skimming over the white ice, like a cannon-ball. Almost at the
same moment, there is a cry from behind; and a man who has carried
a light basket of spare cloaks on his head, comes rolling past, at
the same frightful speed, closely followed by a boy. At this
climax of the chapter of accidents, the remaining eight-and-twenty
vociferate to that degree, that a pack of wolves would be music to
them!
Giddy, and bloody, and a mere bundle of rags, is Pickle of Portici
when we reach the place where we dismounted, and where the horses
are waiting; but, thank God, sound in limb! And never are we
likely to be more glad to see a man alive and on his feet, than to
see him now - making light of it too, though sorely bruised and in
great pain. The boy is brought into the Hermitage on the Mountain,
while we are at supper, with his head tied up; and the man is heard
of, some hours afterwards. He too is bruised and stunned, but has
broken no bones; the snow having, fortunately, covered all the
larger blocks of rock and stone, and rendered them harmless.
After a cheerful meal, and a good rest before a blazing fire, we
again take horse, and continue our descent to Salvatore's house -
very slowly, by reason of our bruised friend being hardly able to
keep the saddle, or endure the pain of motion. Though it is so
late at night, or early in the morning, all the people of the
village are waiting about the little stable-yard when we arrive,
and looking up the road by which we are expected. Our appearance
is hailed with a great clamour of tongues, and a general sensation
for which in our modesty we are somewhat at a loss to account,
until, turning into the yard, we find that one of a party of French
gentlemen who were on the mountain at the same time is lying on
some straw in the stable, with a broken limb: looking like Death,
and suffering great torture; and that we were confidently supposed
to have encountered some worse accident.
So 'well returned, and Heaven be praised!' as the cheerful
Vetturino, who has borne us company all the way from Pisa, says,
with all his heart! And away with his ready horses, into sleeping
Naples!
It wakes again to Policinelli and pickpockets, buffo singers and
beggars, rags, puppets, flowers, brightness, dirt, and universal
degradation; airing its Harlequin suit in the sunshine, next day
and every day; singing, starving, dancing, gaming, on the seashore;
and leaving all labour to the burning mountain, which is
ever at its work.
Our English dilettanti would be very pathetic on the subject of the
national taste, if they could hear an Italian opera half as badly
sung in England as we may hear the Foscari performed, to-night, in
the splendid theatre of San Carlo. But, for astonishing truth and
spirit in seizing and embodying the real life about it, the shabby
little San Carlino Theatre - the rickety house one story high, with
a staring picture outside: down among the drums and trumpets, and
the tumblers, and the lady conjurer - is without a rival anywhere.
There is one extraordinary feature in the real life of Naples, at
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which we may take a glance before we go - the Lotteries.
They prevail in most parts of Italy, but are particularly obvious,
in their effects and influences, here. They are drawn every
Saturday. They bring an immense revenue to the Government; and
diffuse a taste for gambling among the poorest of the poor, which
is very comfortable to the coffers of the State, and very ruinous
to themselves. The lowest stake is one grain; less than a
farthing. One hundred numbers - from one to a hundred, inclusive -
are put into a box. Five are drawn. Those are the prizes. I buy
three numbers. If one of them come up, I win a small prize. If
two, some hundreds of times my stake. If three, three thousand
five hundred times my stake. I stake (or play as they call it)
what I can upon my numbers, and buy what numbers I please. The
amount I play, I pay at the lottery office, where I purchase the
ticket; and it is stated on the ticket itself.
Every lottery office keeps a printed book, an Universal Lottery
Diviner, where every possible accident and circumstance is provided
for, and has a number against it. For instance, let us take two
carlini - about sevenpence. On our way to the lottery office, we
run against a black man. When we get there, we say gravely, 'The
Diviner.' It is handed over the counter, as a serious matter of
business. We look at black man. Such a number. 'Give us that.'
We look at running against a person in the street. 'Give us that.
' We look at the name of the street itself. 'Give us that.' Now,
we have our three numbers.
If the roof of the theatre of San Carlo were to fall in, so many
people would play upon the numbers attached to such an accident in
the Diviner, that the Government would soon close those numbers,
and decline to run the risk of losing any more upon them. This
often happens. Not long ago, when there was a fire in the King's
Palace, there was such a desperate run on fire, and king, and
palace, that further stakes on the numbers attached to those words
in the Golden Book were forbidden. Every accident or event, is
supposed, by the ignorant populace, to be a revelation to the
beholder, or party concerned, in connection with the lottery.
