  " 
Indeed,  there  is  "  scenery  "  here,  and  no  mistake  !  My 
heart  has  gone  out  more  to  other  valleys  ;  but  there  is 
wonder  and  terrible  beauty  in  this  wild  glen.  At  Sul- 
mona  they  will  bid  you  go  to  Scanno  to  admire  the 
beauty  of  its  women  and  eat  of  the  trout  of  its  lake  ;  and 
it  would  be  to  miss  much  not  to  see  that  curious  mountain 
town.  The  Sagittario  rises  below  Monte  Godi ;  under  the 
name  of  the  Tasso  it  tumbles  down  past  Scanno,  and  in 
and  out  of  its  lovely  lake  ;  receives  some  minor  streams  ; 
hurls  itself  in  a  cascade  over  the  rocks  under  Villalago, 
where  first  it  is  called  the  Sagittario  ;  then  through  a  glen 
like  the  very  jaws  of  hell,  the  Gole  del  Sagittario,  about 
four  miles  long,  it  pours  its  turbulent  waters  down  to  the 
placid  Pelignian  vale,  carrying  destruction  with  it  many 
a  time  after  the  melting  of  the  snows.  There  it  joins  the 
Gizio,  and  both  fall  into  the  Aterno  (the  Pescara)  near 
Popoli.  Its  course  from  Villalago  to  Anversa  is  one  to 
strike  horror  into  the  beholder,  or  fill  him  with  a  savage 
delight. 

239 


240  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

"E  bello  il  Sagittario,  sai  ?  E  ronipe 
e  schiuma,  giii  per  i  macigni,  mugghia, 
trascina  tronchi,  tetti  di  capanne, 
zangole,  anche  le  pecore  e  gli  agnelli 
che  ha  rapinato  alia  montagna.     E  bello, 
sai  ?  " 

In  a  little  while  this  splendid  force  of  water  must  be 
seized  by  some  enterprising  financier  from  Turin  or 
Milan,  and  made  to  turn  great  mills.  Such  store  of 
"  white  coal  "  cannot  be  wasted  long  in  mere  "  scenery  "  in 
modern  Italy.  And  yet  it  would  be  but  a  narrow  strip 
of  industrial  country  any  number  of  financiers  could 
make  here.  The  country  is  eternally  untameable  ;  and 
in  the  sheer  rocks  overhead  there  is  everlasting  sanctuary. 
Should  Anversa  ever  rear  giant  electric  works  to  make 
of  Sulmona  a  little  Manchester,  the  hermits  need  hardly 
shift  their  cells.  To  Villalago  and  the  eagle  nest  of 
Castrovalve  the  smoke  would  rise  but  as  faint  incense, 
and  on  the  crags  above  the  loudest  din  be  as  a  far-ofi"song. 

In  all  the  upper  valley  the  only  possible  place  of 
sojourn  is  Scanno,  reached  by  railroad  from  Sulmona  to 
Anversa,  thence  by  diligence  along  ten  miles  of  climbing 
road.  From  your  cramped  seat  in  front  of  the  posta  you 
crane  your  neck  at  a  sign  from  the  driver,  and  you  are 
aware  of  Scanno.  It  is  broad,  crude  midday,  unless  you 
come  hardily  on  foot,  or  like  a  lord  in  a  carozza,  and  so 
can  choose  your  hours.  There  is  a  very  blue  sky  over- 
head. There  is  a  very  white  snow-peak  behind.  Rocky 
hills  fall  down  on  each  side,  with  every  seam,  every  cleft, 
every  bush  staring  at  you  relentlessly.  The  patches  of 
cultivation,  ruddy  brown  or  vivid  green,  shout  at  you 
details  of  every  furrow,  every  fence  ;  and  the  town  itself 
seems  but  another  mass  of  broken  brown  crags  arrested 
in  their  fall  into  the  valley  of  the  rushing  Tasso.  The 
fall,  the  arrest,  were  finely  guided,  you  will  own  all  the 
winding  way  along  the  serpentine  road  that  eases 
the  steep  ascent.     One  day  the  sticks  and  stems  by  the 


^  ^  \  ■>  =     \ 


SCANNO 


cii.  XII.]     VALLEY  OF   THE  SAGITTARIO     241 

margin  will  sprout  to  a  graceful  shade,  but  till  then, 
during  a  bright  midday  approach  to  Scanno,  hard  facts 
will  be  hurled  in  your  face.  Where  is  kindly  Italy  with 
its  mist  of  olives,  its  garlands  of  vines  ?  This  is  no  play 
place,  it  seems. 

The  posta  winds  you  round  into  the  one  street  which 
is  carrozzabile,  and  sets  you  down  at  the  top  of  a  cobbled 
ladder.  All  the  youthful  and  leisurely  population  of  the 
town  will  be  your  guide,  shaming  your  uncertain  and 
stumbling  footsteps  by  their  graceful  agility,  to  the  inn  of 
Signor  Orazio  Tanturri,  a  hostelry  that  hangs  out  no 
sign,  that  never  expects  and  never  rejects  a  guest.  From 
the  dark  cavern,  which  forms  the  entrance  to  every 
Scannese  dwelling,  you  ascend  to  a  level,  from  which,  if 
rocky  ladders  or  rock-dwellers  scare  you,  you  can  hence- 
forward survey  a  good  portion  of  the  life  of  the  town.  A 
stay  of  several  weeks  gave  us  something  of  the  nimble 
agility  of  the  black  goats,  which  are  as  common  a  feature 
of  the  streets  as  of  the  mountain-side. 

The  last  walk  through  Scanno,  as  the  first,  is  a  sur- 
prise. It  is  not  a  town  of  picturesque  bits  and  corners  ; 
it  is  all  a  survival  ;  and  if  antiquity  be  your  desire,  it  is 
all  ;good.  In  ithe  eighteenth  century  it  was  refaced  to 
some  extent,  and  the  fine  doorways  are  mainly  of  that 
date ;  but  the  plan  and  character  of  the  place  were 
settled  once  for  all  in  the  Middle  Ages  ;  and  when  the 
Via  Paliano,  the  centre  of  the  old  city  of  Paliano  or 
Pagliaccio,  disappears — it  is  doomed,  they  say — there  will 
still  be  all  the  rest  to  make  mediaeval  as  good  a  name  as 
any  to  apply  to  this  town,  so  dark,  so  austere,  so  apart. 
The  Renaissance  opened  out  some  airy  loggias ;  the 
eighteenth  century,  with  money  to  spend,  destroyed  the 
churches,  and  the  nineteenth  knocked  down  its  walls  and 
all  but  the  last  of  its  gates.  You  do  not  linger  for  this 
or  that  architectural  gem — there  are  none — but  for  the 
whole.     The  great  high  houses  in  the  narrow  precipitous 

R 


242  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

streets,  the  archways  spannhig  the  mysterious  alleys,  the 
balconies  under  the  overhanging  eaves,  all  are  sombre, 
sunless,  and  sad,  save  where  a  green  bit  of  mountain-side 
gleams  at  the  end  of  a  lane.  You  may  shiver  there  in 
June,  and  the  August  brands  need  never  smite  you. 

But  in  Scanno,  sombre  and  old,  there  is  a  constant 
hum  of  life.  Life  speaks  loud  here.  Children  swarm. 
Only  the  footfalls  are  soft ;  for  save  on  festas,  the  foot- 
gear is  a  sole  and  a  toecap  made  of  skin  and  sewn  to 
the  stocking.  Yet  you  might  spend  days  there  and  wake 
up  to  ask,  "  Where  are  the  men  ?  "  You  have  a  dim  notion 
that  they  exist,  that  they  are  not  all  exterminated  ;  but 
their  insignificance  is  astonishing.  Says  a  native  anti- 
quarian, writing  fifty  years  ago,  of  the  inhabitants,  "  La 
bassa  taglia  sembra  preponderare  fra  gli  uomini ;  I'alta 
fra  le  donne."  This  physical  fact  is  but  a  shadow  of  the 
moral  one.  Scanno  is  a  city  of  women.  Their  reputa- 
tion for  beauty  is  amply  deserved.  Nearly  all  are  comely. 
For  nearly  every  third  one  it  is  worth  while  turning 
round  ;  but  she  will  return  your  gaze  with  a  haughty 
serenity  as  she  trips  to  the  fountain  with  her  copper  conca 
on  her  head.  The  Scannese  is  dark,  or  she  is  fair  ;  she 
is  blue-eyed  or  black-eyed.  But  dark  or  fair,  her  colour 
is  good  and  fresh,  her  eyes  wade  apart,  and  if  she  be 
young,  wonderfully  fearless  and  serene.  Her  features 
are  often  cut  with  special  fineness ;  her  teeth  are  good, 
and  her  smile  fleeting  but  sweet.  She  has  none  of  the 
obvious,  exuberant,  sensuous  beauty  of  the  Roman 
women,  and  hers  appeals  more  to  a  Northern  eye.  Her 
reserve  has  something  of  mystery,  which  fits  her  sombre 
clothing  and  her  dark  and  melancholy  streets.  She  will 
give  you  a  quiet  welcome  ;  but  behind  her  smile  is  no 
little  indifference.  Some  curiosity  she  will  display  about 
the  country  you  have  left  behind  ;  but  she  will  rarely 
envy  a  lot  that  she  must  know  softer  than  her  own. 
She  is  a  mountaineer,  proud,  independent,   largely  self- 


CH.  XII.]     VALLEY  OF   THE  SAGITTARIO     243 

sufficient,  a  great  maintainer  of  tradition.  You  may  not 
like  all  the  ways  of  her  town  ;  but  with  a  quiet  precision 
which  ends  the  matter,  she  answers,  "  Cosi  si  fa  a 
Scanno." 

Her  peculiar  dress — it  is  now  worn  nowhere  else — 
she  gives  no  sign  of  resigning.  It  consists  of  a  dark 
green,  almost  black,  skirt  {casacca)  of  thick  cloth,  made 
in  what  women  know  as  accordion  pleats.  Inside  the 
hem  is  a  narrow  border  of  red,  which  shows  when  the 
skirt  sways.  The  bodice  {comodind)  is  of  darkest  blue, 
close  fitting,  with  large  sleeves  thickly  gathered  on  the 
shoulders  and  at  the  wrist,  and  decorated  with  silver 
buttons  of  various  devices — holy  symbols  being  among 
the  favourite  patterns — and  arranged  in  sets  with  rigorous 
precision.  The  ample  apron  {mantera)  is  generally  of 
some  blue  woollen  stuff;  but  here  variety  of  colour  is 
allowed,  and  green,  purple,  or  brown,  are  to  be  seen. 
At  the  sides  are  slits  {carafocce),  into  which  the  hands 
are  thrust  in  cold  weather.  At  the  neck  appears  the 
lace  trimming  of  the  chemise,  made  by  the  wearer,  and 
often  of  delicate  design.  As  in  the  apron,  so  in  the 
stockings,  choice  of  colour  is  allowed,  and  to  them  are 
attached  the  goat-skin  soles  {scarfiioli).  But  the  head- 
gear is  the  most  individual  part  of  the  Scannese  dress. 
First,  for  the  hair.  It  is  divided  into  two  long  tresses, 
each  of  which  is  entwined  with  a  treccia.  Correct  treccie 
are  fourteen  metres  long !  everyday  ones  of  twisted 
wool ;  those  worn  on  festas  of  silk,  of  every  conceivable 
colour — scarlet,  or  rose,  or  green,  or  blue,  or  russet,  or 
purple.  So  closely  are  the  treccie  interwoven  with  the 
tresses  that  no  hair  is  seen.  The  twisted  ropes  are 
firmly  bound  about  the  head,  and  then  fall  with  some 
amplitude  in  a  coil  at  the  back.  Two  or  three  times  a 
week — never  on  Friday — are  they  redone.  Above  this 
fits  the  turban  {cappalletto),  worn  indoors  and  out. 
Eastern   in  effect,  black,  close  fitting,  flat-topped,  with 


244  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  il. 

two  little  peaks  in  front,  showing  a  patch  of  white  at 
each  side,  and  a  short  tail  of  the  black  stuff  falling 
behind.  It  is  worn  tilted  ever  so  little.  Examine  it, 
and  you  will  find  it  to  be  of  two  parts  ;  first,  rolls  of 
white  home-spun  linen,  made  to  fit  the  head,  then  a 
black  merino  handkerchief  (fascia  iojo)  folded  and  pinned 
so  as  to  cover  the  front  of  the  brim,  the  crown,  and 
make  the  tail  behind.  For  mourning,  the  white  linen  is 
veiled  by  black.  An  additional  sign  of  woe — perhaps  a 
remnant  of  an  Eastern  veil — is  the  thick,  black  handker- 
chief (abbruodaUiro)  bound  round  the  chin,  concealing 
the  mouth,  and  tied  upwards  over  the  turban — though 
this  uncomfortable  arrangement  is  also  used  as  a  pro- 
tection against  cold  in  winter.  In  this  dark  guise,  which 
is  de  rigueiir  from  the  age  of  ten  or  so,  winter  and 
summer,  Sunday  and  weekday — save  only  at  weddings 
and  on  high  festivals  of  the  Church — do  the  Scannese  go 
about  their  daily  business. 

The  ancient  costume,  worn  till  less  than  a  hundred 
years  ago,  was  a  much  grander  affair.  One  fine  sample 
I  have  seen :  a  dress  of  scarlet  cloth,  bordered  with 
patterned  moss-green  velvet,  the  sleeves  slashed  with 
red  and  green  ruches  of  ribbon,  the  apron  of  woven 
tapestry,  and  its  strings  of  rich  and  beautiful  embroidery, 
the  turban  of  coloured  and  tinselled  silk.  The  gold 
jewelry  of  the  time,  the  beads  and  crucifixes,  are  massive 
and  of  fine  design.  To-day  the  brides,  and  all  the 
women  on  a  great  festa  and  at  a  sposalizio  break  into 
colour  in  their  turbans  and  aprons ;  and  the  little 
maidens  at  their  first  communion  wear  the  festal  dress 
instead  of  the  conventional  white  frock  and  veil.  Most 
of  the  well-to-do  women  to-day  own  a  gold  pendant 
with  I.H.S.  in  the  centre  surrounded  by  the  sun-rays. 
It  is  often  worn  under  the  dress,  and  by  nursing  mothers 
as  a  charm.  From  its  design  a  tradition  has  arisen  that 
it  was  first  made  in  commemoration  of  San  Bernardino 


CH.  XII.]     VALLEY  OF   THE  SAGITTARIO     245 

of  Siena,  who,  according  to  common  belief,  preached  for 
a  whole  Lent  in  the  church  of  San  Rocco  here. 

For  work-a-day  purposes  they  kilt  their  pleated 
skirts  high,  bunching  them  about  the  hips  with  a  long 
woven  girdle.  Their  gait  along  the  mountain  roads, 
faggots  on  their  heads,  or  along  the  rocky  streets  with 
their  water-pots,  is  peculiarly  their  own  :  erect,  hands 
on  hips,  or  beneath  their  aprons,  toes  inward,  with  a 
swinging,  swaying  motion.  Mites  of  three  will  girdle 
their  pinafores  and  totter  about  in  imitation  of  their 
elders'  elegance.  The  strength  of  these  women  is 
astonishing.  They  carry  burdens  with  ease  under  which 
a  London  porter  would  stagger  ;  and  it  is  a  curious  first 
experience  to  see  your  luggage  borne  to  your  room  on 
the  head  of  a  lady  of  advanced  age.  A  full  list  of  the 
unlikely  objects  which  I  have  seen  a  Scanno  woman 
carry  on  her  head,  moreover,  with  a  gallant  bearing, 
would  be  too  long  ;  but  it  would  include  bundles  of  fire- 
wood which  an  ordinary  person  could  not  lift  half  a  foot 
from  the  ground,  huge  sacks  of  grass,  great  bales  of 
home-made  linen,  enough  to  fill  a  large  chest,  copper 
tubs  piled  high  with  the  family  wash,  a  wheel-barrow, 
barrels  of  wine,  a  wooden  plough,  a  washing-boiler,  a 
feather  bed,  an  iron  bedstead !  These  burdens  thicken 
the  neck  ;  but  there  are  no  bent  backs  among  the  women 
of  Scanno.  And  thus  the  hands  are  left  free  to  carry 
a  baby,  or  knit  a  stocking.  It  is  entirely  against 
tradition  to  carry  your  baby  on  your  head. 

If  Scanno  were  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  it 
would  be  sufficient  to  itself  Nay,  it  is  almost  true  to 
say  that  each  household  would  be  self-sufficient.  The 
amount  of  imported  goods  is  infinitesimal,  to  the  fastidious 
traveller  sadly  so.  Its  fuel  is  grown  on  its  wooded 
hillsides,  its  wheat  in  the  thin  soil  that  coats  the  rocks. 
Each  family  makes  its  own  bread.  The  little  gardens 
running  down  the  hills,  the  pigs,  and  hens,  and  goats, 


246  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

that  are  housed  mysteriously  in  dark  back  alleys,  and 
wander  the  streets  by  day,  account  for  the  rest  of  the 
food.  The  sheep,  in  Foggia  all  winter,  here  in  the  high 
pastures  of  Monte  Godi  or  the  Montagna  Grande  in 
summer,  furnish  the  clothing.  At  home  the  wool  is 
carded,  and  dyed,  and  spun,  and  woven,  out  of  which 
are  made  the  clothing,  the  checked  blankets  and  coverlets, 
the  stockings,  the  treccie.  Only  wine  and  oil  would 
Scanno  have  to  forego,  if  Sulmona  stopped  supplies,  for 
up  here  grow  neither  vine  nor  olive.  This  sufficiency  is 
due  almost  entirely  to  the  varied  capacities  of  the 
women.  The  Scanno  woman  bears  children  abundantly. 
She  bakes,  she  weaves,  she  knits,  she  dyes,  all  as  a 
matter  of  course.  In  summer  she  gathers  the  fuel 
needed  for  the  long  winter — a  terrible  task !  She  works 
in  the  fields  ;  she  keeps  sheep  or  cattle.  She  is  mason 
or  bricklayer.  I  used  to  watch  a  handsome  group  of 
women  masons  day  after  day.  Among  them  were  girls 
who  seemed  to  find  the  work  as  amusing  as  making 
mud  pies,  bigger  ones  who  scaled  ladders  as  if  mounting 
thrones,  and  elderly  women,  who  carried  their  loads  of 
bricks  and  stones  with  not  too  great  an  air  of  resignation. 
Work  of  slaves,  you  may  say ;  and  there  is  something 
to  be  said  for  the  judgment.  The  wood-carrying  from 
the  mountains  is  a  terrible  task,  and  it  begins  in  child- 
hood. But  the  Scanno  women  look  anything  but  slaves. 
Their  air  is  regal,  rather.  I  have  never  seen  so  many 
queens.  They  are  fully  aware  of  their  worth  and  their 
power  in  the  family.  They  are  the  pillars  of  the  place, 
and  they  have  the  air  of  knowing  it.  Extreme  poverty 
is  rare,  and  good  health  nearly  universal. 

Even  of  the  wood-carrying  the  young  ones  make  a 
pleasure.  In  summer  they  start  off"  any  time  after  two 
or  three  in  the  morning,  long  before  the  sun  is  up  ;  in 
very  hot  weather,  if  possible,  by  moonlight.  You  wake 
in  the  night  alarmed  or  startled.     There  is  a  rat-tat  at  a 


CH.  XII.]     VALLEY  OF  THE  SAGITTARIO     247 

neighbouring  door,  and  a  cry  of  "  Giulia  !  "  or  "  Maria 
Giuseppe ! "  loud  and  strident,  and  all  unconcerned  for 
the  neighbours'  slumbers.  It  is  the  gathering  cry  of  the 
comrades  of  the  quarter.  Dark  figures  are  assembling 
on  the  steps  below,  chattering  and  laughing,  and  there  is 
a  concerted  teasing  of  Marias  and  Antoninas  still  abed. 
Then  silence.  They  are  off,  armed  with  their  hatchets, 
a  cheery  band  of  sisters,  glad  of  each  other's  company  ; 
for  this  wild  land  has  its  wild  stories,  and  the  darkness 
has  terrors.  Up  near  the  snow  they  cut  the  wood  in  the 
beech  copses,  tie  it  in  huge  bundles,  load  it  on  their 
heads,  and  then  down  they  come  in  a  tripping  and 
swinging  run,  singing  and  chattering,  and  reaching  home 
about  six  or  seven.  They  often  make  two  such  journeys 
a  day  ;  for  the  winter  is  seven  months  long,  and  wood  is 
their  only  fuel.  Back  from  the  mountains,  there  is  much 
going  to  and  fro  to  the  wells  with  the  cone  he ;  there  are 
the  household  chores  ;  there  is  ceaseless  knitting  and 
spinning  and  making  of  pillow-lace,  or  weaving  of  treccie 
with  a  spindle.  Light  is  a  precious  thing  in  Scanno  of 
the  dark  houses  ;  and  in  the  streets  and  doorways  nearly 
all  the  industries,  save  cooking,  are  carried  on.  The 
ladder-ways  always  provide  seats  for  the  family  and  the 
family  acquaintances,  however  numerous.  The  sexes 
keep  much  apart,  and  on  festas,  you  can  count  the 
women  in  turbaned  groups  of  ten  or  twenty,  veritable 
clubs  of  them,  on  the  stone  steps,  gossiping  and  telling 
tales.  Women  here  do  not  seek  soft  dalliance  with  the 
men  in  their  hours  of  relaxation  ;  and  even  when  the 
gorgeous  carabinieri  cast  amorous  eyes  from  their  balcony 
opposite  the  fountain,  the  answering  looks  from  under 
the  copper  pots  are  mostly  disdainful. 

