One Blessing Is Enough
For The Whole Multiplication-Table.
The only new incident in the
proceedings, is the gradually deepening intensity of the change in
the Cape Lazzarone,
Who has, evidently, speculated to the very
utmost extent of his means; and who, when he sees the last number,
and finds that it is not one of his, clasps his hands, and raises
his eyes to the ceiling before proclaiming it, as though
remonstrating, in a secret agony, with his patron saint, for having
committed so gross a breach of confidence. I hope the Capo
Lazzarone may not desert him for some other member of the Calendar,
but he seems to threaten it.
Where the winners may be, nobody knows. They certainly are not
present; the general disappointment filling one with pity for the
poor people. They look: when we stand aside, observing them, in
their passage through the court-yard down below: as miserable as
the prisoners in the gaol (it forms a part of the building), who
are peeping down upon them, from between their bars; or, as the
fragments of human heads which are still dangling in chains
outside, in memory of the good old times, when their owners were
strung up there, for the popular edification.
Away from Naples in a glorious sunrise, by the road to Capua, and
then on a three days' journey along by-roads, that we may see, on
the way, the monastery of Monte Cassino, which is perched on the
steep and lofty hill above the little town of San Germano, and is
lost on a misty morning in the clouds.
So much the better, for the deep sounding of its bell, which, as we
go winding up, on mules, towards the convent, is heard mysteriously
in the still air, while nothing is seen but the grey mist, moving
solemnly and slowly, like a funeral procession. Behold, at length
the shadowy pile of building close before us: its grey walls and
towers dimly seen, though so near and so vast: and the raw vapour
rolling through its cloisters heavily.
There are two black shadows walking to and fro in the quadrangle,
near the statues of the Patron Saint and his sister; and hopping on
behind them, in and out of the old arches, is a raven, croaking in
answer to the bell, and uttering, at intervals, the purest Tuscan.
How like a Jesuit he looks! There never was a sly and stealthy
fellow so at home as is this raven, standing now at the refectory
door, with his head on one side, and pretending to glance another
way, while he is scrutinizing the visitors keenly, and listening
with fixed attention. What a dull-headed monk the porter becomes
in comparison!
'He speaks like us!' says the porter: 'quite as plainly.' Quite
as plainly, Porter. Nothing could be more expressive than his
reception of the peasants who are entering the gate with baskets
and burdens. There is a roll in his eye, and a chuckle in his
throat, which should qualify him to be chosen Superior of an Order
of Ravens. He knows all about it. 'It's all right,' he says. 'We
know what we know. Come along, good people. Glad to see you!'
How was this extraordinary structure ever built in such a
situation, where the labour of conveying the stone, and iron, and
marble, so great a height, must have been prodigious? 'Caw!' says
the raven, welcoming the peasants. How, being despoiled by
plunder, fire and earthquake, has it risen from its ruins, and been
again made what we now see it, with its church so sumptuous and
magnificent? 'Caw!' says the raven, welcoming the peasants. These
people have a miserable appearance, and (as usual) are densely
ignorant, and all beg, while the monks are chaunting in the chapel.
'Caw!' says the raven, 'Cuckoo!'
So we leave him, chuckling and rolling his eye at the convent gate,
and wind slowly down again through the cloud. At last emerging
from it, we come in sight of the village far below, and the flat
green country intersected by rivulets; which is pleasant and fresh
to see after the obscurity and haze of the convent--no disrespect
to the raven, or the holy friars.
Away we go again, by muddy roads, and through the most shattered
and tattered of villages, where there is not a whole window among
all the houses, or a whole garment among all the peasants, or the
least appearance of anything to eat, in any of the wretched
hucksters' shops. The women wear a bright red bodice laced before
and behind, a white skirt, and the Neapolitan head-dress of square
folds of linen, primitively meant to carry loads on. The men and
children wear anything they can get. The soldiers are as dirty and
rapacious as the dogs. The inns are such hobgoblin places, that
they are infinitely more attractive and amusing than the best
hotels in Paris. Here is one near Valmontone (that is Valmontone
the round, walled town on the mount opposite), which is approached
by a quagmire almost knee-deep. There is a wild colonnade below,
and a dark yard full of empty stables and lofts, and a great long
kitchen with a great long bench and a great long form, where a
party of travellers, with two priests among them, are crowding
round the fire while their supper is cooking. Above stairs, is a
rough brick gallery to sit in, with very little windows with very
small patches of knotty glass in them, and all the doors that open
from it (a dozen or two) off their hinges, and a bare board on
tressels for a table, at which thirty people might dine easily, and
a fireplace large enough in itself for a breakfast-parlour, where,
as the faggots blaze and crackle, they illuminate the ugliest and
grimmest of faces, drawn in charcoal on the whitewashed chimney-
sides by previous travellers.
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