Certain people who have a talent for dreaming fortunately, are much
sought after; and there are some priests who are constantly
favoured with visions of the lucky numbers.
I heard of a horse running away with a man, and dashing him down,
dead, at the corner of a street. Pursuing the horse with
incredible speed, was another man, who ran so fast, that he came
up, immediately after the accident. He threw himself upon his
knees beside the unfortunate rider, and clasped his hand with an
expression of the wildest grief. 'If you have life,' he said,
'speak one word to me! If you have one gasp of breath left,
mention your age for Heaven's sake, that I may play that number in
the lottery.'
It is four o'clock in the afternoon, and we may go to see our
lottery drawn. The ceremony takes place every Saturday, in the
Tribunale, or Court of Justice - this singular, earthy-smelling
room, or gallery, as mouldy as an old cellar, and as damp as a
dungeon. At the upper end is a platform, with a large horse-shoe
table upon it; and a President and Council sitting round - all
judges of the Law. The man on the little stool behind the
President, is the Capo Lazzarone, a kind of tribune of the people,
appointed on their behalf to see that all is fairly conducted:
attended by a few personal friends. A ragged, swarthy fellow he
is: with long matted hair hanging down all over his face: and
covered, from head to foot, with most unquestionably genuine dirt.
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All the body of the room i
s filled with the commonest of the
Neapolitan people: and between them and the platform, guarding the
steps leading to the latter, is a small body of soldiers.
There is some delay in the arrival of the necessary number of
judges; during which, the box, in which the numbers are being
placed, is a source of the deepest interest. When the box is full,
the boy who is to draw the numbers out of it becomes the prominent
feature of the proceedings. He is already dressed for his part, in
a tight brown Holland coat, with only one (the left) sleeve to it,
which leaves his right arm bared to the shoulder, ready for
plunging down into the mysterious chest.
During the hush and whisper that pervade the room, all eyes are
turned on this young minister of fortune. People begin to inquire
his age, with a view to the next lottery; and the number of his
brothers and sisters; and the age of his father and mother; and
whether he has any moles or pimples upon him; and where, and how
many; when the arrival of the last judge but one (a little old man,
universally dreaded as possessing the Evil Eye) makes a slight
diversion, and would occasion a greater one, but that he is
immediately deposed, as a source of interest, by the officiating
priest, who advances gravely to his place, followed by a very dirty
little boy, carrying his sacred vestments, and a pot of Holy Water.
Here is the last judge come at last, and now he takes his place at
the horse-shoe table.
There is a murmur of irrepressible agitation. In the midst of it,
the priest puts his head into the sacred vestments, and pulls the
same over his shoulders. Then he says a silent prayer; and dipping
a brush into the pot of Holy Water, sprinkles it over the box - and
over the boy, and gives them a double-barrelled blessing, which the
box and the boy are both hoisted on the table to receive. The boy
remaining on the table, the box is now carried round the front of
the platform, by an attendant, who holds it up and shakes it
lustily all the time; seeming to say, like the conjurer, 'There is
no deception, ladies and gentlemen; keep your eyes upon me, if you
please!'
At last, the box is set before the boy; and the boy, first holding
up his naked arm and open hand, dives down into the hole (it is
made like a ballot-box) and pulls out a number, which is rolled up,
round something hard, like a bonbon. This he hands to the judge
next him, who unrolls a little bit, and hands it to the President,
next to whom he sits. The President unrolls it, very slowly. The
Capo Lazzarone leans over his shoulder. The President holds it up,
unrolled, to the Capo Lazzarone. The Capo Lazzarone, looking at it
eagerly, cries out, in a shrill, loud voice, 'Sessantadue!' (sixtytwo),
expressing the two upon his fingers, as he calls it out.
Alas! the Capo Lazzarone himself has not staked on sixty-two. His
face is very long, and his eyes roll wildly.
As it happens to be a favourite number, however, it is pretty well
received, which is not always the case. They are all drawn with
the same ceremony, omitting the blessing. 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
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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
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 o
f 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
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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 chimneysides
by previous travellers. There is a flaring country lamp on
the table; and, hovering about it, scratching her thick black hair
continually, a yellow dwarf of a woman, who stands on tiptoe to
arrange the hatchet knives, and takes a flying leap to look into
the water-jug. The beds in the adjoining rooms are of the
liveliest kind. There is not a solitary scrap of looking-glass in
the house, and the washing apparatus is identical with the cooking
utensils. But the yellow dwarf sets on the table a good flask of