The  travels  of  the  hardy  are  mainly  limited  by  the 
distance  of  a  shepherd  husband's  hut  in  the  mountains, 
or  by  the  high  beech  woods.  Sulmona  is  far.  The 
diligence   costs  money,  and    any  vehicle    other  than  a 


248  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

mule's  back  is  to  the  elderly  too  much  of  an  adventure. 
Walking  takes  too  much  time — save  for  a  pilgrimage. 
So  that  almost  the  sole  diversion  is  provided  by  the 
church.  An  evening  service  in  the  parish  church,  or  in 
San  Rocco,  is  a  curious  sight.  The  floor  is  carpeted 
with  dark  squatting  figures.  The  Scanno  women  never 
use  chairs,  except  at  meal-times.  Their  favourite 
attitude  when  at  rest,  their  universal  attitude  in  church, 
is  squatting,  cross-legged,  Turk-fashion,  on  the  floor. 
Only  the  small  handful  of  bourgeoisie,  the  mayor's  and 
the  doctor's  wife,  and  such  like,  and  the  men-folk,  of 
course,  use  chairs.  From  this  lowly  Oriental  posture, 
then,  the  women,  assisted  by  the  boys  dotted  about  the 
altar  steps,  assault  the  Almighty  with  as  strident  praise 
as  it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  hear.  Are  they  Orientals  ? 
Archaeologists  fight  over  the  point.  Descendants  of 
Frederic  II.'s  Saracens,  say  some.  Others  declare  their 
ancestors  to  have  been  a  nomadic  tribe  from  Asia  Minor. 
The  infant  population  has  a  keen  struggle  for  life  at 
the  beginning,  but  the  survivors  wail  themselves  into  a 
hardy  childhood.  Their  first  steps  are  a  weary  pain  in 
contact  with  rocky  cobbles  and  broken  stony  stairways, 
for  there  are  no  level  playgrounds  out  of  doors.  But 
they  come  through  it  straight  limbed  and  active,  and 
with  tempers  of  sweet  serenity.  The  little  soft-eyed 
girls,  like  beguines  in  their  dark  dress,  deft  and  active, 
are  preparing  at  ten  for  the  life  of  labour  and  responsi- 
bility which  will  be  their  future,  learning  to  balance 
the  conca,  to  keep  step  with  the  elder  sister  on  the 
mountain,  or  to  turn  the  wheel  at  home.  And  the 
boys  have  a  native  candour  and  simplicity  of  much 
charm.  The  tiny  ones  on  Sundays  are  like  little 
Romneys,  with  their  long  trousers,  short  jackets,  flat 
caps,  and  frills  ;  while  to  the  dress  of  all  of  them  to  the 
age  of  ten  or  eleven,  the  shirt  tail  sticking  out  behind 
gives   a  certain  piquancy.     Good   luck   to  Andrea  and 


L 


CH.  XII.]     VALLEY   OF   THE  SAGITTARIO     249 

Luco,  to  Gaetano  and  Filippo,  and  to  Beppino  the  eight- 
year-old  charmer !  One  evening  we  looked  up  for  the 
bird  that  chirruped  on  the  rock  above  us.  The  chirrup 
framed  itself  articulately  into  "  Von,  two,  tree,  for,  fyfe, 
sairteen,  twenty,  Buona  sera,  signorl ! "  and  it  came 
from  the  mouth  of  a  youngster  perched  on  a  crag.  It 
was  our  first  meeting  with  Beppino.  After  that,  inter- 
course was  easy,  and  he  introduced  us  to  his  friends,  the 
above-named  Andrea  and  company,  all  older  than  him- 
self. They  formed  our  guard  up  the  green  prati,  and  by 
the  banks  of  the  Tasso  many  an  evening.  When  twilight 
came  on,  and  our  faces  were  still  turned  from  home, 
they  would  find  excellent  reasons  for  hurrying  back, 
which  they  did  not  call  wolf,  or  bear,  or  hipo-mannaro. 
But  they  never  all  abandoned  us  to  the  perils  of  the 
dusk  ;  and  next  day  the  band  would  be  gathered  about 
the  town  gate,  and  would  greet  us,  "  Dove  tu  vai, 
Beatrice  ? "  and  "  Dove  tu  vai,  Anna  ?  "  Then  they 
would  join  on,  a  cheerful,  sturdy,  chattering  escort. 
They  were  very  autobiographical,  and  bragged  much  of 
their  sins.  Oh,  such  sins  !  Northern  boys  would  have 
shouted  in  derision  of  their  innocence.  Their  fathers 
were  all  in  America,  and  their  own  eyes  were  already 
turning  there ;  for  work  begins  early — when  they  have 
done  their  "quinta."  To  reward  us  for  our  company 
they  scrambled  among  rocks  and  boulders,  and  found  us 
things  "good  to  eat,"  handfuls  of  wild  sorrel,  grasses 
with  succulent  ends  ;  or  they  produced  these  out  of  little 
pockets,  where  with  much  self-restraint  they  had  kept 
them  against  our  coming.  There  are  few  soldi  for 
sweet-stuff  at  Scanno  ;  and  it  is  only  the  old  who  beg. 

But  the  bare  life  has  its  compensations.  Between 
the  age  of  three,  when  you  are  already  solid  on  your 
legs,  and  six,  when  school  claims  you,  there  is  a  golden 
time.  Life  now  for  Carmel',  aged  three,  is  a  round  of 
joy.     He  lives  in  a  room  little  better  than  a  cellar  with 


250  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  II. 

his  mother,  who  earns  their  bread  by  weaving  coverlets 
on  a  hand  loom.     He  has  never  seen  his  father,  who  went 
to  America  before  he  was  born.     The  mother  is  a  large, 
melancholy-eyed  woman,  with  a  voice  that  always  seems 
tuned  for  chanting  litanies  for  the  dead.     Carmel'  is  a 
miracle  of  solidity  and  health  ;  and,  even  leashed  by  his 
mother's  apron-strings,  finds  a  fine  society  in  the  mules 
and  muleteers  that  pass  the  open  door,  the  goats  and 
goatherds,  and    the   great  wandering    pig    that    roams 
masterless  and  free  about  the  Scanno  streets,  and  the 
children,  and  the  hummers  on  half  a  dozen  spinning- 
wheels   at  neighbouring  doors.     He  never  speaks,  but 
his  smile  is  a  whole  gamut  of  expression.     He  breaks 
his  mother's  apron-string   at   times — and  he  knew  one 
glorious  hour.     Carmel'  will  make  his  way.     He  is  only 
three  years  old,  but  he  had  read  the  signs  of  the  times 
that   morning,   and  darted  off  to  the   sacristan  of  San 
Rocco,  and  demanded  the  cross.     The  sacristan  did  not 
say  no.     As  well   Carmel'  as   another.     Then   we   saw 
him  tottering  down  the  precipitous  street,  clasping  the 
cross,  as  tall  as  himself,  firmly  to  his  blue  pinafore.     It 
got  entangled  in  his  fat  legs,  and  he  fell  half  a  dozen 
times,  but  each  time  he  picked  himself  up  bravely,  and 
without  a  word  to  friend  or  foe,  vanished  into  the  Sant' 
Anton'  quarter.     A  little  later  we  heard  the  bells  of  the 
mother-church   ring   out,  and  the  bells   of    San  Rocco 
answer ;  and  the  peal  went  round  the  hills,  and  into  their 
crevices,  and  the  echoes  wandered  hither  and  thither  like 
a  song.     Is  it  a  festival  ?  we  ask  as  we  hang  over  the 
parapet  in  front  of  the  chiesa  viadre.     In  a  sense  it  is  :  it 
is  a  going  home.    Amid  a  monotonous  chant  come  priest 
and  acolyte,  and  the   banner  of  the  dead  man's   con- 
fraternity.    There  is  no  great  pomp,  for  the  homegoer 
is  poor.     Then  comes  the  coffin,  borne  on  the  shoulders 
of    four    friends,    without    any    signs    of  woe.     A    gay 
cloth  of  red  and  green  is  thrown  over  it — a  household 


CH.  XII.]     VALLEY  OF   THE  SAGITTARIO     251 

property,  which  covered  his  father  and  his  father's 
fathers.  The  relatives  follow,  a  handful,  mostly  old,  and 
some  dozen  friends,  half  of  whom  drop  off  at  the  church 
door  and  go  back  to  work.  And  amid  the  mournful 
chanting,  mocking  it,  not  stridently,  but  as  birds  might 
mock  a  sombre  passer-by,  peal  the  bells  round  the 
hills  and  back  again,  and  up  and  down  the  valley.  An 
irregular  clatter  is  heard,  and  now  come  a  train  of  very 
small  boys — the  big  ones  are  in  school.  To  this  extreme 
youth  is  entrusted  a  traditional  ceremony.  They  are 
headed  by  Carmel',  a  fierce  frown  on  his  red  chubby 
face,  as  he  staggers  under  the  cross.  Those  behind  him 
carry  smaller  wooden  crosses,  to  each  of  which  is  attached 
a  gay  coloured  handkerchief,  red,  or  red  and  blue,  or 
green,  or  orange.  Like  little  flags  they  float  in  the  air 
along  the  street,  and  then,  still  headed  by  Carmel', 
vanish  into  the  church.  The  bells  stop  ringing  during 
the  office  within,  at  the  end  of  which  the  procession 
re-forms,  and  takes  the  long  winding  hill  path  to  the 
campo  santo  under  the  hermitage  of  Sant'  Egidio,  As 
they  wind  and  wind,  the  bells  are  ringing  and  echoing, 
and  running  about  the  air  in  a  song,  the  song  of  the  tired 
old  man  who  goes  home.  There  is  no  pomp,  no 
solemnity,  no  inspiring  beauty  in  the  ceremony.  And 
yet  one  discovered  then  a  little  why,  though  America 
be  "  a  fine  country,"  there  is  a  terror  of  too  long  a  stay 
there.  They  would  sleep  less  well  if  the  bells  of  Santa 
Maria  and  San  Rocco  did  not  ring  about  the  hills  in  a 
song,  did  not  ring  them  round  the  hill-path,  and  under 
the  sod  at  San  Michele. 

Up,  far  up  the  hillsides,  are  the  cultivated  patches  ; 
and  when  the  snow  melts  the  labourers  are  but  as  little 
moving  specks.  It  is  well  there  is  weaving  and  spinning 
at  home  ;  for  field  work,  either  for  yourself  or  a  master, 
is  not  very  remunerative.     Yet  there   is  not   too  much 


252  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

depression  even  about  the  "  Americani "  back  here  and 
digging  in  the  rocky  soil.  Now  and  again  you  find  a 
man  who  tells  you  what  a  poor  place  is  Scanno  ;  but 
rarely  one  who  ever  thinks  of  marrying  a  woman  from 
anywhere  else.  Yet  one  such  bold  spirit  greeted  us  as 
we  passed  the  steep  field  where  he  was  digging.  It  is  a 
point  of  honour  with  them,  by  the  way,  always  to  speak 
English  to  the  stranger.  It  impresses  the  women  work- 
ing by  their  sides  as  magic  would.  Here  is  our  con- 
versation— 

He :  Where  you  go  } 

We :  Up  the  hill  for  a  walk. 

He  :  It  is  ver'  bad.     Go  back. 

On  our  return. 

He :  What  country  you  come  ?  England .''  Not 
New  York  ?  Why  not  }  She — patting  his  own  breast — 
she  is  from  five  year  America.  She  like  that.  She  not 
like  this.     Too  much  work. 

We:  And  not  so  much  money.     How  much  a  day  ? 

He:  Twenty-two  soldi.  And  wine.  Wine  too  strong. 
She  like  beer.     She  go  back.     G^ior  si  ! 

We :  With  a  wife  from  Scanno  .-' 

He  :  No.     She  not  like  the  suit. 

We :  What .? 

He:  She  not  like  the  suit.  She  like  hat  of  yours. 
(Here  it  dawned  on  us  he  was  referring  to  his  dislike  of 
the  costume  of  his  native  place.)  Have  you  man  over 
here  .'' 

We  hastily  declare  our  "  man  "  is  in  England,  and 
withdraw,  lest  he  should  too  openly  prefer  our  "  suit." 

The  good  road  stops  at  Scanno.  After  that  there 
are  only  mountain  tracks  to  the  high  beech  copses,  and 
over  to  the  Piano  di  Cinquemiglia  and  Roccaraso,  these 
impassable  more  than  half  the  year.  Wait  till  you  hear 
that  the  cattle  have  come  back  from  Foggia  to  the  home 
pastures  before  you  try  the  road  that  by  rock  and  scaur 


CH.  XII.]     VALLEY  OF   THE  SAGITTARIO     253 

and  torrent,  will  land  you  on  the  other  side  of  Monte 
Pratella.  There  is  an  isolation  in  this  Valley  of  the 
Sagittario  that  you  will  not  find  in  places  of  higher 
altitude.  It  is  very  narrow,  and  you  must  not  let  your 
heart  wander,  else  the  great  hills  will  be  as  prison  walls. 
Climb  to  Sant'  Egidio,  or  on  the  hillsides  above  the 
Prati,  and  you  will  see  higher,  and  ever  higher  walls. 
To  have  wanderlust  and  be  tied  here  would  be  pain 
indeed.  For  the  Scanno  folk  every  season  has  its 
distinct  toil,  and  the  home  crafts  pass  the  long  winter 
months  away.  In  the  summer  there  are  pilgrimages. 
The  Scannese  are  much  given  to  these.  In  July,  for 
instance,  the  pious  will  go  to  the  Santa  Casa  at  Loreto, 
and  on  from  there  to  Assisi  for  the  Indulgence  of  the 
Porziuncola.  In  August  at  Gallinaro  in  the  Terra  di 
Lavoro,  there  is  the  feast  of  San  Gerardo,  Confessore,  an 
English  saint  who  dispenses  no  graces  till  the  Scannese 
come.  But  you  are  very  rich,  or  very  free,  or  very  gad- 
about, if  you  go  so  far  frequently.  There  are  nearer 
shrines.  There  is  the  special  shrine  of  Scanno,  Our 
Lady  of  the  Lake. 

The  little  mountain  lake  of  Scanno,  something  less 
than  a  mile  below  the  town,  is  a  place  of  enchantment, 
and  of  relief,  too,  in  this  wild  valley.  High  set  among 
the  hills,  it  has  stern,  towering  walls  to  mirror  in  its 
placid  surface  ;  but  it  has  gathered  about  it  slim  feathery 
trees  and  flowery  borders,  and  the  southern  end  has 
turned  to  a  bosky  fairyland.  It  is  only  a  few  miles 
round,  but  in  its  smile  the  narrow  valley  seems  to  break 
into  an  infinity  of  soft  opal  and  blue.  Its  stillness  is 
sung  by  the  nightingales  that  nest  on  its  edge  ;  and 
though  the  high-road  runs  along  its  eastern  side,  quiet 
always  remains  here.  The  two  hermits  sleep  on  its 
banks  in  the  sun.  Fishers  spend  long  days  dabbling  a 
rod  in  its  waters,  hoping  for  the  prize  of  one  of  its  famous 
trout.     The  villagers  come  down  and  spread  out  their  red 


f 


254  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  it. 

handkerchiefs  for  the  Httle  wriggHng  crabs  that  the  boat- 
men sell ;  and  the  Scanno  women  come  to  pray  the 
Madonna  in  her  sanctuary  that  spans  the  road  and  hangs 
over  the  water, 

A  lady  of  many  graces  is  Santa  Maria  del  Lago  ; 
and  her  chapel  is  never  empty  of  women,  prostrate, 
adoring,  or  resting  ;  and  the  votive  offerings,  silver  hearts 
and  hands,  or  old  crutches  and  bandages,  are  eloquent 
pendants.  Madonna  was  wise  to  draw  the  mountain 
folk  here  for  prayer  and  rest ;  for,  of  course,  that  is  what 
she  did.  The  story  is  well  known,  and  was  put  into 
verse  by  Romualdo  Parente,  the  Scanno  poet  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  Once  the  rough  mule-track  from 
Anversa  ran  high  above  the  lake  across  the  towering, 
jagged  rocks.  In  wild  winter  weather  there  were  many 
accidents.  But  the  gracious  Lady  was  watching,  and 
lives  were  snatched  from  peril  by  miracles.  So  an  image 
of  her  was  set  up  on  the  rock  above  the  present  chapel, 
in  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century.  More  than  a 
hundred  years  later,  a  herdsman,  Forlone  by  name,  was 
gathering  his  cows  on  the  margin  of  the  lake  in  the  dusk, 
when  he  saw  a  strange  light  all  about  the  image  ;  and 
the  tree-stems  were  golden  with  its  reflection.  Every 
evening  he  saw  it,  till  he  told  his  priest  Don  Placido. 
Others,  too,  had  felt  a  kindly  presence  there  ;  and  Don 
Placido  read  the  signs  to  mean  that  Our  Lady  desired 
to  have  a  home  there,  to  which  .she  could  draw  down  the 
poor  folks  of  the  mountain  for  rest  and  peace.  So  the 
chapel  was  built.  To-day  it  is  a  little  over-restored  ; 
but  nothing  can  spoil  the  soft  grace  of  the  home  of 
Madonna  of  the  Lake.  To  her  festa  in  July  all  the 
neighbourhood  flocks.  Then  the  lake  is  gay,  and  the 
little  first  communicants  come  in  procession,  the  girls  in 
their  festal  turbans  and  aprons,  and  before  Madonna, 
each  pledges  herself  to  love  and  cherish,  in  the  bond  of 
the  covimare,  all  her  sister  communicants  of  that  year. 


cii.  XII.]     VALLEY  OF   THE  SAGITTARIO     255 

Our  Lady  had  a  predecessor,  powerful,  but  less 
gracious,  a  certain  maga  Angiolina,  of  uncertain  date,  a 
great  magic  woman,  by  common  repute  ;  but  I  have 
failed  to  find  the  ancient  volume  which  contains  her 
story.  She  is  credited  with  having  formed  the  lake  by 
her  huge  bulk  falling  across  the  River  Tasso.  But  the 
origin  of  the  Lago  di'  Scanno  is  suggested  a  little  farther 
on  the  road.  Aloft,  on  the  right,  on  a  stony  hillside,  lies 
the  half-dead  village  of  Frattura,  with  no  link  to  the 
lower  world  save  the  bed  of  a  torrent,  wet  or  dry,  accord- 
ing to  the  season.  In  the  cataclysmal  "  fracture  "  of  the 
mountain  behind,  the  ledge  was  formed  on  which  the 
village  sits.  The  rest  of  the  rock  was  hurled  down  on 
the  Tasso. 

Beyond  the  lake  the  road  turns  and  twines,  and  then 
Villalago  throws  itself  up  against  the  sky.  I  am  glad 
that  nothing  I  know  of  ever  happened  there.  It  leaves 
it  as  a  place  of  dreamland.  The  little  town  of  shepherds 
and  cowherds  drags  out  a  slow  and  precarious  existence 
above  the  world.  My  most  distinct  impression  of  the 
inside  is  that  of  a  churchful  of  women  and  children  in  the 
dusk,  listening  to  the  exhortations  of  a  little  young  priest, 
who  was  telling  them  edifying  tales  which  sounded  as  if 
they  had  come  out  of  the  Gesta  Rovianorwn.  But  I 
have  heard  whispers  that  there  are  still  some  in  the  place 
who  are  accounted  very  wise  in  an  ancient  wisdom,  and 
that  secret  consultation  of  them  is  not  unknown.  Seen 
from  the  opposite  hillside,  or  the  high-road  below,  the 
place  is  of  inconceivable  sublimity.  Sheer  up  from  the 
abyss  soars  its  rock,  and  from  its  rock  it  rises  like  a 
flame.  What  pride  was  nursed  there  once,  what  projects 
of  revenge !  What  loneliness  pined,  what  ecstasy  was 
bred !  Once  see  it,  and  henceforth  it  remains  as  the 
background  of  all  the  ballads  of  imprisoned  ladies 
looking  out  of  lonely  towers,  and  of  fighting  men  sped 
home  from  the  wars  to  release  them. 


256  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

Villalago  has  fame  as  a  holy  place,  but  to  reach  its 
shrine  you  must  pass  along  the  road  where  the  red  rocks 
tower  higher  and  higher.  A  little  side  lane  lined  by 
"  stations  "  leads  to  the  ancient  chapel  of  San  Domenico 
of  Cocullo — more  properly  San  Domenico  di'  Foligno, 
for  he  was  Umbrian  by  birth,  this  Benedictine  hermit. 
But  he  adopted  the  Abruzzi  as  his  home  of  penitence 
and  retirement ;  and  there,  to  this-day,  he  is  one  of  the 
most  sought-after  of  protectors.  You  meet  his  statue, 
with  his  emblems  of  wolf  and  serpent,  throughout 
the  whole  province.  His  story  is  in  the  accredited 
authorities  ;  but  his  votaries  do  not  read  the  Acta 
Sanctorum.  He  has  come  to  them  out  of  a  far  older 
time,  and  with  a  double  sanctity ;  the  reincarnation,  in  a 
mediaeval  hermit,  of  an  ancient  priest  of  the  Marsi  ; 
ascetic  and  saint,  but  still  more  enchanter  and  thauma- 
turgist.  The  Cocullo  folks,  across  the  mountain,  have 
their  own  San  Domenico  festa,  and  scorn  Villalago  ;  for 
they  had  the  saint  longer  among  them.  But  what  does 
length  of  time  count  ?  Is  not  his  rocky  cell  here,  and  the 
molar  tooth  he  gave  to  the  mayor,  and  the  horseshoe 
with  which  he  worked  a  miracle  .-• 

The  little  church  is  a  model  of  a  rustic  sanctuary,  old 
and  bare  and  frugal.  There  are  no  votive  offerings  of 
price  ;  to  the  statue  of  the  saint  only  the  prayers  offered 
up  about  it  have  given  value.  From  the  sacristy  a  door 
opens  on  a  stair  in  the  rock,  leading  to  the  cell  where 
the  saint  spent  years  of  penitence  and  exaltation.  The 
pillared  loggia  outside  is  painted  with  scenes  from 
the  life  of  the  patron,  of  a  delightful  absurdity,  by 
the  hand  of  a  hermit.  Here  are  the  subjects  of  some 
of  these  storied  chapters. 

San  Domenico,  on  his  departure,  leaves  to  the  mayor 
of  the  Villa  his  right  tooth. 

The  parish  priest  with  the  holy  relics  of  San  Domenico 
banishes  the  venomous  serpents  from  the  neighbourhood. 


CH.  XII.]     VALLEY  OF   THE  SAGITTARIO     257 

San    Domenico   commands   the    fierce   wolf  not    to 
devour  any  more  mothers'  sons. 

The  outlook  from  the  loggia  is  on  a  terrible  place — 
sheer  rock  above  and  roaring  torrent  below.  What 
demons  the  saint  must  have  fought  with  here  !  What 
a  rage  for  the  sublime  must  he  have  had  !  The  hermits 
to-day  keep  a  little  garden  green  in  the  summer,  and 
the  wilderness  blossoms,  sparingly.  The  desolation  of 
the  winter  must  be  unspeakable.  In  summer  they  are 
not  often  alone.  Folks  wait  for  the  posta  here.  And 
the  shrine  is  so  famous  that  many  strangers  come,  and 
some  of  the  Villalago  women  are  always  at  the  altar, 
pouring  out  their  entreaties.  Ah,  a  shepherd's  wife  has 
need  to  entreat  one  who  can  make  wild  things  tame ! 

The  hermits  keep  a  simple  rule,  of  which  these  are 
the  principal  injunctions — 

"Our  hermits  of  the  Desert:  (i)  Giuseppe  B ,  (2) 

Mattia  di  P ,  (3)  Pietro  G ,  that  they  may  model 

themselves  on  the  life  of  our  glorious  saint,  in  whose 
name  they  beg  their  bread,  shall  lead  a  life  devout  and 
retired  in  God,  .  .  ,  and  to  that  end  they  shall  attend 
scrupulously  to  these  articles.  If  they  transgress  them, 
they  shall  be  punished  by  the  Most  Reverend,  the  Arci- 
prete  of  Villalago,  the  first  time  with  the  suspension  of  a 
whole  week  of  begging  bread,  afterwards  by  expulsion 
from  the  hermitage,  for  the  Place  of  the  Desert  is 
eminently  holy." 

