There is another man in a brown cloak,
who leans against a wall, with his arms folded in his mantle, and
looks out of the corners of his eyes:
Which are just visible
beneath his broad slouched hat. This is the assassin model. There
is another man, who constantly looks over his own shoulder, and is
always going away, but never does. This is the haughty, or
scornful model. As to Domestic Happiness, and Holy Families, they
should come very cheap, for there are lumps of them, all up the
steps; and the cream of the thing is, that they are all the falsest
vagabonds in the world, especially made up for the purpose, and
having no counterparts in Rome or any other part of the habitable
globe.
My recent mention of the Carnival, reminds me of its being said to
be a mock mourning (in the ceremony with which it closes), for the
gaieties and merry-makings before Lent; and this again reminds me
of the real funerals and mourning processions of Rome, which, like
those in most other parts of Italy, are rendered chiefly remarkable
to a Foreigner, by the indifference with which the mere clay is
universally regarded, after life has left it. And this is not from
the survivors having had time to dissociate the memory of the dead
from their well-remembered appearance and form on earth; for the
interment follows too speedily after death, for that: almost
always taking place within four-and-twenty hours, and, sometimes,
within twelve.
At Rome, there is the same arrangement of Pits in a great, bleak,
open, dreary space, that I have already described as existing in
Genoa. When I visited it, at noonday, I saw a solitary coffin of
plain deal: uncovered by any shroud or pall, and so slightly made,
that the hoof of any wandering mule would have crushed it in:
carelessly tumbled down, all on one side, on the door of one of the
pits--and there left, by itself, in the wind and sunshine. 'How
does it come to be left here?' I asked the man who showed me the
place. 'It was brought here half an hour ago, Signore,' he said.
I remembered to have met the procession, on its return: straggling
away at a good round pace. 'When will it be put in the pit?' I
asked him. 'When the cart comes, and it is opened to-night,' he
said. 'How much does it cost to be brought here in this way,
instead of coming in the cart?' I asked him. 'Ten scudi,' he said
(about two pounds, two-and-sixpence, English). 'The other bodies,
for whom nothing is paid, are taken to the church of the Santa
Maria della Consolazione,' he continued, 'and brought here
altogether, in the cart at night.' I stood, a moment, looking at
the coffin, which had two initial letters scrawled upon the top;
and turned away, with an expression in my face, I suppose, of not
much liking its exposure in that manner:
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