There  follow  rules  about  hearing  mass,  receiving  the 
communion,  and  confessing  in  Villalago.  From  these 
sacred  duties  they  must  return  straightway,  since  each 
hermit  "  should  love  his  hermitage  as  the  bird  loves  his 
nest." 

Every  evening  they  shall  recite  the  rosary  in  common, 
and  at  the  sound  of  the  bell  of  the  parish  church,  from 
May  to  October,  light  at  least  two  candles  in  the  church. 

S 


258  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

From  November  to  April,  whether  they  hear  the  bell  or 

not,  they  shall  light  them  in  the  hermitage. 

They  are   to  live  like  brothers  in  holy  concord  ;  to 

welcome  the  country-folks  and  strangers  graciously,  not 

to   blaspheme    nor  to  use  foul  words,  to  avoid  strong 

drink,  and  all  such  games  as  are  disapproved  by  honest 

men. 

They  are    never  to  wander    far  from  the  romitorio 

without  precise  motive  ;    and   the  days   for  begging  in 

certain  localities  are  defined. 

They  are  to  divide  equally  the  alms  in  the  box  on 

the  altar,  unless  it  should  be  money  for  a  mass  in  honour 

of  the  saint. 

They  are  to  serve  mass,  to  take  care  of  the  grotto  and 

of  all  the  church  furniture,  the  silver  chalice,  and  other 

belongings  of  the  sanctuary,  to  sweep  the  place,  including 

the  Holy  Stair  and  the  hermitage  every  Saturday,  and 

the  loggia  once  a  month.     They  are  to  ring  the  bell  for 

Matins  and  the  Ave  Maria. 

They  are  to  provide  wood  for  winter,  and  not  to  sell 

it,  even  at  a  profit. 

The  great  day  is  August  22nd.  Then  the  gorge  is  full 
of  folk  from  the  whole  valley  and  far  beyond.  In  the 
little  chapel,  round  the  statue  of  the  saint,  press,  but  not 
too  close,  a  crowd  tense  with  excitement  for  a  spectacle 
that  never  palls.  Round  the  neck  of  the  saint,  hanging 
over  his  dark  robe,  and  twined  about  his  arms,  are  live 
serpents,  common  snakes  and  adders  of  the  rock.  They 
are  still  now,  dazed  perhaps  by  the  hum  of  the  crowd,  or 
made  torpid  by  the  "  wise  men."  But  they  draw  the  eyes, 
the  cold,  mysterious  things.  There  is  a  sense  of  shudder- 
ing, mingled  with  exultation  in  the  power  of  the  holy  one  ; 
and  through  all  the  office  runs  something  of  the  old  pagan 
thrill.  This  is  no  Christian  festival,  instinct  with  the 
sweet  spirit  of  St.  Francis  towards  the  creatures,  though, 
doubtless,   the   hermit   saint  won   his   power,  too,  from 


CH.  XII.]     VALLEY  OF  THE  SAGITTARIO     259 

friendliness  and  trust  in  the  wild  things  of  the  mountain 
and  rock.  There  is  a  dark  force  present,  incarnate  in  the 
cold  reptiles  ;  and  were  not  the  saint  there  to  absorb  the 
adoration  and  to  claim  the  worship,  these  might  wander 
into  strange  channels.  Then  the  statue,  rose-crowned 
and  serpent-girt,  is  hoisted  on  trestles,  and  borne  out 
of  the  chapel.  In  the  open  there  is  a  moving  and  a 
writhing  ;  and  people  crane  and  stand  on  tiptoe  to  see 
the  gleaming  evil  eyes,  and  then  shrink,  and  peer  again. 
With  cries  and  with  singing  the  crowd  moves  on,  up  to 
Villalago,  to  the  church  ;  and  the  shuddering  thrill  never 
dies  till  the  ancient  rite  is  all  gone  through,  and  the 
saint,  rose-crowned  and  serpent-girt,  is  back  again  in  his 
sanctuary.  At  the  end  the  serpents,  are  let  loose  among 
the  rocks.  They  creep  away  to  crevices  and  holes  ;  and 
for  all  that  day  in  Villalago  territory  none  of  them  will 
do  any  hurt.     Glory  be  to  San  Domenico ! 

Past  the  little  lake  of  San  Domenico  the  gorge  widens 
for  a  space,  then  narrows  fiercesomely.  In  the  "  traforetto 
delle  Capareccie  "  the  unkindly  rock  is  tunnelled  by  the 
road.  On  a  midsummer  noon  the  whole  foce  is  like  a 
corridor  in  hell ;  and  the  bridge  that  crosses  the  stream 
is  known  as  the  Ponte  dell'  Inferno.  In  the  evening 
glow,  and  at  dusk,  the  place  takes  on  a  demoniac  beauty, 
and  the  torrent  has  in  its  voice  the  music  of  a  world  of 
battle.  When  spring  bursts  the  bonds  of  winter  in  the 
mountains,  nothing  can  control  its  terrible  fury. 

"  E  il  fiume 
Che  mugghia,  e  il  Sagittario  che  si  gonfia 
Nelle  gole,  Si  sciolgona  le  nevi 
Ai  monti,  alia  Terrata,  all'  Argatone  ; 
e  il  Sagittario  subito  s'  infuria." 

At  a  turn  in  the  road  you  lift  your  eyes,  and  far,  far 
aloft  soars  Castrovalve,  once  a  proud  citadel,  subject  only 


26o  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  il 

to  the  king,  a  nest  of  proud  eagles.  Now  it  is  a  poor 
miners'  village  almost  beyond  ken,  this  "  sentinella  morta 
contro  i  Samniti."  And  now  the  glen  is  widening. 
We  are  falling  to  fertile  levels.  There  are  glimpses  of 
green  fields  ;  and  soon  vineyards  will  appear.  And  here 
is  Anversa. 

It  is  ragged  now  ;  only  a  faint  memory  of  its  past 
splendours  remains  in  its  churches  and  its  ruined  towers. 
Santa  Maria  delle  Grazie,  with  its  lovely  doorway,  its 
mingling  of  rustic  Paganism  and  Renaissance  grace,  has 
distinct  interest ;  and  San  Marcello,  perhaps  the  most 
untouched  church  we  have  met  anywhere,  is  a  place  of 
indescribable  charm.  The  old  wooden  ceiling  remains  ; 
the  walls  are  whitewashed,  the  whole  framework  is  of 
an  austere  simplicity ;  yet  there  are  treasures  of  great 
beauty.  One  corner  is  lit  by  a  mellow  fire  from  the  reds 
and  golds  of  a  fifteenth-century  triptych,  representing 
St.  Francis  and  St.  Michael ;  and  on  the  main  altar  is 
a  magnificent  tabernacolo  from  the  chapel  of  the  ruined 
castle.  A  very  ancient  place  is  Anversa,  and  for  ages  it 
was  of  strategic  importance,  commanding,  as  it  did,  the 
opening  to  the  Pelignian  Valley.  For  long  it  was  held  by 
the  proudest  of  all  the  Abruzzi  noble  houses,  the  Conti 
del  Sangro.  By  Antonio  of  this  name  the  castle  was 
greatly  enlarged  and  strengthened  in  1506.  In  the  six- 
teenth century  it  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Belprato 
family ;  and  in  their  time  it  had  a  flying  visit  from  Tasso. 
More  than  once  in  his  harassed  flights  from  Ferrara  to 
Sorrento  and  back  again,  Torquato  passed  through  the 
wild  Abruzzi.  These  journeys  were  coincident  with  times 
of  sickness  and  stress  of  mind,  dark  fantasies  of  betrayal. 
The  poet-courtier,  frail  of  body  and  distraught,  making 
his  way  through  the  mountains,  is  a  theme  for  the 
imagination  to  work  on.  His  way  from  Sulmona  should 
have  lain  by  Pettorano,  Roccapia,  the  Piano  di  Cinque- 
miglia,  and  Castel  di  Sangro,  a  wild  and  terrible  road. 


CH.  XII.]    VALLEY   OF   THE    SAGITTARIO     261 

Legends  of  his  passing  lingered  long  on  the  Majella. 
Of  one  such  journey  he  wrote  to  the  Duke  of  Urbino, 
that,  save  in  the  duke's  state,  he  had  found  every  place 
full  of  "frauds  and  dangers  and  violence."  He  had 
made  it  another  time  "in  the  worst  season,  without  a 
companion,  and  experiencing  all  kinds  of  fatigue  and 
many  dangers,  but  then  not  laden  with  years  and 
insults."  Perhaps  it  was  while  he  was  young  enough  to 
bear  and  to  hope,  that  he  turned  aside  from  Sulmona  up 
the  valley  of  the  Sagittario,  to  visit  the  lord  of  Anversa. 

"  The  idea  that  drew  me  in  the  direction  of  Anversa," 
he  writes  to  the  count's  brother, "  was  to  visit  the  count, 
and  perhaps  to  rest  in  the  shelter  of  his  home,  which 
though  I  could  not  count  on  from  any  merit  of  my 
own,  his  magnanimity  nevertheless  assured  me.  Of 
this  I  had  everywhere  heard,  as  of  the  greatness  of  the 
counts,  your  ancestors,  ever  most  generous  patrons  of 
the  arts.  But  when  I  was  near,  I  heard  he  had  just 
gone  off  for  a  tremendous  bear  hunt,  a  pastime  I  believe 
your  lordships  are  much  enamoured  of;  and  that  this 
most  solemn  business  might  be  kept  up  for  several  days. 
Wherefore,  not  knowing  when  to  expect  him,  for  I  am 
all  unskilled  in  such  matters,  I  was  forced  against  my 
will  to  continue  my  journey,  hard  as  it  was." 

After  the  Belprati,  the  magnificent  Macaenases,  the 
castle  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Di  Capua  house.  The 
last  of  them,  a  certain  Don  Titta,  has  left  a  sinister 
memory.  He  made  friends  with  one  of  the  Del  Fusco 
family  of  Anversa,  who  was  his  constant  companion. 
Del  Fusco  married  ;  and,  unhappily,  the  young  wife  was 
pleasing  to  the  lord  of  the  castle.  Di  Capua  made  a 
feast  one  night,  to  which  bride  and  bridegroom  were 
bidden.  In  the  middle  of  the  banquet  the  husband  was 
called  out  on  some  pretext ;  and  ere  the  feast  was  over, 
his  wife  saw  his  head  brought  into  the  hall  on  a  silver 
dish.     As  for  what  followed — a  feudal  lord  had  all  the 


262  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

rights.  Del  Fusco's  brother,  a  learned  doctor  in  Naples, 
swore  revenge.  To  Anversa  he  brought  turpentine, 
washed  the  castle  walls  with  it,  and  set  the  place  on 
fire.  Di  Capua  was  off  on  a  bear  hunt  that  day  in  the 
forests,  and  from  Monte  Portella  he  saw  the  flames  con- 
sume his  house.  He  never  returned,  but  fled  to  the 
Terra  di  Lavoro  ;  and  Anversa  knew  him  no  more. 

This  story  they  tell  in  the  neighbourhood.  I  cannot 
vouch  for  it.  The  old  castle,  looking  on  the  mountains, 
tottering  on  the  brink  of  the  torrent,  and  near  neighbour 
to  the  awful  foci,  has  other  sinister  stories  told  of  it,  and 
D'Annunzio  has  made  it  the  scene  of  one  of  his  tragedies. 
La  Fiaccola  sotto  il  Moggio  repeats,  in  a  more  terrible 
form,  the  theme  of  La  Cittd,  Morta,  the  degeneration 
of  a  noble  family  of  the  Abruzzi,  body  and  mind  falling 
into  decrepitude,  while  their  house  tumbles  about  their 
ears. 

"  La  casa  magna 
dei  Sangro,  quella  delle  cento  stanze, 
tutta  crepacci  e  tutta  ragnateli 
che  da  tutte  le  bande 
si  sgretola,  e  nessuno  ci  rimette 
pur  una  mestolata  di  calcina." 

Tibaldo  di  Sangro  and  his  step-brother  Bertrando 
Acclozamora,  once  of  Celano,  are  both  sorry  specimens 
of  worn-out  races,  decayed  in  mind  and  will.  The  heir 
to  the  house  is  frail  and  childish  ;  and  all  of  them  are 
but  as  food  for  mockery,  and  opportunity  for  crime,  to 
Tibaldo's  wife,  the  vigorous  Angizia,  half  woman  of  the 
people,  half  sorceress  by  virtue  derived  from  her  father, 
the  serpent-charmer  of  Luco.  And  the  women  of  the 
family  wait,  conscious  of  destiny,  and  powerless,  listening 
to  the  cracking  of  the  walls,  the  roar  of  the  torrent 
beneath,  hearing  in  all  danger,  and  death,  and  doom. 

A  passage  in  De  Nino  {Usi  e  CostumiY  suggests 
that  the  sinister  associations  of  Anversa  do  not  cling 

*  Vol.  i.  p.  193. 


CH.  XII.]    VALLEY   OF   THE   SAGITTARIO     263 

round  the  old  castle  only.  I  was  not  there  on  July  25, 
and  it  would  have  been  useless  to  inquire  locally  if  the 
nightly  gatherings  alluded  to  take  place  now.  Unless 
you  were  known  by  long  residence  they  would  only 
stare  and  deny.     Here,  at  least,  is  the  passage — 

"On  the  25th  of  July,  towards  three  or  four  of  the 
night,  the  women  of  Anversa,  barefooted  for  the  most 
part,  go  in  procession,  on  what  is  called  the  Viaggio 
di  San  Giacomo.  Silently  they  make  their  way  out  of 
the  village,  and  gather  in  the  Church  of  San  Niccola. 
Each  carries  in  one  hand  a  rosary,  in  the  other  a 
wand.  They  pray  for  a  little  on  their  knees,  and  then 
the  leader  of  the  company  taps  on  the  ground  with  her 
stick,  and  the  rest  rise  and  go.  At  the  door  every  one 
taps  with  her  wand.  Not  one  of  them  speaks  aloud. 
With  the  same  rites  they  go  to  San  Marcello  and  Santa 
Maria  delle  Grazie  in  the  village,  and  to  San  Vincenzo 
without,  where  is  the  cavipo  safito.  This  is  closed,  and 
so  the  tappings  are  made  outside  the  door.  The  pro- 
cession ends  at  the  church  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Snows, 
the  door  of  which  is  tapped  on  entering ;  there  all  the 
wands  are  left,  and  the  band  retires,  still  in  silence.  But 
already  some  groups  of  young  folks  and  children  begin 
to  disturb  the  quiet  of  the  night  wanderers,  and  hiding 
behind  the  hedges,  or  in  the  cemetery,  cry,  '  Oh,  oh ! ' 

"  And  here,  with  a  complacent  smile,  would  Carducci 
repeat — 

"  'Salute,  O  Satane! 
O  ribellione, 
O  forza  indice, 
Dolce  ragione  ! ' " 

I  give  these  sinister  tales  and  suggestions  of  a  dark 
past,  because  I  have  heard  them,  or  find  them  set  down 
in  printers'  ink.  But  I  never  shuddered  at  Anversa. 
After  three  weeks  spent  in  the  upper  valley  of  the 
Sagittario,   which   may  be   described  as   a  cloister   for 


264  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

Titans,  each  time  after  threading  the  dark  foci,  Anversa 
presented  to  me  a  gay  aspect ;  and  its  people,  an  old 
race  of  busy  and  clever  potters,  seemed  neither  tragic 
nor  mysterious.  Out  of  the  village,  and  past  the  turn 
of  the  road,  the  view  widens  down  to  a  slope  of  exquisite 
and  noble  beauty,  to  the  suave  Pelignian  vale.  A 
Sicilian  in  our  company,  whose  duties  in  the  finance 
ministry  had  kept  him  a  homesick  prisoner  in  the  moun- 
tains, now  laughed  with  a  sudden  sense  of  release, 
scrambled  for  wild  roses  in  the  hedges,  and  brandished 
a  flowering  branch.  Our  eyes  widened,  we  looked  out 
and  round,  and  the  same  words  rose  to  the  lips  of  all, 
"  Italy  again  !     This  is  Italy  !  " 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  ROAD  TO   CASTEL  DI   SANGRO 

Pacentro  and  Pettorano — The  Caldora  and  the  Cantelmi — Roccaraso — 
Pescocostanzo — A  weary  plain — A  village  of  optimists — Suspicion  of 
the  stranger — Castel  di  Sangro. 

Pacentro  lies  over  there  to  the  south-east  of  Sulmona, 
in  a  fold  of  the  mountains  between  Morrone  and  Majella. 
But  to  see  what  the  place  was  when  it  counted  for  some- 
thing, mount  to  it,  thread  its  narrow  streets  and  view  it 
from  the  back.  Built  in  a  niche  of  the  hills,  it  is  made 
out  of  the  hills ;  the  battlemented  towers  of  its  old 
ruined  castle  are  but  jagged  peaks  of  rock,  and  the 
houses  of  the  vassals  that  fall  from  its  sides  are  but 
scooped-out  caverns.  Here  is  the  very  robbers'  nest  of 
old  romance.  And  something  of  the  kind  it  was  ;  for 
the  castle  was  the  home  of  the  Caldora,  one  of  the  most 
powerful  families  of  the  Abruzzi  and  the  Molise.  They 
were  Provengal  of  origin,  from  Marseilles,  and  came  here 
with  Charles  d'Anjou.  They  were  all  men  of  valour ; 
but  the  greatest  was  Jacopo  Caldora,  the  condottiere, 
the  rival  of  Braccio,  and  captain  of  Rene  d'Anjou's 
armies  in  the  struggle  against  Alfonso  d'Aragon.  Many 
princes  of  Italy  poured  gold  into  the  great  captain's 
coffers,  not  to  hire  his  services,  which  were  hard  to  win, 
but  to  buy,  if  they  might,  his  neutrality.  Besides  Count 
of  Pacentro,  he  had  fifty  other  titles ;  but  he  was  proud 
of  only  one  name,  Jacopo  Caldora.  From  his  niche  in 
the  hills  he  swooped  and  pounced,  the  noble  bandit,  the 

265 


266  IN    THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

crowned  free-lance,  and  gathered  lands  and  people  into 
his  store.  On  the  saddles  of  his  horses  were  written  the 
words,  "  The  heaven,  even  the  heavens,  are  the  Lord's  ; 
but  the  earth  hath  He  given  to  the  children  of  men." 

From  their  rocky  nest  of  Pacentro  the  Caldora  flung 
menaces  south-westward  across  the  hills  to   Pettorano, 
where  dwelt,  as  firmly  seated  on  their  own  rock  above 
the  valley  of  the  Gizio,  the  rival  family  of  Cantelmi,  of 
still  greater  fame  and  riches  and  feudal  power.     Princes 
of  Pettorano  were  they,  and  from  the  sixteenth  century 
Dukes  of  Popoli.      A   great   portion    of  the  Valley  of 
Sulmona  was  theirs,   and  of  the  mountains  behind,  till 
where  the  lands  of  the  Conti  del  Sangro  began.    Like  the 
Caldora,  they  came  with  Charles  d'Anjou  from  Provence  ; 
and  like  them,  after  Tagliacozzo,  were   rewarded  with 
fiefs  in  the  Abruzzi   and  other   parts  of  the  kingdom. 
But  they  claimed  a  prouder  descent — from  the  ancient 
kings  of  Scotland,  Duncan,  the  victim  of  Macbeth,  their 
ancestor.     With  the  Stuart  dynasty  they  claimed  connec- 
tion too,  and   Charles   H.  by  a  patent  gave  them  the 
right  to  bear  his  family  name.     Thus  in  later  ages  they 
were    always    known    as    the    Cantelmi-Stuarts.       At 
Pettorano,    at    Popoli,    at    Pratola,   at    Roccacasale,   at 
Roccaraso,  at  a  score  of  other  places,  their  castles  are  in 
ruins  ;  and  only  the  shade  of  the  name  remains  of  a  race 
that  kept  a  province  in  awe   and   used  the  people   as 
stufi"  for  war  and  faction  fights. 

Pettorano  in  its  poverty  has  kept  more  of  the  "  grand 
air "  than  Pacentro.  With  its  great  sweeping  view  far 
along  to  Monte  Corno,  and  its  women  with  their  fine 
physique,  their  gorgeous  costume  and  jewellery,  it  has 
splendour  still. 

The  country  from  Sulmona  to  Castel  di  Sangro  is  of 
peculiar  beauty.  The  land  rises  from  Pettorano  up  to 
mountainous  heights.  After  the  dark  Valle  Scura  and 
the  terrible  Piano  di  Cinquemiglia,  the  view  opens  out 


,      J        1   '  • 


•  ,■  '^  ^ 


O 
2 


I         H 


CH.  XIII.]     ROAD  TO  CASTEL  DI  SANGRO     267 

round  Roccaraso  to  undulating  stony  moorlands,  to  high 
oak  forests,  dominated  everywhere  by  spurs  of  the 
Majella ;  then  falls  by  gradual,  gentle  slopes  to  the 
towering  fortress  place  above  the  rushing  river  Sangro. 
One  of  the  main  roads  to  Naples  runs  through  this  tract ; 
and  the  hardy  traveller  would  be  well  advised  to  foot  it 
or  ride  it — unless  he  be  curious  about  the  construction  of 
mountain  railways.  This  one  from  Sulmona  to  Isernia 
and  Naples  is  wonderful  enough  in  the  first  part  of  its 
course.  It  takes  you  smoothly  along  to  Pettorano,  then 
swings  you  back  almost  to  Sulmona  again,  then  eastward 
far  into  the  Majella,  where  it  seems  to  lose  itself  It 
burrows,  it  emerges,  it  hangs  by  its  teeth  on  the  edge  of 
the  precipice  ;  it  swings  up  to  the  bare  top  of  the  world 
at  Campo  di  Giove,  where  once  stood  a  temple  to  Great 
Jupiter. 

If  this  be  the  chosen  route,  then  the  goal  had  best 
be  Roccaraso,  which  makes  an  excellent  centre,  and — 
the  traveller  will  not  be  sorry  to  hear  it — where  awaits 
him  that  comfort,  at  the  Albergo  Monte  Majella  (note 
well  the  exact  name),  which  doubtless  he  has  done  with- 
out cheerfully  up  to  this  moment,  but  which,  perhaps,  he 
has  not  grown  so  hardy  as  altogether  to  scorn.     Rocca- 
raso, the  highest  point  at  which  the  traveller  is  likely  to 
take  up  his  quarters  for  long — it  is  4100  feet   high — 
stands  in  a  splendid  tract  of  country  just  under  Monte 
Pratella,  and  is  slowly  gaining  reputation  as  a  health- 
resort.     The  air  is  magnificent ;  it  has  sufficient  shelter 
from  the  mountains  ;  the  views  are  superb  ;  and,  what  is 
a  great  boon  in  so  high  a  place,  those  who  do  not  wish 
to  climb  the  hillsides  can  wander  in  the  delicious  oak 
woods    near   at   hand.      These,  with   the    sloping  road 
down  to  Castel  di  Sangro,  the  paths  through  the  rocky 
valley  and  over  the  rough  Piano  di  Leone,  will  serve 
many  moods.     The  air  is  dancing  clear  as  at  Rocca  di 
Mezzo  ;  but  there  is  none  of  the  stony  nakedness.     Nay, 


268  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

if  mountain  flowers  delight  you,  here  you  can  have  your 
fill.  Luxuriant  hedges  of  honeysuckle,  meadow-sweet 
in  great  bushes,  all  the  old  familiar  friends,  daisies  and 
poppies,  buttercups,  kingcups,  ragged-robins,  grow  in 
splendid  profusion,  and  among  the  rocks  you  will  come 
on  rarer  things  ;  orange  tiger-lilies  spring  at  your  feet  out 
of  the  moorland  soil,  and  graceful  pink  gladioli.  The 
prospects  are  wide,  there  is  none  of  the  cooped-up  feeling 
of  the  narrow  valley  where  Scanno  lies.  Here  is  a 
country  with  darks  and  lights.  The  crosses  on  the  hills 
tell  of  winter  tragedies  ;  but  in  the  summer-time  Joy 
walks  among  the  mountains.  And — one  may  mention  it 
again — with  summer  comes  Don  Beppino  from  Naples, 
stands  at  the  door  of  his  good  house  which  bears  the 
sign  of  the  Monte  Majella,  and  welcomes  the  stranger 
to  the  good  cheer  within.  To  the  best  of  my  knowledge, 
Don  Beppino  is  the  prime  innkeeper  of  the  Abruzzi. 

The  town  of  Roccaraso  itself  will  not  long  detain  you. 
It  has  a  commanding  site,  some  scraps  of  ancient  build- 
ings, and  a  general  air  of  decrepitude.  Idle  folks  swarm 
about  the  doors.  The  old  dress  has  gone  ;  the  old  crafts 
have  gone.  The  population  look  harmless,  but  lifeless 
too,  and  melancholy.  One  could  imagine  the  place 
under  a  ban.  It  was  long  pestered  by  brigands,  and 
even  bred  a  few  ;  perhaps  it  misses  the  old  trade.  At 
least,  any  one  of  the  little  towns  in  the  neighbourhood 
has  more  spirit  and  attraction. 

Looking  out  from  your  windows  in  the  Albergo  Monte 
Majella,  on  the  opposite  hill  you  see  Rivisondoli  spread 
out  like  the  model  of  Ascoli  on  a  tea-tray  in  Crivelli's 
"Annunciation."  Cross  the  meadows,  make  your  way 
round  the  corner  of  the  hill,  and  mount  to  reach  Pesco- 
costanzo.  The  little  paesotto  high  up  in  the  mountains, 
higher  even  than  Roccaraso,  a  place  almost  buried  in 
the  snows  of  winter,  now  the  home  of  poor  peasants  and 
shepherds,  was  once  a  town  of  fine  artist-craftsmen.    The 


CH.  XIII.]     ROAD  TO  CASTEL  DI  SANGRO     269 

women    keep  up    the    tradition    to   some   small  extent 
to-day.     They  are  excellent  lacemakers,  and  have  a  fine 
store  of  ancient  designs.     Of  old  the  men  were  mostly 
goldsmiths,  busy  and  far-famed.     There  is  not  one  in  the 
place  now.      The   fact  of  this  skilled   craftsmanship  is 
needed  to  explain  its  relics  of  grandeur,  and  the  great 
church    which   still    remains   its   pride.      San    Felice  of 
Pescocostanzo — it    is    dedicated    also    to   Santa   Maria 
Assumpta — -might  be  the  pride  of  a  far  greater  town  ; 
and  in  all  the  Abruzzi  there  are  few  that  rival  it  for  its 
unspoiled  beauty.     San  Felice  has  a  sacristan  who  loves 
the  church  he  keeps,  loves  every  corner  of  the  vast  place  ; 
but  he  will  lead  the  visitor  to  what  is  looked  on  as  its 
special  treasure — the  sixteenth-century  ironwork  of  one 
of  the    chapel    gates.      And    wonderful    it    is,   though 
perhaps  too  florid.     Iron  has  been  treated  here  as  if  it 
were  gold  or    silver ;    but  in    the    elaboration  there    is 
endless  invention  and  imagination — sea-gods,  dolphins, 
and  lobsters,  arabesques  and  pots  of  flowers,  all  arranged 
into  a  complex  harmony.    It  is  rich,  fantastic,  marvellous. 
There  are  other  pieces  of  the  same  local  artist's  work  in 
the  church,  the  door  of  the  baptistery,  and  some  lamp- 
brackets,  simpler  these,  more  delicate,  not  such  touj's  de 
force.     The  sacristan,  or  any  one  else  in  the  town,  will 
tell  you  the  legend  of  this  worker  in  iron.     He  was  a 
contadino,  and  a  sportsman.      One  day,  when  he  had 
been  hunting  in  the  forest,  he  sat  down  to  eat  his  dinner, 
laying  his  gun  by  his  side.     When  he  took  it  up  again 
the  metal  of  it  was  bent.     It  had  been  lying  on  a  certain 
rare  plant.     He  went  home  with  the  idea  he  had  dis- 
covered a  secret ;   shut  himself  up  in  a  workshop  and 
learnt   the   art   of  ironwork.      To   turn    and   twist  and 
mould  the  metal  to  the  shape  he  desired,  he  used  the 
strange  plant  he  had  found  in  the  forest ;  but  he  told  the 
secret  to  none.    Even  his  wife,  who  helped  him  in  certain 
mechanical    portions,    was    blindfolded    at     important 


2^o  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

moments.  And  he  died  without  unfolding  the  secret. 
So  goes  the  local  tale.  We  may  surmise  that  the 
strange  plant  of  the  forest  was  genius  ;  hence  many  have 
looked  for  it  in  vain ;  and  that  he  was  no  peasant,  but 
probably  a  trained  goldsmith  of  the  place,  who  used  his 
skill  in  metalwork  on  this  so  much  larger  scale. 

It  is  not  the  only  treasure  of  the  beautiful  church. 

From  the  carved  ceiling  of  the  nave  the  dull  gilding  glints 

down  dark  and  splendid,  and  the  same  sombre  glory  is 

about  the    great  crown  which    hangs   above  the   altar. 

There   are   some  delightful    painted   statues,  especially 

those   of  Santa   Margherita   and    Santa   Appolonia,   in 

the  niches  of  the  altar  to  the  miraculous  Madonna  del 

Colle.     This  lady,  who,  under  her  barbaric  silver  crown, 

looks   7iralte,  was   found,  says   the  sacristan,  in  a  tree, 

and  taken  to  the  little  church  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Hill, 

perched  near  the    Rocca  at   the   north   end   of  Pesco- 

costanzo.      But  there  she  would   not  stop,  demanding 

instant  lodging  in  San  Felice,  where  she   has   been  of 

great  service.     "  Do  we  want  rain  ? "  says  the  sacristan. 

"  Just  mention  it  to  her,  and  lo,  a  cloud  is  seen  black  in 

the  sky,  and  down  it  comes  in  a  blessed  shower.     Ah  ! 

the  favours  from  her  hand  !     But,  now,  if  it  be  a  matter 

of  our  sins,  you  would  think  she  had  no  eyes,  no  memory 

of   them  at  all  !  "      She    stands    in    a   niche    of  a  fine 

sixteenth-century  altar,  its  exquisite  Renaissance  work 

of  sombre  blue  and  dull  gold  touched  by  no  meddling 

hand,  and  not  too  much  by  time.     The  long  line  of  slabs 

opposite  the  Madonna  is  worn  smooth  and  shining  with 

the  progress  of  her  adorers,  who  approach  her  on  their 

knees.     I  saw  a  woman  making  her  slow,  utterly  abject, 

way  along.      Her  baby  ran  beside    her,  laughing   and 

crowing  as  she  shuffled.      He  laughed  aloud  when  she 

kissed  the  ground,  and  he  rubbed  the  altar  steps  with 

his  toy  to  show  her  where  to   place   her  most  fervent 

kisses.     Ere  her  devotions  were  over,  he  invited  her  to 


CH.  XIII.]     ROAD  TO  CASTEL  DI  SANGRO     271 

sit  by  him,  a  little  tired  of  her  attentions  to  the  Madonna, 
and  his  babble  mingled  with  her  supplications. 

The  sacristan  is  eloquent  on  the  treasury  of  the 
church — rich  in  old  silver ;  but  we  are  more  impressed 
by  the  sacristy,  a  simple,  yellow- washed,  vaulted  room, 
with  eighteen  oak  cupboards  for  the  canons'  robes. 
Eighteen  canons !  And  there  are  eight  to-day  to  sing 
Mass  in  this  church  of  peasants  and  shepherds !  What 
do  they  do  when  they  are  not  singing  Mass }  The 
sacristan  describes  the  great  fire  of  logs  he  makes  for 
them  in  the  focolare  of  the  sacristy.  They  spread 
themselves  before  it  like  barons !  he  says  proudly,  and 
he  fills  braziers  for  them  when  they  sit  in  the  choir. 
They  need  such  comforts,  the  proud,  superfluous  ones, 
in  the  winter  weather,  when,  to  enter  the  church,  they 
have  to  slide  down  a  great  heap  of  snow. 

If  you  come  from  Sulmona  on  foot,  via  Pettorano, 
you  will  cross  the  Piano  di  Cinquemiglia  ;  if  by  train, 
perhaps  curiosity  may  draw  you  back  on  your  steps 
to  see  a  place  of  so  ill  a  name.  Following,  then, 
the  Sulmona  road,  which  swings  to  the  left  near 
Rivisondoli,  you  pass  the  sixteenth-century  hermitage 
chapel  of  Santa  Maria  della  Portella,  Here  has  many 
a  prayer  been  uplifted  for  safety  in  crossing  the  plain  in 
the  wild  weather.  We  follow  the  women  of  Rivisondoli, 
trooping  in  singing  bands  on  their  way  up  to  the  high 
forests  for  their  faggots.  Hardly  one  passes  the  chapel 
without  a  word  to  the  Madonna  within.  We  enter  after 
one  group.  Led  by  an  old  woman,  they  say  their 
prayers  aloud,  then  visit  the  various  shrines.  St.  Antony 
is  kissed  again  and  again  ;  and  when  the  rest  are  gone 
an  old  woman  murmurs  her  private  grief  to  him  in  an 
expostulatory  tone. 

The  band  goes  on,  cheerful  and  singing,  but  we  lose 
them  soon,  as  they  cross  the  southern  end  of  the  plain 


272  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

and  climb  the  hillside,  while  we  turn  northward  along 
the  endless,  straight  road  in  the  train  of  shepherds  and 
muleteers.      Endless,    indeed,   it    seems,    for    they    are 
Neapolitan  miles  those  of  the  Five  Mile  Plain.      In  the 
hard,  clear  morning  light  it  is  hideous  and  unimpressive. 
There  is  dazzling  snow  on  the  mountains  on  either  hand, 
and  the  sun  beats  mercilessly  on  our  heads  and  on  the 
dead  level  tract.    We  have  heard  of  whole  armies  perish- 
ing in  the  snow  here.     How  many  have  perished  in  the 
heat  ?     Flocks  across  the  plain  are  but  as  specks,  and 
when  the  shepherds  have  dispersed  and  the  muleteers 
have  passed  us,  the  monotony  of  the  desert,  without  its 
grandeur,  hangs  on  us  like  an  unbearable  burden,  till  we 
conceive  a  dull,  strong  hate  for  the  Piano  di  Cinque- 
miglia.      Only    one    house   is  there    along    the   whole 
route,  a  kind  of   farm.      Wild   people    look    out   from 
the  open  loggia,  and  the  dogs  are  far  from  civil.     Not 
another  sign  of  life  or  humanity  is  there  till  near  the 
end,  where  the  mountain  path  from  Scanno  to  Roccapia 
comes  out  near  the  chapel  of  the  Madonna  del  Carmine. 
The  waste  was  in  sore  need  of  her  blessing,  and  housed 
her  sternly.     But  she  lies  off  the  main  road,  and  her 
blessing  does  not  reach  us.     There  is  no  speech  left  in 
us  ;   and  our  walk  becomes  a  lifeless  trudge,  a  stupid 
counting  of  the  stone  pillars  which  mark  the  edge  of 
the  road  for  travellers  in  the  winter  snows.     Then,  where 
the  old  track  turns  down  to  Roccapia,  we  come  on  the 
Fountain   of   Mascatena,  a   very  fount   of  life.     There 
should  be  a  shrine  there.     Once  there  was  one,  perhaps 
to  St.  Antony,  for  it  is  his  well ;  but  we  drink  and  drink, 
and  pick  a  flower  from  the  crevice  of  a  rock  and  give  it 
to  the  naiad  of  the  spring. 

By  the  people  the  plain  is  called  the  Mare  Secco, 
the  dry  sea.  But  it  was  not  always  deserted.  For 
long  ages  there  were  four  villages  here,  and  vestiges  of 
them  exist  still.     During  the  disturbances  in  the  reign 


CH.  XIII.]     ROAD  TO  CASTEL  DI  SANGRO     273 

of  Queen  Giovanna  they  were  continually  attacked,  and 
the  Cantelmi,  lords  of  Pettorano,  forced  them  to  unite 
and  to  migrate.  Thus  was  founded  Rocca  Valle  Scura 
(Roccapia).  Then  the  plain  was  left  to  the  snow,  the 
winds,  the  wolves,  the  robbers,  and  the  evil  spirits.  In 
February,  1528,  three  hundred  foot  soldiers  of  the 
Venetian  Lega  Santissima  against  Charles  V.  perished 
here.  In  March,  1529,  five  hundred  Germans,  soldiers 
of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  on  their  way  to  Aquila,  lost 
their  lives.  Of  the  single  victims,  or  the  bands  of 
peasants,  that  have  fallen  by  the  way,  the  number  has 
never  been  counted.  The  danger  is  a  peculiar  one,  and 
arises  from  the  configuration  of  the  place.  The  winds 
rebound  from  side  to  side,  acquire  an  incredible  force, 
toss  the  snow,  which  whirls  in  great  vortices.  There  is 
no  light.  The  world  is  hidden  in  wild,  black,  hurricane 
whirlwinds  ;  and  death  does  not  ensue  merely,  or  chiefly, 
from  cold  and  exposure,  but  from  suffocation.  After 
the  loss  of  the  five  hundred  Germans,  Charles  had  five 
great  towers  built  along  the  plain,  and  for  a  time  they 
were  kept  stored  with  fuel  and  food.  But  they  became 
shelters  for  wolves  and  brigands,  and  veritable  death- 
traps. In  July,  1787,  three  brigands  despoiled  seventeen 
persons,  only  a  few  of  whom  escaped  with  their  lives,  in 
one  of  these  torrioni.  Now  they  are  utterly  demolished. 
The  popular  explanation  of  the  suffocating  vortices  is 
that  under  the  plain  are  great  vaults,  vast  chambers  of 
the  winds.  You  can  hear  them  rumbling  below,  they 
say,  even  before  they  emerge  through  the  undiscernible 
openings  to  whirl  the  snows  in  a  dance  of  death. 

We  sink  down  rapidly  to  Rocca  Valle  Scura.  The 
Rock  of  the  Dark  Valley  it  must  be,  in  truth,  in  the 
winter,  when  daylight  is  the  rarest  and  briefest  of  bless- 
ings. The  mountains  rise  sheer  up  on  both  sides,  and 
the  opening  is  narrow  indeed  through  which  comes  the 
exquisite  glimpse  of  the  valley  of  the  Gizio  and  of  the 

T 


274  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

far  horn  of  Monte  Corno.  A  few  weeks  ago  the  snow 
lay  deep  here,  and  yet  the  paesotto  is  bright  and  gay, 
with  its  red  roofs  and  its  green  toy  trees  in  the  miniature 
piazza,  as  if  it  were  the  veriest  favourite  of  the  sun. 
Dauntless  and  debonair,  and  of  a  ridiculous  optimism,  is 
the  little  township,  and  so  are  its  people.  It  had  borne 
the  name  of  Rocca  Valle  Scura  for  ages,  but  in  1815  it 
made  up  its  mind  it  would  bear  it  no  longer.  Rocca 
Letizia  it  should  be — the  Rock  of  Joy.  The  habit  of 
changing  names  grew  on  the  inhabitants,  and  in  i860, 
at  the  passage  of  Victor  Emmanuel,  they  called  it 
Roccapia,  in  honour  of  the  Princess  Pia,  afterwards 
Queen  of  Portugal.  And  Roccapia  it  remains.  Sing- 
ing comes  from  all  the  hillsides.  The  bells  make  merry 
carillon  among  the  mountains,  and  matrons  of  seventy 
fare  back  from  a  long  day  of  sun  and  toil  on  the  heights 
with  the  high  spirits  of  seventeen. 

Through  Roccapia  runs  the  road  to  Pettorano  and 
Sulmona.  Ours  lies  backward.  We  reach  the  blessed 
fountain  again,  where  the  cattle  and  the  mules  and  the 
mountain  ponies  are  gathered  in  the  evening  light.  Now 
for  the  long  road  back.  But  the  dull  hard  plain  of  the 
morning  has  vanished,  and  in  its  place  is  a  vast  expanse  of 
dim  gold.  A  few  great  flocks  lie  somewhere  in  the  mist 
over  there.  There  is  a  low  hum  in  the  grasses,  the  faint 
stir  of  the  winds  in  the  vaults  below.  Then  silence  and  the 
night,  with  soft  guiding  stars.  The  road  is  long,  but  our 
steps  are  light,  the  footsteps  of  those  that  walk  in  a  dream. 

Because  you  have  seized  on  the  characteristics  of 
one  of  these  little  mountain  towns,  never  infer  that  its 
neighbour  will  share  them.  The  reverse  is  more  likely 
to  be  the  case.  Here  the  people  are  gay,  open-minded, 
welcoming ;  a  mile  away  they  will  view  your  approach 
with  suspicion.  Here  they  are  busy  and  skilful ;  there, 
out    of  work,   vacant,  melancholy.       Nowhere    is  there 


o 


D 

a 
z 

u 
< 
o 

u 

o 


CH.  XIII.]     ROAD  TO  CASTEL  DI  SANGRO     275 

more  variety  in  human  nature  than  in  the  little  towns 
about  Roccaraso  and  Castel  di  Sangro, 

My  reception  at  Roccacinquemiglia  was  embarrassing. 
The  place,  by  the  way,  is  not  on  the  Five  Mile  Plain, 
but  well  to  the  south,  and  stands  out  gallantly  from  a 
hilly   moorland  above   the    Sangro  Valley.      I  left  the 
artist  outside  making  her  picture  of  it,  and  climbed  up 
the  steep  steps  that  lead  to  the  top  of  the  town  where 
the   church   stands.      The   church   has   a  good  deal  of 
shabby  attractiveness  for  the  casual  wanderer.    I  suppose 
I   was  "  the  first  that  ever  burst "   into  it ;    and  ere    I 
had  examined  half  of  it,  the  whole  idle  population  of 
the  upper  town — women,  girls,  boys,  and  a  few  men — 
were  gathering  round  me.      I  received  their  attentions 
smilingly,  as  a  matter  of  policy  ;  tried  conversation,  which 
was   received  with   long,  stony   stares.      I    shifted   my 
position.      So  did  they.      I  sat  down  in  front  of  their 
Madonna.     So  did  they ;  but  they  did  not  look  at  her. 
I   retired  to  a   chapel.      They  followed.      I  tried  light 
banter.     It  melted  not  a  single  stare.     I  thought  silence 
was  perhaps  the  better  part ;  but  it  was  not.     They  only 
closed  round  me  the  more.     I  engaged  the  sacristan  in 
conversation.     He  was  gracious  ;  and  when  I  suggested 
that  the  crowd  rather  hindered  a  view  of  his  church,  he 
chased  them  out.      In  two  minutes  they  had  returned 
with   reinforcements.      Three  times  did   the  good  man 
shoo  them    forth  like  fluttered  flowls,  and   three  times 
did  they  come  back.     But  during  the  third  sortie  they 
must  have  filled  his  mind  with  dark  suspicions,  and  on 
his  return  I  felt  I  had  lost  a  friend.     It  was  with  a  voice 
trembling  between  sternness  and  some  other  emotion — 
was  it  feari* — that  he  asked  me  to  give  an  account  of 
myself     Where  had  I  come  from  ?     For  what  purpose  ? 
Had  I  no  friend  in  the  town  to  answer  for  me  .?    "  Takine 
the  air  at  Roccaraso  ?    Sola  !  Sola  !  "    Not  for  a  moment 
did  he  believe  in  the  artist  sitting  outside  there  on  the 


2/6  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

moorland,  whose  sex  I  had  left  vague.  He  gazed  long 
at  me,  and  his  suspicion  seemed  to  melt  into  a  great 
pity.  He  misunderstood  my  intention  when  I  sought 
his  hand  to  give  him  a  gratuity.  The  coin  dropped  to 
the  floor ;  he  seized  my  hand  and  wrung  it  with  force 
and  warmth,  and  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes  as  he  asked 
God  to  keep  me !  He  thought  I  stood  in  great  need  of 
it.  On  my  exit,  there  they  all  were  in  serried  ranks  by 
the  door ;  and  who  knows  how  long  I  should  have  had  a 
sullen,  staring  procession  behind  me,  had  not  a  little  old 
woman  come  out  of  a  door  in  the  upper  town,  and  by 
sheer  moral  force  persuaded  them  of  their  folly,  and 
dispersed  them  as  thistledown  in  the  wind.  Of  what 
criminal  intentions  was  I  suspected  ?  I  shall  never 
know. 

In  the  valley  below,  on  the  banks  of  the  Sangro,  one 
laughs  at  such  a  remembrance  as  impossible.  Here  the 
world  is  gay  and  open-hearted,  and  Castel  di  Sangro  is 
one  of  the  most  picturesque  and  the  most  coloured  towns 
in  the  Abruzzi.  It  stands  near  the  southern  frontier,  its 
lower  portion  on  a  high-pitched  plain  that  simulates  the 
lowlands.  Near  the  old  bridge  over  the  wide,  rushing 
Sangro,  you  enter  the  town,  passing  the  ancient  and 
beautiful  little  church  of  San  Nicola.  The  Corso  is  a 
winding,  many-coloured  narrow  street,  where  all  the 
work  is  done  at  the  doors.  The  piazza  is  a  bright  and 
spirited  place,  with  cafes  and  chatting  people  about 
their  steps ;  and  mingling  with  them  are  the  troupe  of 
travelling  players  who  are  to  act  DAnnunzio  in  the 
theatre  in  the  evening.  Fountains  play,  and  the  shops 
hang  out  bright-coloured  blinds  ;  and  life  permits  itself 
to  be  more  amusing  than  is  usual  in  the  smaller  towns  of 
this  stern,  dark  province.  Down  in  the  green  poplar- 
fringed  flats  by  the  river,  where  the  flocks  are  feeding, 
there  is  more  .softness  than  even  in  the  suave  Sulmona 
Valley,  more  movement,  more  gaiety.     Gipsy  vans  make 


CH.  XIII.]     ROAD  TO  CASTEL  DI  SANGRO     277 

a  bright  encampment.  Their  cosmopolitan  inmates  beg 
from  us  in  French  ;  and  a  swarthy  queen  of  sixty-five, 
with  great  play  of  a  red  fan,  would  fain  tell  us  our 
fortunes.  The  evening  sun  spreads  a  golden  haze  over 
the  wide  valley,  and  round  about  stand  the  mountains 
of  the  Molise  like  great  dim-perceived  gods.  The  air 
and  the  scene  are  of  a  majestic  calm. 

We  have  but  turned  our  back  for  a  moment  on  the 
wild.  Castel  di  Sangro  is  two.  Sheer  up  from  the  lower 
town  of  busy  chattering  Corso  and  piazza  rises  the  high 
bourg,  carved  out  of  the  rock.  Up,  up,  we  mount,  by 
streets  of  stairs,  under  old  arches,  threading  old  arcades, 
under  old  loggias,  but  ever  with  a  back  look  on  the 
shining  plain,  to  the  great  church  of  Santa  Maria,  a 
grandiose  building,  with  links  to  its  grand  time  still 
remaining  in  cloister  and  Romanesque  arch.  We  are 
high  on  this  upper  piazza  here,  but  the  rock  still  towers 
over  our  heads.  Far  above  still  are  the  ruins  of  the 
oldest  castello,  that  of  the  first  Conti  dei  Sangro,  lords  of 
many  mountains  and  wide  plains.  Once  Counts  of  the 
Marsi  were  they  too,  of  the  race  of  Charlemagne.  Here 
in  the  high  town  the  people  have  already  lost  some  of 
the  genial  air  of  the  town  below.  They  are  of  the 
mountain  ;  and  children  and  grandchildren  of  those  who 
swooped  down  in  armed  bands,  some  forty  years  ago, 
with  the  name  of  the  Bourbons  in  their  mouths,  singing — 

"Andiam'  a  spass',  a  spass', 
Viva  ru  re  e  ru  popol'  bass'." 

On  the  topmost  height  there  is  a  long  ridge,  and  there 
aloft  lies  the  Campo  Sattto ;  and  Castel  di  Sangro  still 
carries  its  dead  up  there,  and  puts  them  to  rest  among 
the  hills. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

FROM   SULMONA  TO  THE   SEA 

San  Clemente  di  Casauria— Chieti— Castellamare  the  sordid— The 
pageant  of  Pescara — Sforza  —  Gabriele  D'Annunzio  Pescarese  — 
Francavilla,  the  high  town — The  lovely  Sultana — Francavilla-al- 
Mare — St.  John's  morning  by  the  sea. 

Our  route  to  the  sea  lies  now  along  the  river  Pescara. 
The  real  Pescara  is  a  very  little  stream,  which  rises  near 
PopoH,  and  has  hardly  begun  to  be  before  it  joins  with 
the  Aterno  from  Montereale,  and  with  the  Gizio  from 
the  Piano  di  Cinquemiglia.  The  three  then  flow  together, 
under  the  name  of  the  smallest,  to  the  port  of  Pescara 
on  the  Adriatic.  Popoli,  with  its  ruined  castle  of  the 
Cantelmi,  lies  on  the  hillside  to  the  right,  called  after 
the  peoples  flying  from  Corfinium.  (Or  is  it  Castrum 
Pauperum,  after  these  or  other  refugees  .?)  Popoli  past — 
and  I  don't  know  any  good  reason  for  stopping  there 
nowadays — we  shall  soon  be  out  of  the  mountains ;  but 
ere  we  emerge  from  them  we  pass  through  gorges  of  the 
wildest.  In  one  of  these,  the  Vado,  between  Popoli  and 
Tocco,  occurs  the  curious  air-current  that  passes  to  and 
fro  at  regular  intervals  in  the  stillest  of  weather,  a  kind 
of  aerial  tide. 

At  Torre  de'  Passeri  there  is  something  worth  alight- 
ing for.  About  a  mile  and  a  quarter  from  here  lies 
perhaps  the  greatest  architectural  treasure  of  the  Abruzzi, 
the  church  of  the  ancient  Abbey  of  San  Clemente  di 
Casauria.    The  river  has  changed  its  course  considerably. 

278 


cii.  XIV.]    FROM   SULMONA   TO   THE   SEA    279 

But  once  it  split  here  and  formed  an  island,  on  which 
was  built  the  famous  abbey — insula  PiscaricB  paradisi 
floridus  horhis.  In  its  first  form  it  was  a  thank-offering 
of  the  Emperor  Lewis  11. ,  in  871,  for  the  defeat  of  the 
Saracens  and  their  disappearance  from  Italy.  This  was 
l^remature,  for  his  own  foundation  was  to  suffer  many 
times  from  the  assaults  of  the  same  enemy.  To  give 
value  to  his  new  church,  the  Emperor  got  from  Pope 
Hadrian  III.  the  body  of  St.  Clement  Martyr,  third 
successor  of  St.  Peter,  drowned  under  Trajan  for  the 
Faith.  The  Pescara  has  always  been  turbulent  about 
this  spot ;  and  when  the  procession  with  the  relics 
reached  the  river,  the  bridge  had  been  swept  away,  and 
great  boulders  were  being  hurled  down  by  the  force  of 
the  torrent.  But  the  Emperor  ordered  the  body  of  the 
martyr  to  be  placed  on  a  mule  ;  he  struck  the  beast,  and 
sent  it  forward,  crying,  "  Let  Clement  guide  you  !  "  The 
tumultuous  waves  became  "  like  rocks  "  under  the  mule's 
feet,  and  the  procession  passed  safely  over.  Since  that 
day  St.  Clement  the  Martyr  has  been  called  on  many 
times  by  men  in  peril  near  this  spot. 

The  place  was  richly  endowed  ;  and  its  abbots  had  for 
long  the  privilege  of  holding  the  imperial  sceptre  in  their 
right  hands  instead  of  the  pastoral  staff.  Of  the  ninth- 
century  building  only  the  crypt  remains,  with  its  twelve 
antique  columns.  It  was  rebuilt  and  restored  so  often 
that  the  place,  even  in  its  greatest  days,  was  something 
of  a  hybrid  ;  but  beauty  always  ruled.  The  fortifications 
and  the  abbey  buildings  have  disappeared  ;  and  now 
only  the  church  stands,  built  mainly  in  the  eleventh  and 
twelfth  centuries  by  its  two  great  abbots,  Trasimondo  and 
Leonato.  It  has  still  much  precious  workmanship  left. 
The  sculptured  story  of  the  building  on  the  architrave ; 
the  sarcophagus  under  the  altar  with  the  bones  of  St. 
Clement ;  the  richly  carved  pulpit ;  the  base  of  the 
Easter  candlestick  ;  the  bronze  doors  once  inlaid   with 


28o  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

patterns  in  gold  ;  the  west  end  with  its  fine  arches  and 
columns,  make  it  a  treasure-house  of  beauty ;  and  the 
effect  is  enhanced  by  its  isolation  in  the  lonely  valley. 
Various  architectural  influences  have  been  at  work  in  it, 
Byzantine  certainly,  and  French,  according  to  some 
authorities  ;  yet,  in  the  main,  it  is  typically  Abruzzese  ; 
and  the  vigorous  sculpture  is  mostly  by  local  hands. 
Of  all  the  architectural  treasures  of  the  Abruzzi  San 
Clemente  di  Casauria  is  the  best  known,  and  detailed 
descriptions  of  it  have  been  written  by  various  travellers. 
Also,  it  is  well  cared  for  now.  Says  Mr.  Keppel  Craven 
of  a  certain  bas-relief  of  the  church,  "  If  it  does  not 
establish  a  very  favourable  idea  of  sculpture  in  the  year 
866  [the  date  is  wrong],  it  is  not  deficient  in  attraction 
to  those  who  make  the  history  of  the  dark  and  middle 
ages  their  particular  study."  Hear,  on  the  other  hand, 
what  a  distinguished  Abruzzese  has  to  say  of  the  place. 
In  the  Trionfo  della  Morte  the  hero  recalls  a  visit  to 
Casauria  with  his  uncle  Demetrio — 

"  He  and  Demetrio  made  their  way  down  by  a  sheep- 
walk  towards  the  abbey,  which  the  trees  still  hid.  An 
infinite  calm  was  spread  about  over  the  solitary  and 
majestic  places,  over  the  wide  deserted  track  of  grass 
and  stones,  uneven  and  stamped,  as  it  were,  with  the 
steps  of  giants,  all  silent,  its  beginning  lost  in  the  mystery 
of  the  far  and  holy  mountains.  A  feeling  of  primitive 
sanctity  still  pervaded  it,  as  if  lately  the  grass  and  stones 
had  been  trodden  by  a  long  migration  of  patriarchal 
flocks  seeking  the  seaward  horizon.  Down  there  in  the 
plain  appeared  the  basilica,  all  but  a  ruin.  The  ground 
about  was  encumbered  with  rubbish  and  undergrowth ; 
fragments  of  sculptured  stones  were  heaped  up  against 
the  pilasters ;  from  every  chink  hung  ragged  weeds  ; 
recent  masonry  of  brick  and  plaster  closed  the  ample 
apertures  of  the  side  arches ;  the  doors  were  falling. 
And  a   compan}'  of  pilgrims    were    resting   in    a  brute 


CH.  XIV.]    FROM   SULMONA   TO   THE   SEA    281 

slumber  under  the  most  noble  portico  erected  by  the 
magnificent  Leonato.  But  the  three  arches  still  intact 
rose  out  of  their  divine  capitols  with  a  haughty  grace  ; 
and  the  September  sun  gave  to  the  pale  pietra  gentile  so 
rich  a  hue  that  both  he  and  Demetrio  felt  themselves  in 
the  presence  of  a  sovereign  beauty.  Nay,  the  closer 
their  contemplation  of  it,  the  clearer  and  purer  seemed 
to  grow  the  harmony  of  the  lines.  Little  by  little,  from 
that  inconceivable  and  daring  concordance  made  by  the 
arches  of  every  order — pointed  arches,  horseshoe  arches — 
by  the  various  mouldings,  the  bosses,  the  lozenges,  the 
palms,  the  repeated  rosettes,  the  sinuous  foliage,  the 
symbolic  monsters  ;  from  every  detail  of  the  work  was 
revealed,  through  the  eyes  to  the  spirit,  that  unique  and 
absolute  rhythmic  law,  obeyed  alike  by  the  great  masses 
and  the  lesser  ornaments.  Such  was  the  secret  force  of 
the  rhythm  that  it  overcame  all  the  surrounding  discords, 
and  presented  a  fantastic  vision  of  the  whole  work,  as  it 
had  risen  in  the  twelfth  century  by  the  high  will  of  the 
Abbot  Leonato,  in  a  fertile  island  ringed  about  and  fed 
by  a  mighty  river.  Both  carried  away  this  vision  with 
them.  It  was  September,  and  the  country  all  about  in 
the  dying  summer  had  a  mingled  aspect  of  grace  and 
severity,  as  if  in  mystic  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the 
Christian  monument.  The  quiet  valley  was  circled  by 
two  crowns,  the  first  of  olive  and  vine-clad  hills,  the 
second  of  naked,  sharp  rocks  ;  and  in  the  scene  Demetrio 
found  the  same  obscure  sentiment  which  animated  that 
canvas  of  Leonardo,  where  above  a  background  of 
desolate  rocks  there  sits  and  smiles  a  lady,  an 
enchantress.  Moreover,  to  render  more  acute  the 
contrasting  feelings  working  in  them  both,  from  a  far 
vineyard  rose  a  song,  prelude  of  the  early  vintage,  and 
behind  them,  in  response,  came  the  litany  of  the  pilgrims, 
now  going  on  their  way  again.  And  the  two  cadences, 
the  sacred  and  the  profane,  mingled  and  were  confounded. 


282  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  il. 

"  Fascinated  by  the  remembrance,  the  survivor  had 
but  one  chimerical  desire — to  go  back  there,  to  see  the 
basilica  once  again,  to  live  there  and  save  it  from  ruin,  to 
revive  its  primitive  beauty,  re-establish  the  great  cult, 
and  after  so  long  an  interval  of  neglect  and  oblivion, 
renew  once  more  the  CJironicon  Casauriense.  Was  it  not, 
indeed,  the  most  glorious  temple  of  the  Abruzzi  soil, 
built  on  an  island  of  the  parent  river ;  the  most  ancient 
seat  of  temporal  and  spiritual  power  ?  Had  it  not  been 
the  centre  of  a  vast  and  proud  life,  for  age  after  age  ? 
The  Clementine  soul  still  reigned  there,  lasting,  pro- 
found ;  and  in  that  summer  afternoon  of  long  ago  it  had 
revealed  itself  to  him  and  Demetrio  through  the  medium 
of  the  divine,  rhythmic  thought  expressed  in  a  consum- 
mate harmony  of  the  parts." 

Chieti  shows  nothing  of  itself  from  the  station  as  you 
pass,  (But  do  not  pass.)  It  stands  three  miles  off  and 
far  up,  eleven  hundred  feet,  above  the  plain ;  and  you 
reach  it  by  a  tramway.  It  is  a  large,  busy,  attractive 
town,  considerably  greater  than  Sulmona,  a  good  deal 
refaced  in  modern  times,  but  not  replanned,  and  with 
vestiges  still  of  the  time  when  it  was  Theate,  the  ancient 
capital  of  the  Marrucini.  Now,  as  in  former  days,  it  is 
one  of  the  most  stirring  centres  of  intelligence  in  the 
Abruzzi.  It  merits  more  notice  here  ;  but  my  space 
gives  out,  and  I  am  hurrying  to  the  sea.  Let  my  one 
word  be  at  least  emphatic.  For  its  site  Chieti  is  fit  to 
be  the  capital  of  a  great  empire.  I  have  never  seen  a 
position  of  greater  grandeur.  It  commands  the  whole  of 
the  Central  Apennines.  Choose  your  day  well,  and  an 
hour  when  the  mists  have  rolled  away,  and  the  whole 
Majella  group  and  the  whole  Gran  Sasso  range  will  be 
discovered  to  you.  It  commands  the  Adriatic  and  the 
great  wide-stretching  plain,  through  which  the  Pescara 
winds  and  twists  its  shining  pattern  to  the  sea. 


CH.  XIV.]    FROM    SULMONA   TO   THE   SEA    283 

But  seen  from  below  it  is  a  dull,  flat  plain  that  lies 
between  Chieti  and  the  Adriatic  shore.  Now  and  then  a 
reach  of  river  gives  one  a  hope  of  something  more  in- 
spiring ;  but  the  train  drones  on  and  you  lose  it.  Nor 
do  you  feel  keenly  the  approaching  sea,  even  when  you 
steam  into  the  railway  station  in  the  back  slums  of 
Pescara.  There,  if  the  traveller  be  wise,  he  will  turn 
southward  to  Francavilla  without  delay.  We  turned 
northward,  a  mile  or  so,  to  Castellamare  Adriatico  ;  and 
an  hour  afterwards  were  wondering,  with  dusty  despair 
in  our  eyes  and  hearts,  why  we  had  ever  come. 

In  a  book  published  just  seventy  years  ago,  I  read  of 
Castellamare  as  a  place  "  much  frequented  in  the  summer 
for  the  convenience  of  sea-bathing  and  the  benefit  of 
a  cool  and  healthy  air."  What  has  it  been  doing  in  the 
meanwhile .''  Whether  it  be  much  or  little  frequented 
I  cannot  tell,  for  the  workmen  were  hammering  up  the 
"  stabilimento  "  for  the  coming  season  in  leisurely  fashion 
when  we  were  there  ;  but  that  it  could  ever  be  ready  for 
visitors,  or  capable  of  attracting  them,  seems  impossible. 
Nearly  all  seaside  resorts  are  sordid.  The  contact  of 
humanity  with  the  sea,  otherwise  than  as  sailors,  fishers, 
or  boat-builders,  seems  mostly  to  debase  both.  But 
there  are  degrees  of  sordidness.  I  remember  with  a 
sinking  of  the  spirits  a  wet  Bank-holiday  once  spent  at 
Heme  Bay,  also  the  back  streets  of  Berck.  But  Cas- 
tellamare Adriatico  touches  lower  depths  of  ugliness  and 
dulness.  A  hot,  white,  dusty  high-road  runs  by  the  inn  ; 
noisy,  too,  but  the  noise  is  associated  with  the  only 
amusing  feature  of  the  place,  the  fly-drivers.  They  are 
a  lively,  bright-spirited  crew,  and  in  constant  demand, 
though  probably  they  make  very  modest  fortunes.  Here 
you  see  the  true  Neapolitan  delight  in  sitting  behind  any 
kind  of  horse,  and  the  Neapolitan  dislike  of  padding  the 
hoof ;  and  so  the  down-at-heel  pedlar,  or  the  gentleman 
in  search  of  umbrellas  to  mend,  when  tired  of  the  high- 


284  IN   THE  ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

road  takes  a  carriage.  Along  here,  too,  come  the 
painted  country  carts,  pretty  enough  everywhere  through 
the  province,  but  nowhere  more  so  than  at  Castellamare 
— Hght,  graceful  things,  their  body  and  shafts  and  wheels 
painted  with  dainty  floral  patterns,  garlands  and  bouquets 
of  red  and  blue  on  a  white  ground.  Save  for  such 
incidents,  the  high-road  is  a  glaring  horror;  the  character- 
less piazza  is  little  improvement  on  it,  nor  do  the  shabby 
and  pretentious  villas  lift  your  mind.  The  little  fisher 
cottages  are  lost  now  among  the  new  excretions  ;  and  the 
inhabitants,  at  least  on  the  eve  of  the  season,  are  not 
very  attractive.  They  have  a  cynical  slatternliness  bred 
perhaps  of  disappointment ;  and,  indeed,  they  have  not 
had  much  of  a  chance  since  hygienic  standards  have 
gone  up.  Nowadays  they  have  to  import  their  good 
drinking-water  by  train  from  Popoli.  Till  the  train 
comes  in  you  may  go  thirsty. 

Another  hot  dusty  road  from  the  piazza  takes  you  to 
a  poor  little  strip  of  beach,  bordering  what,  at  first  sight, 
seems  a  very  ordinary  sea,  whatever  it  be  called.  Turn- 
ing southward  along  the  shore,  however,  the  flowers 
begin  to  interest  us.  We  have  been  so  long  in  the 
mountains  we  have  forgotten  that  we  are  after  all  in  the 
South ;  now  we  learn  it,  not  only  from  the  varieties  of 
broom,  of  pink  furze,  of  luxuriant  sea-holly,  the  giant 
clumps  of  crimson  vetch,  but  also  from  a  red-flowered 
cactus.  Thunder  is  rumbling,  and  it  rains  down  there  at 
Ortona.  A  veil  is  over  the  sky,  but  through  it,  faintly 
descried,  rise  the  mountains,  our  Majella  from  its  eastern 
side,  and  the  familiar  horned  peaks  of  the  Gran  Sasso. 
Farther  on,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Pescara,  we  are  conquered 
and  captured,  but  by  the  simplest  means.  The  scene— 
a  placid  river  giving  itself  to  a  placid  silvery  sea,  some 
slender  trees  lining  the  banks  that  lead  to  the  flat  river 
port — has  nothing  for  the  moment  to  offer  but  tranquillity. 
In  the  days  that  followed  it  bred  keener  sensations. 


CH.  XIV.]    FROM    SULMONA   TO    THE   SEA    285 

Looking  down  on  the  mouth  of  the  Pescara  River, 
and  far  up  and  down  the  Adriatic,  and  inland  to  the 
mountain  walls,  stands  a  high,  white,  flat-roofed  old 
mansion-house,  girt  about  by  a  grove  of  pines  and 
olives.  It  has  seen  better  days,  and  now  shelters  very 
various  tenants.  It  is  the  kind  of  place  one  passes  by 
with  regret,  because  there  is  no  chance  of  stopping,  and 
then  pays  one's  self  by  making  it  the  background  of  a 
romantic  tale.  But  this  time  we  did  not  pass  on  ;  and 
for  a  week  at  least  we  owned  a  villa  on  the  Adriatic, 
or  as  much  of  it  as  we  desired,  its  topmost  floor,  its  flat 
terrace  roof,  and  its  outlook  perched  on  that.  From 
there  there  was  so  much  to  see  that  we  forgot  Castella- 
mare  and  all  its  new  squalor. 

Every  evening  there  is  a  pageant  here. 

A  far  sky,  infinitely  far,  a  space  of  mauve  and  violet 

that  changes  one  knows  not  where,  and  stretches  blue 

above.     The   sea   is    a   great   path    softly  patterned    in 

turquoise  and  pale  green  ;  and  the  laughing  white  teeth 

of  the  surf  edges  the  shore.     The  river  mouth  is  fringed 

by  green  dancing  poplars,  and  on  the  nearer  side  by  dark 

stone   pines.     And   from   the   sea,  or  from  somewhere 

between  sea  and  sky,  come  boats,  like  great  birds  of 

gorgeous  plumage,  crimson  and  russet,  flaming  orange 

and  pale  lemon,  parti-coloured,  too,  the  russet  dashed 

with  indigo,  or  painted  with  saffron,  the  yellow  patterned 

with  faded  green,  the  orange  with  tiger  stripes  of  black. 

Surely  these  red-and-gold  creatures  will  never  light  on 

these  shores  !     Yet  they  come  on  silently,  drawn  by  the 

eyes  of  the  women  sitting  in  the  sand  near  the  bar ;  and 

the  wings  turn  to  swelling  sails  of  heaving  barks,  proud 

as   if  they  bore  an  emperor  and  his  suite  for  freight. 

There  is  a  wild  joy  in  their  dance  over  the  strip  of  surf. 

Now  for  the  grand  entry  up  the  river,  which  is  disposed 

with    order  and  ceremony.     They  come  in  pairs,  each 

pair  alike  in  colour  and  design  ;  and  the  designs  of  the 


286  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

sails  are  varied  and  wonderful.  The  sun,  the  moon,  the 
stars,  are  there,  of  course.  The  artists  of  some  have 
had  a  grotesque  touch,  and  have  caricatured  humanity 
with  a  splash  of  bark  ;  but  the  others  are  mostly  pious, 
and  have  made  crosses,  or  emblazoned  "  I.H.S."  like  a 
mighty  charm,  or  the  symbol  of  the  host.  One  pair 
is  patterned  like  a  rich  Indian  web ;  and  even  the  mere 
patches  have  their  unconscious  artistry.  On  they  come, 
the  ruddy  and  the  pale,  the  scarlet  wings  and  the  yellow, 
the  tiger-striped  and  the  white,  sending  down  their 
colours  into  the  water  athwart  the  bows  as  they  advance  ; 
and  never  a  king's  pageant,  paid  for  by  gold,  and 
arranged  by  a  lord  marshal,  was,  or  could  be,  so  splendid 
and  fine.  Behind  the  colour  and  the  pride  there  is  peril 
and  there  is  penury ;  and  many  a  home-coming  to  poor 
hearths  ;  but  the  splendour  is  not  for  that  mocking  or 
unreal.  These  boats  of  Pescara  belong  to  an  age  when 
labour  had  its  ritual  and  pageant ;  and  labour  will  be 
real  and  sound  when  it  has  them  again.  The  spirit  of 
the  old  industries  of  the  strong  hand  and  the  fine  hand 
dies  when  dies  the  beauty  that  was  their  companion 
from  of  old.  On  they  come — not  for  a  moment  can  you 
look  aside — up  the  river,  past  the  little  low  huts  that 
mean  home  to  the  men  on  board,  and  anchor  among  the 
trees.  Nor  is  the  pageant  over  yet.  There  they  lie, 
their  sails  still  hung  out  among  the  leaves,  and  now  they 
are  banners  of  crimson  and  gold  ;  and  behind  them 
rises  blue  Majella,  snow-streaked  and  snow-capped. 

This  is  what  the  little  town  has  to  show  every  evening. 

This  river  mouth  was  the  scene  of  the  death  of  Sforza, 
first  and  greatest  of  the  name.  He  had  come  from  Ortona, 
where  he  had  dreamt  a  vivid  dream  of  struggling  in  deep 
water,  of  calling  on  a  tall  man,  who  looked  like  St. 
Christopher,  to  help  him,  but  in  vain.  His  generals 
would  have  had  him  wait.     But  speed,  he  said,  was  his 


CH.  XIV.]   FROM   SULMONA   TO   THE   SEA    287 

best  policy ;  and  he  sped  on  till  he  reached  the  Pescara 
estuary.  His  opponents,  the  Bracceschi,  had  staked  the 
ford  of  the  river,  and  sunk  boats  to  hinder  as  much  as 
possible  the  passage  of  Sforza's  men.  The  leaders 
crossed  easily  enough,  however,  and  four  hundred  horses 
after  them.  But  by  that  time  the  wind  had  risen,  the 
water  was  rough,  and  the  soldiers  were  nervous.  Besides , 
Braccio's  men  in  the  castle  heard  them  and  came  out. 
While  Francesco  drove  them  back,  the  elder  Sforza 
called  to  his  men  to  come  on,  and  to  encourage  them  he 
went  into  the  water  again.  A  young  page  struggling  in 
the  waves  called  for  help.  Sforza  went  to  his  aid,  and 
his  horse  slipped  and  fell.  Says  the  chronicle,  "  Twice 
his  mailed  hands  were  raised  above  the  water  together, 
as  if  praying  for  help ;  but  his  men  feared  the  depth  of 
the  waters  and  the  enemy's  arrows,  and  the  weight  of 
his  armour  doomed  him."  The  body  of  the  great  Sforza 
was  swept  out  to  the  sea  that  never  gave  it  up. 

The  town,  very  insignificant  to-day,  has  had  a  long 
and  rather  sombre  history.  In  ancient  times,  when  it 
was  Aterno — the  Lombards  first  called  it  Pescara — it 
was  a  place  of  importance  as  on  the  frontier  between  the 
Frentani  and  the  Vestini.  Here  ended  the  Valerian 
Way.  It  always  remained  a  fortress,  one  of  the  most 
important  in  the  Abruzzi.  Its  chief  fortifications  were 
built  by  the  Emperor  Charles  V.  and  the  Duke  of  Alva  ; 
and  in  1566  it  beat  off  a  determined  Turkish  attack. 
The  place  gave  the  title  of  Marquis  to  Ferrante  Francesco 
d'Avalos,  the  husband  of  Vittoria  Colonna.  Till  1867 
it  was  an  important  military  station,  and  its  prison  had 
a  gloomy  name.  During  the  struggle  for  liberty  it  was 
never  long  empty  of  chained  prisoners.  The  prison  is 
still  there,  but  the  galleys  are  gone. 

The  town  is  sunk  low  on  the  sea-level,  and  the  great 
flats  about  it  had  formerly  a  very  bad  reputation,  and 


288  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

soldiers  dreaded  a  long  station  in  its  malarious  air.  But 
the  flats  have  been  well  drained  ;  and  so  secure  does  the 
place  now  feel  in  its  healthfulness  that  it  is  making  some 
efforts  to  develop  itself  into  a  bathing  resort.  There 
are  odd  bits  and  corners  in  the  old  town  that  have  their 
attraction,  and  the  church  of  San  Nicola  is  one.  It  is 
a  simple,  whitewashed  place,  with  quaint  old  wooden 
statues  in  its  niches,  a  church  of  fishers  and  sea-faring 
folk.  We  were  there  on  Sant'  Antonio's  Day ;  and  the 
saint  received  much  honour.  They  had  decked  his 
statue  round  with  splendid  white  lilies ;  and  the  tall 
candles  rose  among  them  only  as  rival  lights.  Whole 
families  came  to  pay  him  their  respects,  as  they  might 
to  a  favourite  young  cousin  on  his  birthday.  Babies 
were  lifted  to  kiss  his  cord  or  his  frock.  Old  women 
stroked  his  hand,  touched  delicately  his  sleeve,  and 
then  kissed  their  own  hand  that  had  touched  his.  It 
was  a  pretty  family  scene,  full  of  simple  sincerity.  One 
good  lady  said  her  prayers  near  him  with  warmth  and 
intensity,  fanning  herself  the  while  with  elegant  gestures. 

Somewhere,  hidden  from  the  stranger's  eye,  is,  doubt- 
less, the  life  of  old-modish  gentility  that  has  been  depicted 
in  the  Novelle  della  Pescara  and  in  Sa7i  Patiialeone.  For 
Pescara  has  a  distinguished  interpreter,  a  son  of  whom 
it  is  inordinately  proud,  Gabriele  D'Annunzio. 

In  1880 — he  was  sixteen  then — from  the  College 
of  Prato  he  sent  to  the  critic  Chiarini  his  first  book  of 
poems,  already  published,  Priino  Vere.  In  the  accom- 
panying letter  he  wrote,  "  I  am  an  Abruzzese  of  Pescara. 
I  love  my  sea  with  all  the  force  of  my  soul ;  and  here  in 
this  valley,  on  the  banks  of  this  muddy  river,  I  suffer 
not  a  little  from  homesickness."  Chiarini  reviewed  the 
book  in  the  Fanfulla  della  Domenica.  It  was  taken 
seriously,  and  the  young  author  became  a  lion.  He 
was  Gaetano  Rapagnetto  then.  The  name  he  afterwards 
adopted,  which  he  took  from  some  family  connections, 


CH.  XIV.]    FROM    SULMONA   TO    THE   SEA   289 

had  been  preceded  by  various  fanciful  ones  ;  among  them 
was  Floro  Bruzio. 

The  "  Abruzzian  flower "  bore  other  precocious 
blossoms  ;  and  in  1882,  when  he  went  to  Rome,  he  was 
received  with  wild  enthusiasm.  After  three  years  of 
fame,  of  spoiling,  of  luxury,  and  some  scandal,  he  wrote 
to  a  friend  in  a  fit  of  weariness,  "  Oh,  if  but  the  snow 
could  fall  here  from  Majella  and  from  Monte  Corno !  I 
should  invoke  it  with  the  passion  of  a  lover  !  "  And  he 
came  back  to  recuperate  in  body  and  mind.  From  1885 
to  1900  he  was  living  mostly  in  the  Abruzzi,  among  the 
mountains,  and  with  his  friend  Michetti  by  the  sea.  To 
this  time  belong  //  Piacere,  II  Trionfo  della  Morte, 
Le  Vergine  delle  Roccie,  the  Odi  Navali,  two  volumes 
of  Laiidi^  and  many  tales.  And,  moreover,  these  years, 
in  which  he  gained  a  fresh  impression  of  his  home 
province,  have  given  much  matter  and  much  character 
to  his  later  work.  In  spite  of  all  that  is  exotic  in  him 
there  is  no  question  of  his  love  for  his  native  soil.  ''Alia 
Terra  d'Abriizzi,  alia  mia  inadre,  alle  mie  sorelle,  al  into 
fratello  estcle,  al  inio  padre  sepolito,  a  tiitti  i  miei  inorti, 
a  tiitta  la  mia  genie,  fra  la  montagna  e  il  mare,  qiiesto 
canto  dell'  antico  sangue  consacro."  So  runs  the  dedication 
of  La  Figlia  di  Jorio. 

Do  not  look  to  him  as  a  topographical  guide  through 
the  province,  though  Pescara  and  San  Vito  and  Guardia- 
grele  and  other  places  serve  him  as  backgrounds.  Guide- 
book details  are  not  to  be  gathered  from  him.  But  the 
general  character  of  his  race  and  country  he  has  under- 
stood, intellectually  and  sensuously.  He  has  maladies 
of  the  spirit  which  his  people  have  not ;  but  the  Abruzzesi 
are  not  mere  simple  folk  of  the  hills.  They  are  a  very 
old  race,  and  by  no  means  simple.  They  have  long  and 
unquiet  memories  ;  and  out  of  the  past  there  are  survivals 
and  dreams  that  to-day  does  not  readily  understand. 
And  D'Annunzio  has  done  his  best  to  shatter  the  frequent 

U 


290  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

impression  of  the  passing  traveller  that  they  are  an 
unemotional  race.  The  fire  is  always  there  underneath, 
and  he  has  shown  it  alight  and  of  explosive  force.  He 
has  interpreted  their  religious  spirit  in  its  naked  simplicity, 
in  its  passion  of  abjectness  before  the  divine,  and  in  its 
traditional  and  pagan  exaltation,  as  in  his  magnificent 
Figlia  di  Jorio,  that  "  song  of  the  ancient  blood."  The 
life  of  the  fisher  on  the  sea  and  the  reaper  in  the  sunny 
fields  he  has  set  to  melodious  verse.  He  has  sung  of  the 
mystic  Majella  that  rises  behind  his  native  shores.  The 
heart  of  his  people  he  has  not  interpreted — or  I  do  not 
think  so.  However  close  he  watches,  he  watches  ever 
from  the  outside.  But  when  he  has  sung  of  his  sea,  he 
has  revealed  the  very  heart  of  it. 

"  A'l  mare,  a'l  mare,  Ospite,  a'l  mio  libero 
tristo,  fragrante  verde  Adriatico, 
A'l  mar'  de'  poeti,  a'l  presente 
dio  che  mi  tempra  nervi  e  canzoni." 


My  gentleman  traveller,  Mr.  Keppel  Craven,  wrote 
in  1823,  "  My  departure  from  Pescara  was  attended  with 
indescribable  feelings  of  relief  and  satisfaction."  But  he 
never  watched  the  daily  pageant  from  the  roof  of  the 

Villa  de  R .     Had  we  not  done  so,  we  might  have 

echoed  him.  It  was  Castellamare  that  we  turned  our 
backs  on  with  readiness.  But  the  stranger  seeking  a 
haven  on  the  coast  of  the  Abruzzi,  should  direct  his  steps 
as  soon  as  possible  to  Francavilla.  From  Pescara 
you  see  its  spires  towering  aloft  four  miles  to  the 
south,  inward  somewhat  from  the  bulging  headland 
beyond,  where  stands  Ortona.  By  crossing  some 
shallow  streams  you  can  reach  it  along  the  flats  near 
the  shore.  The  high-road  lies  parallel  with  the  railway 
(to  Brindisi),  and  is  not  very  attractive,  save  at  the 
point   where    it    runs   through   a   beautiful    little  pineta 


CH.  XIV.]    FROM    SULMONA   TO   THE   SEA    291 

of  dark,  wind-blown  stone  pines,  set  among  the  low  sand- 
hills. 

Francavilla  is  two — the  old  town,  piled  high  on  its 
rock  above  the  sea,  compact,  and,  of  necessity,  isolated  ; 
and  the  new  one,  a  narrow  strip  of  bathing-station 
fringing  the  beach.  As  yet  they  do  not  interfere  with 
each  other  at  all,  but  tend  to  each  other's  profit ;  and 
their  contrast  is  amusing.  Francavilla,  the  town  of  the 
Franks,  so  called  because  it  has  been  again  and  again  in 
the  possession  of  the  French,  is  a  very  ancient  place, 
in  a  situation  of  wonderful  beauty.  The  Adriatic  lies 
at  its  feet ;  low  fertile  hills  stretch  on  each  side  ;  and 
the  southern  and  eastern  slopes  are  almost  of  tropical 
luxuriance.  Behind  it  the  ground  falls  gradually  to 
the  plain  of  the  Pescara,  dotted  with  peaks  and  points 
on  which  are  jauntily  poised  the  little  gleaming  hamlets. 
Back  of  these  rise  the  great  blue  ranges.  The  town 
runs  sheer  up,  with  here  and  there  a  flat  space  for 
outlook,  east  or  west,  north  or  south,  whence  the  eye  can 
sweep  the  land  and  sea  from  the  Gran  Sasso  down  to 
the  Punta  della  Penna.  Santa  Liberata's  rosy  minaret 
shoots  up  at  the  north  end,  and  the  minaret  and  dome 
of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  to  the  south.  The  old  convent 
of  the  latter,  lying  in  its  gardens  and  vineyards  sloping 
to  the  sea,  has  been  for  years  the  home  of  the  painter 
Michetti.  (A  dependency  lies  below  on  the  shore,  which 
you  may  mistake  for  a  powder  magazine,  or  a  Turkish 
fort,  or  a  giant  camera  in  stone,  with  lenses  set  in 
capriciously  here  and  there — for  anything,  in  fact,  save 
what  it  is,  a  painter's  studio.)  Nearly  all  the  fine  detail 
and  ornament  that  ever  existed  in  the  streets  of  the 
town  have  gone  ;  but  the  plan  is  still  strictly  mediseval, 
a  labyrinth  of  narrow,  climbing  wa}-s,  running  up  into 
sloping  piazzas,  a  place  of  surprising  vistas,  and  eager 
for  vistas,  seemingly,  so  many  are  the  loggias  pitched 
aloft  for  views  of  the  sea   in  front   or   the    mountains 


292  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ii. 

behind.  Most  of  its  twelve  old  towers  exist  in  part, 
though  only  a  few  now  overtop  the  walls.  One  ancient 
house  in  the  principal  street  has  kept  its  Gothic  windows  ; 
and  the  women  sitting  on  the  steps  opposite  call  it  the 
"palazzo,"  and,  perhaps  satirically,  advise  us  to  buy  it. 
Once  it  was  the  house  of  a  queen,  they  say.  What 
queen  ?  Oh,  a  queen  that  lived  long,  long  ago.  Is  this 
some  remembrance  of  Margaret  of  Austria,  who  lived 
beyond  there  at  Ortona,  who  rode  about  the  country  in 
male  attire,  and  may  have  had  a  residence  here  ?  Or 
was  it  the  birthplace  of  that  Francavilla  lady  with  the 
romantic  history,  of  her  who  was  stolen  away  and 
became  Sultana .-' 

During  the  Saracen  invasion  under  the  renegade 
Pialy  Bassa,  there  was  a  series  of  determined  attacks  on 
the  coast  here,  and  Francavilla  suffered  most  of  all.  The 
inhabitants,  seized  with  panic,  fled  for  their  lives.  They 
had  no  treasure  like  that  of  the  Ortonesi,  the  body  of 
the  Apostle  Thomas  ;  but  they  had  their  holy  San  Franco, 
and  the  heathens  scattered  his  bones,  leaving  only  a  fore- 
arm, and  took  away  his  silver  chdsse  to  the  ships  ;  every- 
thing else,  too,  they  could  lay  their  hands  on.  Several 
men  and  women,  who  had  been  unable  to  escape,  were 
seized  as  well.  There  is  a  legend  that  a  very  beautiful 
girl,  one  Domenica  Catena,  was  offered  to  the  Sultan, 
as  among  the  best  things  in  the  booty.  The  lovely 
Francavillese  was  taken  to  his  harem,  where  she  became 
the  prime  favourite,  gained  an  ascendancy  over  the  mind 
of  the  Sultan,  and  bore  him  a  son,  who  was  afterwards 
Selim  II.  After  twenty-two  years  she  persuaded  her 
lord  to  let  her  go  back  to  Italy ;  and,  laden  with  rich 
gifts,  she  set  sail  for  her  native  land.  It  is  said  that  her 
mother  and  her  brothers  left  Francavilla  and  joined  her 
in  Rome,  but  only  to  follow  her  example  and  enter  the 
cloister.  The  rest  of  her  life  she  spent  in  austerit)'  and 
exemplary  devotion. 


CH.  XIV.]    FROM   SULMONA  TO   THE   SEA   293 

The  paths  are  entrancing  that  wind  around  the  upper 
town,  in  and  out  of  the  hills.  Over  the  olives  the  sea 
is  of  an  ineffable  blue.  The  wild  Abruzzi  is  far  away, 
behind  Majella  to  the  west,  and  you  move  in  a  maze  of 
beauty,  the  path  bordered  with  love-in-a-mist,  with  hedges 
of  high  purple  thistles  and  banks  of  giant  scabious. 
Silver  and  gold  are  the  olives  and  the  corn  ;  and  the  little 
white  houses  gleam  like  precious  marble  in  the  sun.  A 
strong  note  is  struck  here  and  there  by  a  group  of  black 
cypresses  or  a  flame-coloured  oleander ;  and  seaward  the 
glimpses  of  turquoise  rouse  and  exhilarate  like  a  song. 
It  is  the  South.  Out  of  the  wild  Abruzzi  to  summer  by 
a  southern  sea ! 

Francavilla-al-Mare — that  is,  the  little  mushroom 
bathing-station — is  beginning  to  take  itself  seriously.  At 
present  it  is  a  toy  place,  and  at  the  end  of  the  season 
you  expect  to  see  it  packed  up  neatly  and  put  away  in 
its  box  for  the  winter.  To-morrow  some  of  the  charm 
may  be  gone  from  this  strip  of  sun-baked  beach  bound- 
ing a  tideless  sea.  Just  before  the  season  opens,  the  sea 
and  shore  swarm  with  water-babies,  amphibious,  golden- 
brown-skinned  creatures  of  infinite  agility  and  grace, 
who  swim  and  dabble  in  the  green  water,  and  race  and 
frisk  and  roll  in  the  sand  like  pigmy  gods.  Trans- 
formed by  ragged  garments  into  the  urchins  of  the  high 
town,  they  are  unrecognizable.  The  season  banishes 
them  a  little  to  the  north  and  south  ;  and  then  the  main 
promenade  becomes  a  haunt  of  white  arabs,  who  stalk 
in  dignified  anonymity  against  the  sky,  or  lounge  by  the 
red-and-yellow  wooden  bathing-booths,  or  crowd  about 
the  fishing-boats,  with  their  sails  of  gorgeous  hue,  that 
moor  right  up  to  the  sandy  shore  ;  for  Francavilla  has 
no  harbour.  Such  is  their  land  life.  For  their  water  life, 
they  may  make  it  out  of  long  days,  if  they  will,  for  even 
at  dawn  the  water  has  no  chill. 


294  IN   THE   ABRUZZI  [pt.  ti. 

To  every  place  its  hour.  And  here  on  the  edge  of 
this  wide,  soft-heaving,  Eastern  sea  there  is  an  hour 
that  calls  even  the  air-drugged  out  of  far-away  fields 
of  sleep,  by  the  poignant  force  of  its  beauty  and  ecstasy ; 
the  hour  when  the  morning  star  sings  the  new  day  and 
the  sea  to  fresh  embrace.  Dawn  here  has  its  festivals.  We 
saw  one,  not  planned  by  a  conscious  poet,  but  a  survival 
out  of  the  antique  world  when  men  sang  praises  to  the 
god  of  day  as  the  best  of  all  the  gods.  It  was  St. 
John's  morning ;  and  the  rose  of  the  dawn  was  opening 
when  we  neared  the  mouth  of  the  little  Drontolo,  which 
trickles  through  the  sands  to  the  south  of  Francavilla. 
There  are  no  houses  very  near  the  shore  at  this  point ; 
but  a  company  of  people  were  gathered,  more  than  a 
dozen  of  them,  peasants  from  some  seaboard  farm, 
perhaps  all  of  one  family. 

The  youths  went  out  to  the  sea  in  a  boat,  and  dived 
from  it,  and  swam  to  and  fro  in  the  fresh  water.  The 
rest  dabbled  with  the  waves  on  the  shore,  and  stood 
looking  out  to  the  horizon.  As  the  red  sun  started  up 
into  sight  there  was  a  low  cry,  and  then  singing ;  and 
from  the  water  here  and  there,  the  lifting  of  a  hand  and 
arm.  All  hail !  We  were  not  near  enough  to  hear  the 
name  of  the  god  they  invoked  ;  and  perhaps  they  called 
him  Phcebus  Apollo,  and  perhaps  San  Giovanni.  Then 
on  the  shore  they  made  a  feast.  Still  looking  seaward 
they  ate  their  bread  and  fruit  and  drank  their  wine, 
and  gave  pledges,  and  spoke  of  next  St.  John's  morning  ; 
and  the  old  ones  told  of  the  many  they  remembered  in 
the  past.  The  elders  were  serenely  gay,  while  the 
children  strayed  and  picked  up  the  treasures  of  the 
sea.  A  long,  quiet  sunning  on  the  golden  beach ; 
then  a  slow  procession  homeward,  the  old  folks  and 
the  little  ones,  the  youths  and  the  maidens.  They 
carry  back  the  tune  of  the  festa  into  the  fields  of 
their  labour.     "Viva  San  Giovanni!     San  Giovanni,  be 


CH.  XIV.]   FROM   SULMONA  TO   THE   SEA   295 

propitious ! "  They  vanish  ;  and  the  sounds  of  their 
stornelll  come  down  to  us  from  the  vineyards.  We 
Hnger  for  a  space.  But  our  way  lies  inland.  We  turn 
our  backs  on  the  sea,  and  face  westward  and  upwards 
to  the  mountains. 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


Chap.  I.,  p.  5. — To  these  writers  of  travel-books  dealing  with  the 
Abruzzi  may  be  added  Gregorovius,  who  wrote  of  the 
country,  in  general  terms,  in  his  Wandcrjahtr,  vol.  4,  and 
Hare,  Cities  of  S.  Italy.  Native  guide-books  hardly 
exist,  though  Abbate'S  Giiida  al  Gran  Sasso  is  indispen- 
sable to  climbers. 
P.  24. — Signor  Nitti  states  the  case  for  the  South  in  his 
Nord  e  Sjid,  1900. 

Chap.  II,,  pp.  26  d  seq. — In  addition  to  the  usual  authorities  on 
Roman  history,  Cramer's  Description  of  Ancient  Italy, 
1826,  will  be  found  useful  for  the  early  history  of  the 
province.  The  special  historian  of  the  Abruzzi  is 
Antinori,  Raccolta  di  Memorie  isto7-icJie  delle  tre 
provincie  degli  Abruzzi,  1781-83.  For  the  history  of  the 
Kingdom  of  Naples  there  are  Giannone  and  Colletta, 
likewise  the  volumes  of  the  Societa  Napoletana  di  Storia 
Patria. 
P.  38. — Very  little  of  the  material  for  the  history  of  the  Abruzzi 
in  the  Risorgimento  is  available  for  English  readers  ;  but 
the  following  books  may  be  mentioned :  Castagna,  La 
Sollevazione  d'Abruzzo  neW  anno  1814  (1884);  General 
Pepe's  Memoirs,  1846;  and  Constantini,  Azione  e 
Reazione,  1902.  Details  concerning  the  censorship  are 
to  be  found  in  Marc-Monnier'S  U Italic^  est-clle  la  terre 
des  marts  ?  1 860. 

Chap.  III. — For  brigandage,  see  Marc-Monnier,  Histoire  du 
Brigandage  dans  V Italic  Mdridionale,  1862;  also  the 
anonymous  Notice  Historiqne  sjir  Charles-Antoine,  Comte 
Manhcs.  I  have  found  Co^'i>i:K'^'T\'^\^'S>  Azione  c Reazione 
of  special  service. 

296 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL    NOTES  297 

Chap.  IV.,  pp.74 ^/i-^^. — See  Notes  to  Chap.  XI. for  Pope  Celestine 
and  Rienzi.  San  Bernardino's  wanderings  in  the  province 
are  described  in  his  Hfe  by  Thureau-Dangin,  also  his 
relations  with  St.  John  of  Capestrano.  For  the  latter 
consult  the  A.SS.  and  Wadding.  All  my  information 
about  Don  Oreste  comes  from  De  Nino's  //  Messia  delP 
Abruzso^  1890. 
P.  86. — Representations.  See  T.  Bruni,  Feste  Religiose  nella 
provificia  di  Chieti,  1907. 

Chap.  V. — The  principal  authorities  for  the  folk-lore  of  the  Abruzzi 
are  G.  Finaimore,  Tradizioni Popolari Abrnzzcsi,^)^^^^-, 
1882-86,  and  A.  De  Nino,  Usie  Costumi  Abnizzesi,  6  vols., 
1879-97. 

Chap.  VI. — The  various  arts  and  crafts  of  the  province  have  been 
described  exhaustively  by  V.  Bindi,  Momimenti  storici 
ed  artistici  degli  Abruzzi,  2  vols.,  1889.  See  also  Schulz, 
Kiinst  des  Mittelalters  in  Unteritalien,  and  Perkins, 
Italian  Sculptors,  1868. 

Chap.  VII. — For  folk-songs,  see  Finamore,  Melodic  popolari 
Abruzzesi J  E.  LEVI,  Fiorita  di  Canti  Tradizionali,  1895  ; 
and  Canti  popolari  delle  Provincie  Meridionali.  Ed. 
Casetti  and  Imbriani. 

Chap.  VI 1 1. — There   is   a  good    guide   to   Tagliacozzo   and   the 
neighbourhood  by  G.  Gattinara. 
Pp.    167    et    seq. — For    Conradin,    consult    Rauimer'S    and 
Schirrmacher's  works  on  the  Hohenstaufen. 

Chap.  IX. — The  historians  of  the  Marsica  are  Febonio  (Phebonius 
Mutius),  Historice  Marsortcni,   1678,  and   Corsignani, 
Reggia  Marsica,  1738. 
Pp.   187  ct  seq. — For  Albe,  see  C.  Promis,  Lc  Antichita  di 
Alba  Fucense J  and  for  S.  Maria  in  Valle,  Bindi,  op.  cit. 

Chap.  XL,  p.  224. — For  Pope  Celestine,  consult  Celestino  V.  ed  il 

VI.  centenario  delta  sua  incoronazione.     Aquila,  1894. 
P.  228. — Papencordt,  Cola  di  Rienzo  e  il  suo  tempo  (Ital. 

transl.,  1844),  tells  of  the  tribune's  sojourn  in  the  Abruzzi. 
P.  231. — For  the  legends  of  Ovid,  see  De  Nino  and  Finamore, 

op.   cit.;    also   De   Nino,   Ovidio   nella   Trad.  Pop.   di 

Stcbnona,  1886. 


298  BIBLIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 

Chap.   XII. — There   is   a   small   guide   to   the   whole  valley  by 

SCACCHI. 

Chap.  XIII. — G.  Liberatore'S  Ragionamcnto  sul  Piano  Cinque 
7iiglia  deals  also,  cursorily,  with  the  surrounding  district. 

Chap.  XIV.— For  S.  Clemente  di  Casauria,  see  Bindi,  op.  cit., 
and  SCHULZ,  op.  cit.;  also  JaCKSON'S  Shores  of  the 
Adriatic,  1906. 


INDEX 


Abdate,  E.,  296 

Abruzzesi,  characteristics  of  the,  5, 

6,  7,  8,  46,  47,  48,  163,  186,  289, 
290 

Abruzzi,  tlie  :  agriculture,  6,  18, 
164,  165,  175;  art,  4,  116-121  ; 
Church  in,  37  ;  climate,  4,  24  ; 
education,  24  ;  frontiers,  29,  39, 
50,  53,  64,  161  ;  as  health  resort, 

7,  9  ;  history  of,  26-43  »  industry, 
prospects  of,  6,  7,  11  ;  as  the  La 
Vendee  of  New  Italy,  38,  43  ; 
picturesqueness,  4  ;  poverty,  24  ; 
railways,  2,  267  ;  religion,  6, 
70-94  ;  in  the  Risorgiviento,  38- 
43.  63-65,  68,  69  ;  rivers,  10 ; 
roads,  2 ;  secret  societies,  60 ; 
shepherds,  6,  n-17  ;  situation 
and  topography,  i,  2,  10 ;  as 
tourist  ground,  3  ;  travellers  in, 
5  ;  women,  9,  20-22 

Abruzzo,  origin  of  name,  27 
Abruzzo,  Citeriore,  10 
Abruzzo,  Ulteriore  Primo,  10 
Abruzzo,  Ulteriore  Secondo,  10 
Acclozamora,  Bertrando,  262 
Acclozamora,    Leonello,    200,    201, 

202 
Acquaviva,  Count,  51 
Acta  Sa?ictoru>n,  256,  297 
Adriatic,  2,  10,   12,  18,  28,  30,  87, 

103,  104,  122,  123,  143,  278,  282, 

283,  284,  285,  290,  291,  293,294, 

295 
/Eneas,  217 
/Eneas  Sylvius,  79 
yEneid,  181 
/Equi,  the,  27,  29,  188 
/Equiculi,  the,  29,  35 
^sernia.     See  Isernia 
Agrippina,  Empress,   176,  177,   178 


Alardo,     See  De  Valery,  Erard 
Albe,      also     Alba      Fucensis      or 

Fucentia,   29,    32,  33,  116,   144, 

164,  169,  170,  173,  177,  185,  186, 

187-193 
Aldobrandini,  51,  52 
Aleardi,  19,  172 
Alento,  98 

Alexander  VII.,  Pope,  130 
Alexander  of  Macedonia,  189 
Alfedena,  130 
Alfonso  of  Aragon,  King,    12,  178, 

265 
Alva,  Duke  of,  22,  287 
America,  6,  19,  20,  22,  23,  24,  129, 

193,  209 
Americani,  20,  23,  252 
Amiterno,  35 
Ancona,  83 
Andrea  of  San  Spirito,  Brother,  75, 

229 
Andrea  dell' Aquila,  117,  118 
Andrea  di  Sulmona,  218 
Angelo  of  San  Spirito,  Brother,  75, 

229,  230 
Angevins,  37,  1S9,  202 
Angiolina,  maga,  255 
Angitia,  also  Angizia,  96,  181,  183, 

232,  262 
Annibaldi,  the,   168 
Antinori,  A.  L.,  170 
Antioch,  73 

Antonelli,  bandit,  54,  55 
Antonelli,  Cardinal,  64 
Antrodoco,  67,  78 
Antrosano,  164,  169 
Anversa,  117,  240,  254,  260-264 
Apennines,  3,  10,  12,  27,  194,  282 
Apollo,  180  ;  temple  of,  98,  219 
Aprutium,  27 
Apulia,  12,  13,  17,  47,  227 


299 


300 


INDEX 


Apulian  shepherds,   12,  13 

Aquila,   2,    10,   27,   36,   39,  40,  62, 

68,  75.  76,  78,  79.  102,  116,  117, 

"8,    155,    157,    170,    202,   203, 

208,  209,  212,  216,  217,  227,  228, 

273 
Aquila,  province  of  (Ulteriore  II.), 

67 
Ara  Cceli,  79 

Aragonese  dynasty,  the,  37,  189,  202 
Archippe,  180 
Archippus,  181 
Architecture,    I16-118,    221,    278- 

282 
Arezzo,  Cardinal,  203 
Ariosto,  51,  127,  130 
Arlotti,  Giovanni,  168 
Art,  4,  I16-121,   218,  269,  270 
Ascanio  de'  Mari,  162-164 
Ascolani,  32 

Ascoli  Piceno,  27,  31,  34,  26S 
Asia  Minor,  32 
Aspromonte,  65 
Assisi,  92,  93,  253 
Astura,  172 
Aterno,  2S7 
Aterno,  River,   10,   169,  215,  239, 

278 
Atria,  29,  32 
Atria  Veneta,  30 
Atri  Piceno,  117 
Augustus,  177,  185 
Aurillac,  55,  57 
Australia,  23 
Austrians,  36,  39,  40 
Avezzano,  62,   99,    156,    157,    159, 

160,  175,  176,  179,  184-187,  193, 

198,  199 

Bagnidura,  230 
Barbato,  Marco,  221 
Barbato,  goldsmith,  21S 
Barberini,  the,  149,  150 
Bari,  67,  92,  93 
Barletta,  52 
Barrea,  16,  67,  104 
Basilicata,  the,  158 
Basso-Tomeo,  54,  55 
Batistello,  52 
Beaulieu,  164 
Belgrade,  So 
Belprati,  the,  260,  261 
Benedict  XIII.,  Pope,  80 


Benevento,  168,  234 

Berardi,  Count,  53 

Berardus,  Count,  149,  195 

Berenson,  B.,  4 

Bergia,  Chiaffredo,  66,  67,  68 

Bindi,  V.,  116,  119,  297,  298 

Bisaccio,  129 

Bisignano,  183 

Bituitus,  King,  189 

Bomba.    See  Ferdinand  II.,  of  Two 

Sicilies 
Bonaparte,  Joseph,  40,  54 
Boniface  VIII.,  Pope,  74,  227,  228 
Borgia,  Caesar,  128 
Borjes,  Jose,  65,  158-160 
Bourbon  dynasty,  the,  24,  37,  38, 

40,  41,  82,    133,    155,    156,    158, 

159,  277 
Bourbons,  as  patrons  of  brigands, 

47.  54,  57,  58,  6j,  64 
Bovadilla,  the,  202,  203 
Bovianum,  34 
Bracceschi,  the,  287 
Braccio  da  Montone,  46,  218,  265 
Brienne,  Jean  de,  218 
Brigandage,  43,  44-69,  161,  209 
Brigands,  40,  132,  133,  273 
Brindisi,  189,  236,  290 
Bruni,  Dr.,  16 
Bruni,  T.,  86,  87 
Brussels,  43 
Bucchianico,  98 
Byron,  Lord,  38,  140 

C^SAR  Augustus,  234 

Caesar,   C,   Julius,    176,  178,    189, 

217 
Cffisar,  L.  Julius,  32,  33 
Calabria,  56,  158,  169,  200 
Calabria,  Duke  of,  87 
Calabrians,  46,  57 
Calaturo,  57 
Calderai,  the,  132 
Caldora,  the,  46,  218,  265,  266 
Caldora,  Jacopo,  265 
Calvin,  42 
Cammorra,  60,  68 
Campagna,  the,  I,  13,  19,   50,  172 
Campania,  33 
Campi  Palenlini,  122,  144,  166,  167, 

176 
Campobasso,     province     of.        See 

Molise 


INDEX 


^01 


Campo  di  Giove,  45,  267 

Candia,  52 

Cannone,  65 

Cantelmi,    the,   46,    218,   266,  273, 

278 
Cantelmi,  Jacopo,  i6g,  170 
Canzano  Peligno,  102,  219 
Capestrano,  67,  75 
Capestrano,  John  of.     See  S,  John 

ofC. 
Capistrello,  176,  179 
Capitanata,  14,  50 
Caponeschi,  Count  Lalli,  118 
Caponeschi,  Maria,  iiS 
Cappadocia,  165,  166 
Cappelle-Magliano,    152,   156,   159, 

170,  193 
Cappelle-Monte    Silvano,     Si,     82, 

83.  85 
Cappucini,  the,  83 
Capua,  156 

Carabinieri,  the,  25,  44,  66,  67,  68 
Caramanico,  63,  64 
Carbonari,    the,    38,    39,    40,    132, 

133 

Carbone,  53 

Carducci,  G.,  263 

Carlo  di  Durazzo,  218 

Caroline,  Queen,  41 

Carsioli,  29,  32,  144,  147 

Carsoli,  29,  144,  156,  169 

Casalbordino,  86 

Casauria,    San    Clemente   di,    117, 

278-282 
Casetti,  A.,  297 
Castagna,  N.,  296 
Castel  di  Sangro,  2,  6t„   69,    266, 

267,  275,  276,  277 
Castellamare   Adriatico,  9,  84,  283, 

284,  285,  290 
Castelli,  120 
Castel  Saracinesco,  172 
Castrovalve,  240,  259,  260 
Catalonia,  158 
Catanzano,  103 
Catanzaro,  58 
Catena,  Domenica,  292 
Cato,  L.  Portias,  34 
Catullus,  232 
Caudine  Forks,  the,  28 
Cavour,  82, 
Celano,   36,   71,  72,    149,  175,  199- 

208,  262 


Celano,  Giovanna  di,  201,  202 
Celano,  Rugerotto  di,  201,  202 
Celano,    B.     Thomas  of,     71,     72, 

148,  149,  205 
Celano,  Lake  of.     See  Fucino 
Celestine,    Pope.       See    S.     Peter 

Celestine 
Celestine  Order,  226 
Cellini,  Benvenuto,   162,  163 
Censorship  in  Abruzzi,  42,  43 
Ceres,  90 
Cese,  164,  174 
Cesenatico,  50 
Charlemagne,  149,  277 
Charles    IV.,    Emperor,    75,    229, 

230 
Charles  V.,  Emperor,  273,  287 
Charles  of  Anjou,  36,  37,  117,  152, 
168-173,  1S8,  194,212,218,227, 
266 
Charles  of  Bourbon,  12 
Charles  VIII.   of  France,   150 
Charles  II.  of  England,  266 
Charms,  73,  loi 
Chiarini,  G.,  288 

Chieti,  10,  39,  41,  43,  49,  54,  55, 

57,  66,  67,  82,  84,  98,   116,  117, 

118,  120,  121,  140,  141,  144,  156, 

282,  283 

Chieti,  province  of  (Ab.  Citeriore), 

54,  S6 
Chronico7i  Casauriejise,  282 

Churches,  118,  119,  204 

Ciarallo,  Don  P.,  183 

Cicolano,  29,  35 

Ciprio,  236 

Circe,  96,  181 

Cistercians,  173 

Cittaducale,  67,  78 

Civita  di  Penna,  61 

Civita  di  Roveto,  62 

Civitella  del  Tronto,  21,  62 

Claudian  Emissary,  176 

Claudius,  Emperor,  176,  177,  178 

Clement  IV.,  Pope,    168,  171 

Clement  VI.,  229,  230 

Clement  VIII.,  51 

Chternia,  177,  200 

CocuUo,  91,   183,  256 

Colafello,  64 

Colamarino,  67 

CoUemaggio,    Badia   of,    117,   227, 
22S 


302 


INDEX 


Colletta,  P.,  55,  296 

Colonna,  the,  46,  149,  150,  154,  167, 

180,  185,  188,  201,  218 
Colonna,  Marc  Antonio,  150,  185 
Colonna,  Vittoria,  287 
Conca,  Prince  of,  129 
Conrad  of  Swabia,  16S 
Conradin,  36,  37,    152,    164,    16S- 

172,  194,  212,  218 
Constantini,  B.,  296 
Constantinople,  73,  80 
Corfinium,    32,    34,    35,    143,    144, 

217,219,  235,  236,  278 
Corsignani,  P.  A.,  173,  297 
Cosenza,  Enrico  da,  169,  170 
Costume,  222,  223,  243,  244 
Courier,  Paul-Louis,  52,  53 
Cramer,  J.  A.,  296 
Craven,  Hon.  Keppel,  5,   14,    186, 

191,  280,  290 
Cristina,  Apostoless,  85 
Crivelli,  C,  268 

Crocco,  Donatello,  159,  160,  161 
Croce  di  Tola,  67,  69 
Cybele,  85,  180,  181 
Cyril  of  Alexandria,  229 

Da  Monte,  50 

D'Annunzio,     Gabriele,     86,    121, 

141,    142,    183,   262,    276,    2S0- 

282,  288-290 
Dante,  74,  135,  138,  140,  170 
De  Amicis,  Oresle,  81-S5 
De  Amicis,  Rosalia,  82 
De    Angelerii,    P.       See   S.    Peter 

Celestine 
De  Cesari,  52 
Delfico,  Melchiorc,  39 
Del  Fusco,  the,  262 
Del  Guzzo,  67,  69 
Delia  Robbia,  the,  164 
Delle  Guardia,  the,  131 
Demons,  96-99,  139 
De  Nino,  A.,  17,  85,  262,  263,  297 
De  Valery,  Erard,  170 
Diana  Trivia,  99,  116 
Di  Capua,  the,  261,  262 
Dies  IrcE,  72 
Di  Grue,  the,  120 
Di  Meo,  218 
Diodorus  Siculus,  189 
Di  Salle,  Roberto,  226 
Dolcino,  Era,  84 


Donatello,  117 
Drusus,  31 
Dumas,  Alex.,  180 
Duncan  of  Scotland,  266 


Earthquakes,  73,  74,  nS,  200, 

219 
Elba,  157 
Embroidery,    120 
Etruria,  31,  34,  182 
Etruscans,  28 
Eustace,  J.  C,  5 
Evocation  of  the  Dead,  104,  105 
Exiles,  Abruzzesi,  135,  136 


Febonio,  Muzio,  1S2,   185,    195, 

297 
Feltro,  51 

Ferdinand  the  Catholic,  37 
Ferdinand  II.  of  Aragon,  87 
Ferdinand  I.  of  Two   Sicilies,  13, 

4i>  134 
Ferdinand  II.  of  Two  Sicilies,  40, 
^  42,  57,  82 
Ferrara,  51,  260 
Festivals,  religious,  S6-91 
Finamore,    G.,    96,    97,    113,    122, 

232,  297 
Fiorentini,  Remigio,  222 
Flogy,  General,  81 
Florence,  50,  135 
Foce  di  Caruso,  72 
Foce  del  Sinello,  87 
Foggia,  12,  13,  61,  169,  246,  252 
Foligno,  256 

Folk-legends,  92,  105-115,  232-235 
Folk-songs,  77,  122-127 
Fontecchio,  67 
Foscolo,  Ugo,  81 
Fossasecca,  54,  55 
Fra  Diavolo,  52 

Francavilla,  86,  88,  283,  290-295 
Francis  II.,  42,    62,   63,  64,   156, 

160 
Franciscans,  41,  52,  71,  76,  Si 
Fran9ois  I.,  163 
Frangipani,  G.,  172 
Franks,  36 

Fraticelli,  80,  228,  230 
Frattura,  103,  255 
Frederic  of  Aragon,  37,  128 


INDEX 


303 


Frederic  II.,  Emperor,  36,  149, 
168,  178,  200,  212,  218,  248 

Frederic  Duke  of  Austria,  168, 
170,  171,  172 

French  in  the  Abruzzi,  21,  22,  36, 

37,  38,  52,  53.  55,  58,  132,   155, 
234,  291 

French  Revolution,  38,  40,  130 

Frentani,  the,  27,  28,  31,  2S7 

Frere,  John  Hookham,  134 

Fucine  territory,  34,62,  149,  175 

Fucino,   Lake,    10,    l8,   27,  29,  34, 

71,  164,   175-180,   181,  182,  185, 

18S,  192,  199,  200,  232 
Fumone,  228 

Gaeta,  62,  156,  158 

Gaetani,    Cardinal.     See    Boniface 

VIII. 
Gallinaro,  253 
Gallucci,  Niccolo,  119 
Garfagnana,  the,  51 
Garibaldi,  65,  156 
Garibaldians,  47,  61,  65 
Gattinara,  G.,  297 
Geofgics,  6 

Gesta  Romanorum,  255 
Ghibellines,  168,  169,  171 
Giacomo  da  Sulmona,  118 
Giannone,  P.,  296 
Gilberto,  Anti-Pope,  189 
Gioberti,  V.,  40 
Giorgi,  G.,  62,  65,  155-158 
Giovanna,  Queen,  273 
Giovanna  da  Celano,  201,  202 
Gissi,  62,  67 
Gizio,   River,   215,  216,  219,    239, 

266,  273,  278 
Goldsmiths,  119,  120,  162,  2i8 
Goriano  Siculi,  144 
Goths,  36,  149,  188 
Gracchus,  Caius,  31 
Grand  Companies,  the,  46 
Gran  Sasso,  3,    10,   27,    117,    194, 

212,  214,  216,  282,  284,  291 
Greece,  32,  182 
Greeks,  28 
Gregorovius,  F.,  296 
Gregory  IX.,  71,  72 
Gregory  X.,  226 
Guardiagrele,  1 19,  289 
Guelfs,  200 
Guerino,  Prete,  50 


Guilia-Nova,  52 
Guise,  Duke  of,  21 


Hadrian,  Emperor,  29 

Hadrian  III.,  Pope,  279 

Hannibal,  30,  188,  217 

Hare,  A.  J.,  296 

Heliogabalus,  181 

Henri  II.,  164 

Hermitages  and    hermits,    93,    94, 

99.  153.  154,  256-258 
Hernican  Mis.,  10 
Herdides,  222 
Hoare,  Sir  R.  C,  5 
Hohenstaufen,  the,  297 
Holy  Ghost,  heresy  of,  74,  82,  83, 

85,  230 
Hugo,  Victor,  140,  160 
Hunyadi,  Janos,  80 
Hussites,  80 


II Piacere,  289 

//  Trionfo    della    Morte,    86,   280, 

289 
Imbriani,  V.,  297 
Imele,  River,  166,  167 
Improvisatori,  128- 1 42 
Innkeepers,  206,  207,  268 
Introdacqua,  104,  222,  223,  235 
Invaders,  46,  47,  133 
Italians,  ancient,  26-34 
Italica,  32,  33,  34 
Italy,  North,  23,  24,  38 
Italy,   South,   23,   24,    38,  60,    loi, 

120,  128,  142,  154 
Italy,  Young,  6,  122,  164 


Jackson,  F,  II.,  298 

James  of  the  Marches,  79 

James  Francis,  119 

Janus,  185 

Joachim  da  Floris,  74,  229 

John  of  Austria,  Don,  87 

Judacilius,  34 

Jugurtha,  33 

Julian,  Emperor,  236 

Juvanum,  97 

La  Cittb.  Morta^  262 
Ladislas,  King,  75,  164 


304 


INDEX 


La   Fiaccolo   sotto    il  Moggio,    141, 

142,  183,  262 
La  Figlia  di  Jorio  (picture),  121 
La  Figlia  di  Jorio  (play),  121,    141, 

289,  290 
La  Grance,  General,  156 
Lanciano,  10,  53,  54,  55,  57,   98 
L'Anglois,  159,  160 
Lannoy,  21S 
La  Plaja,  104 
Latins,  27,  28 
Laiidi,  289 
Lear,  Edward,  5 
Leo,  Emperor,  167 
Leo,  Minorite,  72 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  281 
Leonato,  Abbot,  279,  281 
Leonessa,  16 
Leopardi,  G.,  81,  82 
Lepanto,  Battle  of,  87,  150 
Le  Vergine  delle  Roccie,  289 
Levi,  E.,  297 
Lewis  II. ,  Emperor,  279 
Liberatore,  G.,  298 
Liris,   River,  28,   62,   66,  166,  176, 

177,  185,  203 
Liscio,  62 

Lombards,  36,  149,  200,  218,  2S7 
Loreto,  52,  92,  93,  253 
Louis  d'Anjou,  218 
Loyola,  Ignatius,  42,  130 
Luco,  99,  181,  183,  232,  262 
Luparelli,  62 
Lupus,  Rutilius,  32,  33 
Lyons,  226 

Macchia  Carasale,  67 
Madonna  deir  Oriente,  9,  153,  167, 

174 
Magic,  iSi 

Magliano,  156,  193,  194 
Majella.     Sec  Monte  Majella 
Malta,  134,  200 
Mammone,  52 
Manfred,  168 
Manhes,  General,  55-57 
Manso,  Marchese,  51,  129 
Mantua,  232 
Marches,  the,  10,  27,  52 
Marc-Monnier,  296 
Maremma,  the,  19 
Margaret  of  Austria,  292 
Margherita,  Queen,  205 


Maria  Sofia,  Queen,  64 

Marius,  33,  34,  217 

Mark  Antony,  189 

Marmore,  River,  166 

Marrucini,  the,  27,  33,  34,  282 

Marruvium,  180 

Mars,  26,  27 

Marsi,  the,  27,  28,  29,  31,  32,  33, 

34,  35,  150,   176,   180,   181-183, 

188,  190 
Marsi,  Counts  of  the,  200,  277 
Marsian  enchanters,  85,  181,  256 
Marsica,  the,  4,  12,  35,  61,  62,  65, 

127,    146,    148,    149,    155,    160, 

164,  172,  184-198,  199,  202,  232 
Marsica,  Bishop  of,  205 
Marsus,  181 
Marsyas,  180,  181 
Martin,  V.,  Pope,  201 
Masaniello,  200 
Masio,  218 
Matese  range,  26,  59 
Mazarin,  Cardinal,  180 
Mazella,  18 1 
Mazzini,  G.,  40,  61,  155 
Merlin,  229 
Merlin,  General,  54 
Messiah  of  the  Abruzzi,    the.      See 

De  Amicis,  O. 
Michetti,  F.  P.,  120,  121,  141,  2S9, 

291 
Milan,  7,  128 
Mithridatic  War,  34 
Mola  di  Gaeta,  51 
Molise,    10,  26,  49,   59,  224,  265, 

277 
Monte  Arunzo,  166 

Bove,  164 

■  Capo-Cancelli,  10 

■  Caruso,  144 

Cassino,  195,  226 

•  Corno,  10,  98,  212,  266,  274, 

289.     See  also  Gran  Sasso 

Felice,  169 

Gargano,  12 

Genzano,  215 

Godi,  239,  246 

Grande,  27,  215,  246 

Majella,  2,  4,   10,  11,  27,   64, 


70,  74,  75,  95,  96,  97,  104,  194, 
215,  224,  226,  228,  229,  230,  261, 
265,  267,  282,  284,  286,  2S9,  290, 
293 


INDEX 


305 


Monte  Mario,  168 

Midia,  154,  165 

Morrone,  10,  74,  98,  99,  215, 

216,  221,  222,  224,  226,  227,  228j 

230,  233,  234,  235,  265 

d'Ocre,  212 

Palena,  224 

Pallotieri,  67 

Penna,  182 

Pizzalto,  98 

Porraro,  98 

Portella,  262 

Pratella,  253,  267 

Puzzello,  212 

Salviano,  99,  176 

Sirente,  164,  20S,  212,  215 

Velino,    i,   4,    164,   185,   187, 

190,  194,  212 
Montefeltro,  Guido  da,  169 
Montenerodomo,  97 
Monteodorisio,  62 
Montereale,  272 
Moreschi,  P,,  66,  69 
Moscufo,  S.  Maria  in,  117 
Murat,   Joachim,    16,    40,    54,    55, 

133. 
Musolino,  44 

Mutilus,  Q.  JPapius,  32,  33 
Mysticism,  135,  137,  138,  139 


Naples,  8,  37,  39,  51,  60,  83,  102, 
131,  132,  133,  134,  139,  141,  150, 
172,  211,  218,  227,  262,  267,  268 

Naples,  kingdom  of,  37,  52,  53,  55, 
78,  81,  161,  168,  183 

Napoleon  I.,  39,  234 

Narcissus,  engineer,  176,  17S 

Nera,  River,  176 

Niccol6  Pisano,  117,  173 

Nicholas  V.,  Pope,  79 

Nicodemus,  sculptor,  196,  197 

Nicolo,  architect,  196 

Ninco-Nanco,  161 

Nitti,  F.  S.,  24,  296 

Nolli,  Baron,  54 

Novelle  della  Fescara,  288 

Nucera,  33 


OCTAVIUS   C^SAR,    189 

Odi  Navali,  289 
Orange,  Prince  of,  273 


Orsini,  the,  46,  149,  150,  154,  164, 

229 
Orsini,  Gentile,  185 
Orsini,  Giovanni,  229 
Orsini,  Jacopo  Napoleone,  150,  168 
Orsini,  Roberto,  150 
Orsini,  Virginio,  50,  150 
Orta,  130 
Ortona,  ii,  53,  88,  117,  284,  290, 

292 
Ortucchio,  176 
Oscans,  26 
Otranto,  %^ 

Otto  IV.,  Emperor,  149 
Ovid,  35,  99,   181,  217,  221,  231- 

234 
Ovindoli,   72,   146,   169,    170,  203, 

209 
Oxyntas,  33 


Pace,  Count,  191 

Pacentro,  222,  265,  266 

Paesana,  66 

Paganism,  71,  95- 1 04,  1 84 

Painters,  120,  121 

Palena,  73 

Palestrina,  150 

Paliano,  241 

Palombieri,  67 

Papal  States,  36,  51,  64,  68,   159, 

161 
Parente,  Romualdo,  254 
Parthenopeian  Republic,  40 
Pasquale  II.,  Pope,  189 
Patriot  priests  and  friars,  41 
Pavia,  Battle  of,  218 
Peasants,  18-20 
Pedacciata,  55 
Pediciano,  67 
Pelasgi,  188 
Peligni,  the,  27,  28,  31,  32,  33,  34, 

35.  70,  217,  235 
Pelignian  Vale,  215,  232,  239,  260, 

264 
Penne,  10,  40,  82 
Penne  (Marsica),  180 
Pentima,  32,  35,  144,  219,  235 
Pepe,  General,  39,  40,  296 
Pepin  II.,  149 
Pereira,  Maria,  118 
Peretti,  the,  202 
Perkins,  C.  €.,  297 

X 


3o6 


INDEX 


Perseus  of  Macedonia,  189 

Perugia,  75,  227 

Pescara,  2,  10,  il,  42,  98,  141,  143, 

144,  250,  278,  283,  284,  286-288, 

289,  290 
Pescara,    River,   10,  27,    278,  279, 

282,  283,  284,  285-287,  291 
Pescara,  Marchese  di,  287 
Pescina,  180 
Pescocostanzo,   98,   103,   117,   124, 

268-271 
Peter   of  Morrone.      See  S.   Peler 

Celestine 
Petrarch,  221,  230 
Pettorano,    17,   67,    73,    215,    216, 

219,  222,  223,  260,  266,  267, 271, 

.273.  274 
Pia,  Princess,  274 
Pialy  Bassa,  87,  292 
Piano    di    Cinquemiglia,    94,    122, 

159,  252,  260,  266,  271-274,  27s, 

278 
Piano  di  Leone,  69,  267 
Pica,  Giuseppe,  68 
Pica  Law,  The,  68 
Piccinino,    Condottiere,    46,    202, 

218 
Piccione,  62 
Piccolomini,  the,  202 
Piccolomini,  Alfonso,  50 
Piceni,  27,  28,  32 
Picenum,  33,  34 
Picerone,  Don  P.,  41 
Piediluco,  78 
Piedmontese,  64,  154 
Pierces,  the,  136,  138 
Pietrocola-Rossetti,  T.,  136,  140 
Pilgrimages,    9,    86,   92,    93,    167, 

.253,.  258,  259,  280,  281 
Pinelli,  General,  62 
Pisa,  168,  169,  171 
Pius  v.,  87 
Pius  IX.,  82,  140 
Plebiscite,  the,  63 
Poerio,  C.,  38 
Poggio  Filippo,  164 
Poiidori,  the,  138 
Pompey,  217 
Pontine  Marshes,  18 
Popoli,  39,  73,  215,  239,  266,  278, 

284 
Porcaneta,  Valley  of,  1 93,  197 
Potters,  120 


Prague,  75,  229 

Prato,  288 

Pratola  Peligna,  35,  63,  266 

Pre-Raphaelite  movement,  the,  138 

Pretutii,  the,  27 

Promis,  C.,  297 

Proni,  52 

Provence,  266 

Punic  War,  the,  30 

Punta  della  Penna,  87,  291 

QuAGLiA,  La,  238 
Quici,  Fulvio,  54 
Quintini,  157 

Rajano,  9,  20,  216,  237 
Rapagnetto,    Gaetano.     See  D'An- 

nunzio 
Raumer,  F.  L.,  297 
Ravenna,  167 
Religion,  71-94,  184 
Rene  d'Anjou,  265 
Representations,  82,  86-89 
Rienzi,  Cola  di,  75,  228-230 
Rienzi,  Sulpicio  di.  Si 
Rieti,  40,  78,  198 
Ripattone,  49 
Risorgimento,    the,    38,    43,     139, 

.^55 
Rivisondoli,  268,  271 

Roccacasale,  5,  230,  231 

Roccacinquemiglia,    69,     73,     275, 

276 
Rocca  di  Cambio,  67,  212 

di  Corno,  45 

di  Mezzo,  8,  67,  146,  170,  207, 

210-214,  267 
Morice,  226 


Roccapia,  73,   104,   222,   260,   272, 

273.  274 
Roccaraso,  7,  67,  69,  141,  146,  252, 

266,  267,  268,  275 
Roman  remains,  1 16,  19 1 
Rome,  Ancient,  28,  29,  30,  31,  32, 

33.  34,  35,  143.  144 
Rome,  City,  i,  2,  3,  8,  10,  26,  27, 

45,  46,  50,  64,  72,  75,  76,  79,  82, 
116,  120,  12S,  144,  148,  154,  157, 
15S,  160,  165,  168,  169,  171,  172, 
177,  179,  190,  205,  224,  228,  229, 
233,  2S9,  292 

Rosciolo,  193,  194,  195 

Rosmini,  Antonio,  81 


INDEX 


307 


Rossetti,  Andrea,  131,  133  ;  An- 
tonio, 131,  132  ;  Christina,  139  ; 
Dante  Gabriel,  135,  136,  137- 
139;  Domenico,  131;  Gabriele, 
38,  81,  130-136 ;  Maria  Fran- 
cesca,  the  elder,  131  ;  the 
younger,  136,  139;  Nicola, 
131,  132,  133  ;  Vincenzo,  135  ; 
William  Michael,  132,  135,  136, 
140 

Rovere,  203,  210 

RufFolone,  44 

Rugerotto  of  Celano,  201 

Rulli,  135 

Sabellians,  the,  28 

Sabine  Mts.,  the,  10,  35,  150 

Sabines,  the,  26 

Sagittario,    River,    215,    239,   240, 

259,  261 
Sagittario,  Focidi,  239,  262,  264 
Sagittario,   Valley   of,   6,   67,   146, 

239-264 
Saints,  legends  of,  92,  95 
S.  Augustine,  82,  182 
S.  Bernardino  of  Siena,  76,  77-79, 

80,  191,  244 
S.  Buono,  67 
S.  Catherine  of  Siena,  92 
S.  Clement,  Martyr,  279 
S.  Dominic,  229 
S.  Dominic  of  Cocullo,  91,  93,  121, 

183,  256-259 
S.  Francis,  71,  72,   148,    191,  205, 

206,  229 
S.  Franco,  292 
S.  Gerardo,  253 
S.  John  of  Capestrano,  75-80 
S.  Panfilo,  219,  220,  232 
S.  Peter,  92 
S.  Peter  Celestine,  74,  75,  82,  99, 

218,  223,  224-228,  234,  235 
S.  Thomas,  Apostle,  292 

^Flace-7iames — 
S.  Benedetto,  180 
S.  Domenico,  Lago  di,  259 
S.  Lucia,  234 

S.  Maria  in  Valle,  117,  193-198 
S.  Maria  della  Vittoria,   117,   173, 

174,  188 
S.  Onofrio,  74,  99,  224,  226,  227 
S.  Pellino,  220,  236,  237 
S.  Peter's,  Rome,  79,  85,  154 


S.  Petito,  203,  208 

S.  Sebastiano,  164,  166,  167 

S.  Silvestro,  78 

S.  Spirito  di  Majella,   15,   74,   75, 

82,  224-226,  228-230 
S.  Spirito  di  Morronc,  74,219,  223, 

226,  227,  234,  235 
S.  Stefano  in  Riva,  87.  88 
S.  Valentino,  144 
S.  Vito,  289 

Miscella?!eons — 
S.  Damian  and  the  Dove,  Reform 

of,  74,  224 
S.  Eustachio,  Count  of,  16S 
S.  Giacomo,  Viaggio  di,  263 
S.   John's   Day   celebrations,    103, 

221,  294,  295 
Salerno,  49 
Sallust,  35 
Salto,  River,    166,    169,   170,    173, 

176 
Saluzzo,  66 
Samnites,  26,  27,  28,  29,  30,  31, 

32,  33,  34 
Samnite  War,  28,  29,  30,  35,    147, 

188 
Samnium,  29,  34 

Sangro,  Conti  di,  46,  260, 262,  266 
Sangro,  River,  224,  267,  276 
San  Fantaleone,  86,  288 
Santacasa,  Carmine,  192,  193 
Santariga,  A.,  153 
Sante  Marie,  159 
Saracens,   86-89,    I49>    1S8,    236, 

248,  279,  292 
Savelli,  the,  202 
Savoy  rule,  48,  63 
Scanno,    18,   66,   69,    77-91,   103, 

122,  124,  125,  239,  240-253,  268, 

272 
Scanno,  Lago  di,  10,  253,  254,  255 
Scanzano,  149 
Scacchi,  298 
Scato,  P.  Vettius,  33 
Schirrmacher,  F.  W.,  297 
Schulz,  H.  W.,  297 
Sciarra  Marco,  48-52 
Sculpture,  117,  118 
Scurcola,  144,   146,  156,   157,   159, 

164,  167,  169,  173,  174 
Secret  Societies,  60 
Segharelli,  84 
Selim  11. ,  292 

X    2 


?o8 


INDEX 


Serafino  Aquilano,  128 

Serpent-charming,  91,  1 81-183,  258 

Servilius,  Gaius,  31 

Settembrini,  Luigi,  130,  137 

Sforza,  Condottiere,  46,  286,  287 

Sforza,  Francesco,  287 

Sheep-dogs,  17,  18 

Shepherds,  6,  11-16,  47,  50,  212 

Shepherd-poets,  16,  17 

Sicily,  44,  56,  60,  168,  169,  200 

Siena,  78,  168 

Silius  Italicus,  33 

Silla,  217 

Silo,  Q.  Pompidius,  31,  32,  33,  34 

Silvestro  Aquilano,  79,  1 18 

Smargiasse,  G.,  135 

Social  War,  31-34,   180 

Solerti,  A.,  51 

Solymus,  217 

Songs,    brigands',    63  ;    folk,    lOl, 

122-127;  patriotic,  81,  131 
Sora,  23 
Sorrento,  260 
Speculum  Perfectionis ,  72 
Spinelli,  Carlo,  49 
Spirituals,  226,  228 
Stornelli,  122 
Strabo,  33,  34,  188 
Subiaco,  226 
Sulmona,  2,  8,  10,  20,  32,  35,   73, 

74.  75.  99.   103.    104,    118,   141, 

194,  215-223,  239,  240,  261,  266, 

267,  271,  274,  282 
Sulmona,  Valley  of,  iS,  35,  63,  122, 

215,  223-238,  260,  276 
Sulpicius  Servius,  33,  34 
Swabians,  36,  169 
Swinburne,  Henry,  5 
Syphax,  King,  189 

Tacitus,  177,  178 

Tagliacozzo,   5,    36,    39,    99,    144- 

166,  167,  169,  173,  185,  189 
Tagliacozzo,   Battle  of,    164,    167- 

171,   172,  266 
Talaini,  89-91 
Tallarico,  G.,  57 
Tamburrini,  66,  69 
Tarantum,  29 
Tasso,  Torquato,  16,  51,   127,    129, 

130,  260,  261 
Tasso,  River,  239,  240,  249,  255 
Tavoli&re,  the.     Sec  Apulian  Plain 


Teramo,  lo,  27,  49,  62 

Teramo,  province  of  (Ulteriore  I.), 

57,81 
Terni,  2,  78,  167 
Terracina,  19 
Terra  di  Lavoro,   10,  23,  159,  169, 

253,  262 
Teverone,  River,  176 
Theate     (mod.    Chieti),    34,     144, 

282 
Thomas  of  Celano,  B.     See  Celano 
Thureau-Dangin,  P.,  297 
Tiber,  River,  169,  176,  177 
Tiberius  Claudius,  143 
Tiburtines,  164 
Tivoli,  143,  144,  169 
Tocco,  120,  278 
Tocco,  Duke  of,  84 
Tollo,  86,  88 
Torlonia,    Prince,    175,    179,    180, 

193,  201 
Torre  de'  Passeri,  278 
Trajan,  178,  279 
Trasimondo,  Abbot,  279 
Trave,  River,  132 
Travellers  in  Abruzzo,  5 
Treasure-hunting,  84,  97-99 
Tremiti,  Isles,  87,  88 
Tricalle,  the,  98,  116 
Trigno,  River,  27,  55 
Turano,  River,  33 
Turin,  39,  66 
Turks,  80,  86,  87-89,  287 
Tuscany,  Grand-Duke  of,  50 
Two  Sicilies,  kingdom  of,  42,  57, 

63 
Tyrrhenian  Sea,  154 

Umbria,  10,  31,  78,  93 
Umbrians,  26 
Umbro,  181 
Urbino,  120 
Urbino,  Duke  of,  261 

Valentinian,  Emperor,  236 

Valeria,  180 

Valerian  Way,  143,  144,   147,  150, 

151,  157,  166,  169,  192,  287 
Valerius,  Dictator,  143 
Valle  Oscura.     See  Roccapia 

Siciliana,  120 

di  Varri,  148 

• — -  Verde,  201,  208 


INDEX 


309 


Valva,  236 

Vandarelli,  61 

Vastese,  the,  96,  123 

Vastesi,  the,  57,  136 

Vasto,  10,  II,  53,  "57,  61,  67,   131, 

132,  133.  135.  136 
Vasto,  Marchese  del,  133 
Vehno,  River,  176 
Venetian  Republic,  50,  51 

Venti  Settembre,  68 
Verona,  232 
Verrecchie,  166 

Ver  sacrum,  26 

Vestini,  the,  27,  28,  31,  33,  287 
Via  Tiburtina,  143 
Victor  Emmanuel  I.,  63, 82,  141,  274 
Viesti,  228 
ViUach,  80 

Villalago,  5,  93,  1S3,  239,  240,  255, 
256-259 


Villamagna,  86,  88 

Virgil,  130,  181,  232 

Virgilii,  Benedetto  de',  16,  129,  130 

,  Pasquale  de',  140,  141 

Viterbo,  44 
Volscians,  27 


Wadding,  Luke,  297 
Waldschmidt,  W.,  138 
Witches,  96,  100-102,  263 
Wolves,  18,  212,  213 
Women,  9,  20-22,  245-248 


Zelanti,  227 
Zilli,  57, 
Zilli,  P.,  62 
Zingaro,  II,  120 
Zopinone,  62 


THE    END 


PRINTED   BY   WILLIAM   CLOWES   AND   SONS,    LIMITED,    LONDON   AND   BECCLES. 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 

University  of  California  Library 

or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
BIdg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richnnond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 
2-month  loans  may  be  renev\/ed  by  calling 

(415)642-6233 
1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books 

to  NRLF 
Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days 

prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


I 


AUG  8  1989 


(B139s22)476 


universiry  or  v-aiirornia 
Berkeley 


/4> 


% 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY