Chapter VIII: Part 8

Upon this hint I spoke, said Flimsey—I stepped forward, and
offered my services in the most effectual way. They were
accepted. In a week’s time I married the widow and succeeded to
the throne. “The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the
marriage table,” as Hamlet says. But the ghost of my predecessor
never haunted me; and I inherited crowns, sceptres, bowls,
daggers, and all the stage trappings and trumpery, not omitting
the widow, without the least molestation.

I now led a flourishing life of it; for our company was pretty
strong And attractive, and as my wife and I took the heavy parts
of tragedy, it was a great saving to the treasury. We carried off
the palm from all the rival shows at country fairs; and I assure
you we have even drawn full houses, and being applauded by the
critics at Bartlemy fair itself, though we had Astley’s troupe,
the Irish giant, and “the death of Nelson” in wax-work to contend
against.

I soon began to experience, however, the cares of command. I
discovered that there were cabals breaking out in the company,
headed by the clown, who you may recollect was a terribly
peevish, fractious fellow, and always in ill-humor. I had a great
mind to turn him off at once, but I could not do without him, for
there was not a droller scoundrel on the stage. His very shape
was comic, for he had to turn his back upon the audience and all
the ladies were ready to die with laughing. He felt his
importance, and took advantage of it. He would keep the audience
in a continual roar, and then come behind the scenes and fret and
fume and play the very devil. I excused a great deal in him,
however, knowing that comic actors are a little prone to this
infirmity of temper.

I had another trouble of a nearer and dearer nature to struggle
with; which was, the affection of my wife. As ill luck would have
it, she took it into her head to be very fond of me, and became
intolerably jealous. I could not keep a pretty girl in the
company, and hardly dared embrace an ugly one, even when my part
required it. I have known her to reduce a fine lady to tatters,
“to very rags,” as Hamlet says, in an instant, and destroy one of
the very best dresses in the wardrobe; merely because she saw me
kiss her at the side scenes;—though I give you my honor it was
done merely by way of rehearsal.

This was doubly annoying, because I have a natural liking to
pretty faces, and wish to have them about me; and because they
are indispensable to the success of a company at a fair, where
one has to vie with so many rival theatres. But when once a
jealous wife gets a freak in her head there’s no use in talking
of interest or anything else. Egad, sirs, I have more than once
trembled when, during a fit of her tantrums, she was playing high
tragedy, and flourishing her tin dagger on the stage, lest she
should give way to her humor, and stab some fancied rival in good
earnest.

I went on better, however, than could be expected, considering
the weakness of my flesh and the violence of my rib. I had not a
much worse time of it than old Jupiter, whose spouse was
continually ferreting out some new intrigue and making the
heavens almost too hot to hold him.

At length, as luck would have it, we were performing at a country
fair, when I understood the theatre of a neighboring town to be
vacant. I had always been desirous to be enrolled in a settled
company, and the height of my desire was to get on a par with a
brother-in-law, who was manager of a regular theatre, and who had
looked down upon me. Here was an opportunity not to be neglected.
I concluded an agreement with the proprietors, and in a few days
opened the theatre with great eclát.

Behold me now at the summit of my ambition, “the high top-gallant
of my joy,” as Thomas says. No longer a chieftain of a wandering
tribe, but the monarch of a legitimate throne—and entitled to
call even the great potentates of Covent Garden and Drury Lane
cousin.

You no doubt think my happiness complete. Alas, sir! I was one of
the Most uncomfortable dogs living. No one knows, who has not
tried, the miseries of a manager; but above all, of a country
management—no one can conceive the contentions and quarrels
within doors, the oppressions and vexations from without.

I was pestered with the bloods and loungers of a country town,
who infested my green-room, and played the mischief among my
actresses. But there was no shaking them off. It would have been
ruin to affront them; for, though troublesome friends, they would
have been dangerous enemies. Then there were the village critics
and village amateurs, who were continually tormenting me with
advice, and getting into a passion if I would not take
it:—especially the village doctor and the village attorney; who
had both been to London occasionally, and knew what acting should
be.

I had also to manage as arrant a crew of scapegraces as were ever
collected together within the walls of a theatre. I had been
obliged to combine my original troupe with some of the former
troupe of the theatre, who were favorites with the public. Here
was a mixture that produced perpetual ferment. They were all the
time either fighting or frolicking with each other, and I
scarcely knew which mood was least troublesome. If they
quarrelled, everything went wrong; and if they were friends, they
were continually playing off some confounded prank upon each
other, or upon me; for I had unhappily acquired among them the
character of an easy, good natured fellow, the worst character
that a manager can possess.

Their waggery at times drove me almost crazy; for there is
nothing so Vexatious as the hackneyed tricks and hoaxes and
pleasantries of a veteran band of theatrical vagabonds. I
relished them well enough, it is true, while I was merely one of
the company, but as manager I found them detestable. They were
incessantly bringing some disgrace upon the theatre by their
tavern frolics, and their pranks about the country town. All my
lectures upon the importance of keeping up the dignity of the
profession, and the respectability of the company were in vain.
The villains could not sympathize with the delicate feelings of a
man in station. They even trifled with the seriousness of stage
business. I have had the whole piece interrupted, and a crowded
audience of at least twenty-five pounds kept waiting, because the
actors had hid away the breeches of Rosalind, and have known
Hamlet stalk solemnly on to deliver his soliloquy, with a
dish-clout pinned to his skirts. Such are the baleful
consequences of a manager’s getting a character for good nature.

I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the great actors who came down
_starring_, as it is called, from London. Of all baneful
influences, keep me from that of a London star. A first-rate
actress going the rounds of the country theatres, is as bad as a
blazing comet, whisking about the heavens, and shaking fire, and
plagues, and discords from its tail.

The moment one of these “heavenly bodies” appeared on my horizon,
I was sure to be in hot water. My theatre was overrun by
provincial dandies, copper-washed counterfeits of Bond street
loungers; who are always proud to be in the train of an actress
from town, and anxious to be thought on exceeding good terms with
her. It was really a relief to me when some random young nobleman
would come in pursuit of the bait, and awe all this small fry to
a distance. I have always felt myself more at ease with a
nobleman than with the dandy of a country town.

And then the injuries I suffered in my personal dignity and my
managerial authority from the visits of these great London
actors. Sir, I was no longer master of myself or my throne. I was
hectored and lectured in my own green-room, and made an absolute
nincompoop on my own stage. There is no tyrant so absolute and
capricious as a London star at a country theatre.

I dreaded the sight of all of them; and yet if I did not engage
them, I was sure of having the public clamorous against me. They
drew full houses, and appeared to be making my fortune; but they
swallowed up all the profits by their insatiable demands. They
were absolute tape-worms to my little theatre; the more it took
in, the poorer it grew. They were sure to leave me with an
exhausted public, empty benches, and a score or two of affronts
to settle among the townsfolk, in consequence of
misunderstandings about the taking of places.

But the worst thing I had to undergo in my managerial career was
patronage. Oh, sir, of all things deliver me from the patronage
of the great people of a country town. It was my ruin. You must
know that this town, though small, was filled with feuds, and
parties, and great folks; being a busy little trading and
manufacturing town. The mischief was that their greatness was of
a kind not to be settled by reference to the court calendar, or
college of heraldry. It was therefore the most quarrelsome kind
of greatness in existence. You smile, sir, but let me tell you
there are no feuds more furious than the frontier feuds, which
take place on these “debatable lands” of gentility. The most
violent dispute that I ever knew in high life, was one that
occurred at a country town, on a question of precedence between
the ladies of a manufacturer of pins and a manufacturer of
needles.

At the town where I was situated there were perpetual
altercations of the kind. The head manufacturer’s lady, for
instance, was at daggers drawings with the head shopkeeper’s, and
both were too rich and had too many friends to be treated
lightly. The doctor’s and lawyer’s ladies held their heads still
higher; but they in their turn were kept in check by the wife of
a country banker, who kept her own carriage; while a masculine
widow of cracked character, and second-hand fashion, who lived in
a large house, and was in some way related to nobility, looked
down upon them all. She had been exiled from the great world, but
here she ruled absolute. To be sure her manners were not
over-elegant, nor her fortune over-large; but then, sir, her
blood—oh, her blood carried it all hollow, there was no
withstanding a woman with such blood in her veins.

After all, she had frequent battles for precedence at balls and
assemblies, with some of the sturdy dames of the neighborhood,
who stood upon their wealth and their reputations; but then she
had two dashing daughters, who dressed as fine as dragons, and
had as high blood as their mother, and seconded her in
everything. So they carried their point with high heads, and
every body hated, abused, and stood in awe of the Fantadlins.

Such was the state of the fashionable world in this
self-important little town. Unluckily I was not as well
acquainted with its politics as I should have been. I had found
myself a stranger and in great perplexities during my first
season; I determined, therefore, to put myself under the
patronage of some powerful name, and thus to take the field with
the prejudices of the public in my favor. I cast round my
thoughts for the purpose, and in an evil hour they fell upon Mrs.
Fantadlin. No one seemed to me to have a more absolute sway in
the world of fashion. I had always noticed that her party slammed
the box door the loudest at the theatre; had most beaux attending
on them; and talked and laughed loudest during the performance;
and then the Miss Fantadlins wore always more feathers and
flowers than any other ladies; and used quizzing glasses
incessantly. The first evening of my theatre’s reopening,
therefore, was announced in flaring capitals on the play bills,
“under the patronage of the Honorable Mrs. Fantadlin,”

Sir, the whole community flew to arms! The banker’s wife felt her
Dignity grievously insulted at not having the preference; her
husband being high bailiff, and the richest man in the place. She
immediately issued invitations for a large party, for the night
of the performance, and asked many a lady to it whom she never
had noticed before. The fashionable world had long groaned under
the tyranny of the Fantadlins, and were glad to make a common
cause against this new instance of assumption.—Presume to
patronize the theatre! insufferable! Those, too, who had never
before been noticed by the banker’s lady, were ready to enlist in
any quarrel, for the honor of her acquaintance. All minor feuds
were therefore forgotten. The doctor’s lady and the lawyer’s lady
met together; and the manufacturer’s lady and the shopkeeper’s
lady kissed each other, and all, headed by the banker’s lady,
voted the theatre a _bore_, and determined to encourage nothing
but the Indian Jugglers, and Mr. Walker’s Eidonianeon.

Alas for poor Pillgarlick! I little knew the mischief that was
brewing against me. My box book remained blank. The evening
arrived, but no audience. The music struck up to a tolerable pit
and gallery, but no fashionables! I peeped anxiously from behind
the curtain, but the time passed away; the play was retarded
until pit and gallery became furious; and I had to raise the
curtain, and play my greatest part in tragedy to “a beggarly
account of empty boxes.”

It is true the Fantadlins came late, as was their custom, and
entered like a tempest, with a flutter of feathers and red
shawls; but they were evidently disconcerted at finding they had
no one to admire and envy them, and were enraged at this glaring
defection of their fashionable followers. All the beau-monde were
engaged at the banker’s lady’s rout. They remained for some time
in solitary and uncomfortable state, and though they had the
theatre almost to themselves, yet, for the first time, they
talked in whispers. They left the house at the end of the first
piece, and I never saw them afterwards.

Such was the rock on which I split. I never got over the
patronage of the Fantadlin family. It became the vogue to abuse
the theatre and declare the performers shocking. An equestrian
troupe opened a circus in the town about the same time, and rose
on my ruins. My house was deserted; my actors grew discontented
because they were ill paid; my door became a hammering-place for
every bailiff in the county; and my wife became more and more
shrewish and tormenting, the more I wanted comfort.

The establishment now became a scene of confusion and peculation.
I Was considered a ruined man, and of course fair game for every
one to pluck at, as every one plunders a sinking ship. Day after
day some of the troupe deserted, and like deserting soldiers,
carried off their arms and accoutrements with them. In this
manner my wardrobe took legs and walked away; my finery strolled
all over the country; my swords and daggers glittered in every
barn; until at last my tailor made “one fell swoop,” and carried
off three dress coats, half a dozen doublets, and nineteen pair
of flesh-colored pantaloons.

This was the “be all and the end all” of my fortune. I no longer
hesitated what to do. Egad, thought I, since stealing is the
order of the day, I’ll steal too. So I secretly gathered together
the jewels of my wardrobe; packed up a hero’s dress in a
handkerchief, slung it on the end of a tragedy sword, and quietly
stole off at dead of night—“the bell then beating one,”—leaving
my queen and kingdom to the mercy of my rebellious subjects, and
my merciless foes, the bum-bailiffs.

Such, sir, was the “end of all my greatness.” I was heartily
cured of All passion for governing, and returned once more into
the ranks. I had for some time the usual run of an actor’s life.
I played in various country theatres, at fairs, and in barns;
sometimes hard pushed; sometimes flush, until on one occasion I
came within an ace of making my fortune, and becoming one of the
wonders of the age.

I was playing the part of Richard the Third in a country barn,
and Absolutely “out-Heroding Herod.” An agent of one of the great
London theatres was present. He was on the lookout for something
that might be got up as a prodigy. The theatre, it seems, was in
desperate condition—nothing but a miracle could save it. He
pitched upon me for that miracle. I had a remarkable bluster in
my style, and swagger in my gait, and having taken to drink a
little during my troubles, my voice was somewhat cracked; so that
it seemed like two voices run into one. The thought struck the
agent to bring me out as a theatrical wonder; as the restorer of
natural and legitimate acting; as the only one who could
understand and act Shakespeare rightly. He waited upon me the
next morning, and opened his plan. I shrunk from it with becoming
modesty; for well as I thought of myself, I felt myself unworthy
of such praise.

“’Sblood, man!” said he, “no praise at all. You don’t imagine
that I think you all this. I only want the public to think so.
Nothing so easy as gulling the public if you only set up a
prodigy. You need not try to act well, you must only act
furiously. No matter what you do, or how you act, so that it be
but odd and strange. We will have all the pit packed, and the
newspapers hired. Whatever you do different from famous actors,
it shall be insisted that you are right and they were wrong. If
you rant, it shall be pure passion; if you are vulgar, it shall
be a touch of nature. Every one shall be prepared to fall into
raptures, and shout and yell, at certain points which you shall
make. If you do but escape pelting the first night, your fortune
and the fortune of the theatre is made.”

I set off for London, therefore, full of new hopes. I was to be
the restorer of Shakespeare and nature, and the legitimate drama;
my very swagger was to be heroic, and my cracked voice the
standard of elocution. Alas, sir! my usual luck attended me.
Before I arrived in the metropolis, a rival wonder had appeared.
A woman who could dance the slack rope, and run up a cord from
the stage to the gallery with fire-works all round her. She was
seized on by the management with avidity; she was the saving of
the great national theatre for the season. Nothing was talked of
but Madame Saqui’s fire-works and flame-colored pantaloons; and
nature, Shakespeare, the legitimate drama, and poor Pillgarlick
were completely left in the lurch.

However, as the manager was in honor bound to provide for me, he
kept his word. It had been a turn-up of a die whether I should be
Alexander the Great or Alexander the copper-smith; the latter
carried it. I could not be put at the head of the drama, so I was
put at the tail. In other words, I was enrolled among the number
of what are called useful men; who, let me tell you, are the only
comfortable actors on the stage. We are safe from hisses and
below the hope of applause. We fear not the success of rivals,
nor dread the critic’s pen. So long as we get the words of our
parts, and they are not often many, it is all we care for. We
have our own merriment, our own friends, and our own admirers;
for every actor has his friends and admirers, from the highest to
the lowest. The first-rate actor dines with the noble amateur,
and entertains a fashionable table with scraps and songs and
theatrical slip-slop. The second-rate actors have their
second-rate friends and admirers, with whom they likewise spout
tragedy and talk slip-slop; and so down even to us; who have our
friends and admirers among spruce clerks and aspiring
apprentices, who treat us to a dinner now and then, and enjoy at
tenth hand the same scraps and songs and slip-slop that have been
served up by our more fortunate brethren at the tables of the
great.

I now, for the first time in my theatrical life, knew what true
pleasure is. I have known enough of notoriety to pity the poor
devils who are called favorites of the public. I would rather be
a kitten in the arms of a spoiled child, to be one moment petted
and pampered, and the next moment thumped over the head with the
spoon. I smile, too, to see our leading actors, fretting
themselves with envy and jealousy about a trumpery renown,
questionable in its quality and uncertain in its duration. I
laugh, too, though of course in my sleeve, at the bustle and
importance and trouble and perplexities of our manager, who is
harassing himself to death in the hopeless effort to please every
body.

I have found among my fellow subalterns two or three quondam
managers, who, like myself, have wielded the sceptres of country
theatres; and we have many a sly joke together at the expense of
the manager and the public. Sometimes, too, we meet like deposed
and exiled kings, talk over the events of our respective reigns;
moralize over a tankard of ale, and laugh at the humbug of the
great and little world; which, I take it, is the very essence of
practical philosophy.

Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne and his friends. A few
mornings after our hearing the history of the ex-manager, he
bounced into my room before I was out of bed.

“Give me joy! give me joy!” said he, rubbing his hands with the
utmost glee, “my great expectations are realized!”

I stared at him with a look of wonder and inquiry. “My booby
cousin is dead!” cried he, “may he rest in peace! He nearly broke
his neck in a fall from his horse in a fox-chase. By good luck he
lived long enough to make his will. He has made me his heir,
partly out of an odd feeling of retributive justice, and partly
because, as he says, none of his own family or friends know how
to enjoy such an estate. I’m off to the country to take
possession. I’ve done with authorship.—That for the critics!”
said he, snapping his fingers. “Come down to Doubting Castle when
I get settled, and egad! I’ll give you a rouse.” So saying he
shook me heartily by the hand and bounded off in high spirits.

A long time elapsed before I heard from him again. Indeed, it was
but a short time since that I received a letter written in the
happiest of moods. He was getting the estate into fine order,
everything went to his wishes, and what was more, he was married
to Sacharissa: who, it seems, had always entertained an ardent
though secret attachment for him, which he fortunately discovered
just after coming to his estate.

“I find,” said he, “you are a little given to the sin of
authorship which I renounce. If the anecdotes I have given you of
my story are of any interest, you may make use of them; but come
down to Doubting Castle and see how we live, and I’ll give you my
whole London life over a social glass; and a rattling history it
shall be about authors and reviewers.”

If ever I visit Doubting Castle, and get the history he promises,
the Public shall be sure to hear of it.

PART THIRD THE ITALIAN BANDITTI

THE INN AT TERRACINA

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!

“Here comes the estafette from Naples,” said mine host of the inn
at Terracina, “bring out the relay.”

The estafette came as usual galloping up the road, brandishing
over his head a short-handled whip, with a long knotted lash;
every smack of which made a report like a pistol. He was a tight
square-set young fellow, in the customary uniform—a smart blue
coat, ornamented with facings and gold lace, but so short behind
as to reach scarcely below his waistband, and cocked up not
unlike the tail of a wren. A cocked hat, edged with gold lace; a
pair of stiff riding boots; but instead of the usual leathern
breeches he had a fragment of a pair of drawers that scarcely
furnished an apology for modesty to hide behind.

The estafette galloped up to the door and jumped from his horse.

“A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair of breeches,” said
he, “and quickly—I am behind my time, and must be off.”

“San Genaro!” replied the host, “why, where hast thou left thy
garment?”

“Among the robbers between this and Fondi.”

“What! rob an estafette! I never heard of such folly. What could
they hope to get from thee?”

“My leather breeches!” replied the estafette. “They were bran
new, and shone like gold, and hit the fancy of the captain.”

“Well, these fellows grow worse and worse. To meddle with an
estafette! And that merely for the sake of a pair of leather
breeches!”

The robbing of a government messenger seemed to strike the host
with More astonishment than any other enormity that had taken
place on the road; and indeed it was the first time so wanton an
outrage had been committed; the robbers generally taking care not
to meddle with any thing belonging to government.

The estafette was by this time equipped; for he had not lost an
instant in making his preparations while talking. The relay was
ready: the rosolio tossed off. He grasped the reins and the
stirrup.

“Were there many robbers in the band?” said a handsome, dark
young man, stepping forward from the door of the inn.

“As formidable a band as ever I saw,” said the estafette,
springing into the saddle.

“Are they cruel to travellers?” said a beautiful young Venetian
lady, who had been hanging on the gentleman’s arm.

“Cruel, signora!” echoed the estafette, giving a glance at the
lady as he put spurs to his horse. “_Corpo del Bacco!_ they
stiletto all the men, and as to the women—”

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!—the last words were drowned in
the smacking of the whip, and away galloped the estafette along
the road to the Pontine marshes.

“Holy Virgin!” ejaculated the fair Venetian, “what will become of
us!”

The inn of Terracina stands just outside of the walls of the old
town of that name, on the frontiers of the Roman territory. A
little, lazy, Italian town, the inhabitants of which, apparently
heedless and listless, are said to be little better than the
brigands which surround them, and indeed are half of them
supposed to be in some way or other connected with the robbers. A
vast, rocky height rises perpendicularly above it, with the ruins
of the castle of Theodoric the Goth, crowning its summit; before
it spreads the wide bosom of the Mediterranean, that sea without
flux or reflux. There seems an idle pause in every thing about
this place. The port is without a sail, excepting that once in a
while a solitary felucca may be seen, disgorging its holy cargo
of baccala, the meagre provision for the Quaresima or Lent. The
naked watch towers, rising here and there along the coast, speak
of pirates and corsairs which hover about these shores: while the
low huts, as stations for soldiers, which dot the distant road,
as it winds through an olive grove, intimate that in the ascent
there is danger for the traveller and facility for the bandit.

Indeed, it is between this town and Fondi that the road to Naples
is Mostly infested by banditti. It winds among rocky and solitary
places, where the robbers are enabled to see the traveller from a
distance from the brows of hills or impending precipices, and to
lie in wait for him, at the lonely and difficult passes.

At the time that the estafette made this sudden appearance,
almost in _cuerpo_, the audacity of the robbers had risen to an
unparalleled height. They had their spies and emissaries in every
town, village, and osteria, to give them notice of the quality
and movements of travellers. They did not scruple to send
messages into the country towns and villas, demanding certain
sums of money, or articles of dress and luxury; with menaces of
vengeance in case of refusal. They had plundered carriages;
carried people of rank and fortune into the mountains and obliged
them to write for heavy ransoms; and had committed outrages on
females who had fallen in their power.

The police exerted its rigor in vain. The brigands were too
numerous And powerful for a weak police. They were countenanced
and cherished by several of the villages; and though now and then
the limbs of malefactors hung blackening in the trees near which
they had committed some atrocity; or their heads stuck upon posts
in iron cages made some dreary part of the road still more
dreary, still they seemed to strike dismay into no bosom but that
of the traveller.

The dark, handsome young man; and the Venetian lady, whom I have
mentioned, had arrived early that afternoon in a private
carriage, drawn by mules and attended by a single servant. They
had been recently married, were spending the honeymoon in
travelling through these delicious countries, and were on their
way to visit a rich aunt of the young lady’s at Naples.

The lady was young, and tender and timid. The stories she had
heard along the road had filled her with apprehension, not more
for herself than for her husband; for though she had been married
almost a month, she still loved him almost to idolatry. When she
reached Terracina the rumors of the road had increased to an
alarming magnitude; and the sight of two robbers’ skulls grinning
in iron cages on each side of the old gateway of the town brought
her to a pause. Her husband had tried in vain to reassure her.
They had lingered all the afternoon at the inn, until it was too
late to think of starting that evening, and the parting words of
the estafette completed her affright.

“Let us return to Rome,” said she, putting her arm within her
husband’s, and drawing towards him as if for protection—“let us
return to Rome and give up this visit to Naples.”

“And give up the visit to your aunt, too,” said the husband.

“Nay—what is my aunt in comparison with your safety,” said she,
looking up tenderly in his face.

There was something in her tone and manner that showed she really
was Thinking more of her husband’s safety at that moment than of
her own; and being recently married, and a match of pure
affection, too, it is very possible that she was. At least her
husband thought so. Indeed, any one who has heard the sweet,
musical tone of a Venetian voice, and the melting tenderness of a
Venetian phrase, and felt the soft witchery of a Venetian eye,
would not wonder at the husband’s believing whatever they
professed.

He clasped the white hand that had been laid within his, put his
arm round her slender waist, and drawing her fondly to his
bosom—“This night at least,” said he, “we’ll pass at Terracina.”

Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!

Another apparition of the road attracted the attention of mine
host and his guests. From the road across the Pontine marshes, a
carriage drawn by half a dozen horses, came driving at a furious
pace—the postillions smacking their whips like mad, as is the
case when conscious of the greatness or the munificence of their
fare. It was a landaulet, with a servant mounted on the dickey.
The compact, highly finished, yet proudly simple construction of
the carriage; the quantity of neat, well-arranged trunks and
conveniences; the loads of box coats and upper benjamins on the
dickey—and the fresh, burly, gruff-looking face at the window,
proclaimed at once that it was the equipage of an Englishman.

“Fresh horses to Fondi,” said the Englishman, as the landlord
came bowing to the carriage door.

“Would not his Excellenza alight and take some refreshment?”

“No—he did not mean to eat until he got to Fondi!”

“But the horses will be some time in getting ready—”

“Ah.—that’s always the case—nothing but delay in this cursed
country.”

“If his Excellenza would only walk into the house—”

“No, no, no!—I tell you no!—I want nothing but horses, and as
quick as possible. John! see that the horses are got ready, and
don’t let us be kept here an hour or two. Tell him if we’re
delayed over the time, I’ll lodge a complaint with the
postmaster.”

John touched his hat, and set off to obey his master’s orders,
with the taciturn obedience of an English servant. He was a
ruddy, round-faced fellow, with hair cropped close; a short coat,
drab breeches, and long gaiters; and appeared to have almost as
much contempt as his master for everything around him.

In the mean time the Englishman got out of the carriage and
walked up and down before the inn, with his hands in his pockets:
taking no notice of the crowd of idlers who were gazing at him
and his equipage. He was tall, stout, and well made; dressed with
neatness and precision, wore a travelling-cap of the color of
gingerbread, and had rather an unhappy expression about the
corners of his mouth; partly from not having yet made his dinner,
and partly from not having been able to get on at a greater rate
than seven miles an hour. Not that he had any other cause for
haste than an Englishman’s usual hurry to get to the end of a
journey; or, to use the regular phrase, “to get on.”

After some time the servant returned from the stable with as sour
a look as his master.

“Are the horses ready, John?”

“No, sir—I never saw such a place. There’s no getting anything
done. I think your honor had better step into the house and get
something to eat; it will be a long while before we get to
Fundy.”

“D—n the house—it’s a mere trick—I’ll not eat anything, just to
spite them,” said the Englishman, still more crusty at the
prospect of being so long without his dinner.

“They say your honor’s very wrong,” said John, “to set off at
this late hour. The road’s full of highwaymen.”

“Mere tales to get custom.”

“The estafette which passed us was stopped by a whole gang,” said
John, increasing his emphasis with each additional piece of
information.

“I don’t believe a word of it.”

“They robbed him of his breeches,” said John, giving at the same
time a hitch to his own waist-band.

“All humbug!”

Here the dark, handsome young man stepped forward and addressing
the Englishman very politely in broken English, invited him to
partake of a repast he was about to make. “Thank’ee,” said the
Englishman, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets, and
casting a slight side glance of suspicion at the young man, as if
he thought from his civility he must have a design upon his
purse.

“We shall be most happy if you will do us that favor,” said the
lady, in her soft Venetian dialect. There was a sweetness in her
accents that was most persuasive. The Englishman cast a look upon
her countenance; her beauty was still more eloquent. His features
instantly relaxed. He made an attempt at a civil bow. “With great
pleasure, signora,” said he.

In short, the eagerness to “get on” was suddenly slackened; the
determination to famish himself as far as Fondi by way of
punishing the landlord was abandoned; John chose the best
apartment in the inn for his master’s reception, and preparations
were made to remain there until morning.

The carriage was unpacked of such of its contents as were
indispensable for the night. There was the usual parade of trunks
and writing-desks, and portfolios, and dressing-boxes, and those
other oppressive conveniences which burden a comfortable man. The
observant loiterers about the inn door, wrapped up in great
dirt-colored cloaks, with only a hawk’s eye uncovered, made many
remarks to each other on this quantity of luggage that seemed
enough for an army. And the domestics of the inn talked with
wonder of the splendid dressing-case, with its gold and silver
furniture that was spread out on the toilette table, and the bag
of gold that chinked as it was taken out of the trunk. The
strange “Milor’s” wealth, and the treasures he carried about him,
were the talk, that evening, over all Terracina.

The Englishman took some time to make his ablutions and arrange
his dress for table, and after considerable labor and effort in
putting himself at his ease, made his appearance, with stiff
white cravat, his clothes free from the least speck of dust, and
adjusted with precision. He made a formal bow on entering, which
no doubt he meant to be cordial, but which any one else would
have considered cool, and took his seat.

The supper, as it was termed by the Italian, or dinner, as the
Englishman called it, was now served. Heaven and earth, and the
waters under the earth, had been moved to furnish it, for there
were birds of the air and beasts of the earth and fish of the
sea. The Englishman’s servant, too, had turned the kitchen
topsy-turvy in his zeal to cook his master a beefsteak; and made
his appearance loaded with ketchup, and soy, and Cayenne pepper,
and Harvey sauce, and a bottle of port wine, from that warehouse,
the carriage, in which his master seemed desirous of carrying
England about the world with him. Every thing, however, according
to the Englishman, was execrable. The tureen of soup was a black
sea, with livers and limbs and fragments of all kinds of birds
and beasts, floating like wrecks about it. A meagre winged
animal, which my host called a delicate chicken, was too delicate
for his stomach, for it had evidently died of a consumption. The
macaroni was smoked. The beefsteak was tough buffalo’s flesh, and
the countenance of mine host confirmed the assertion. Nothing
seemed to hit his palate but a dish of stewed eels, of which he
ate with great relish, but had nearly refunded them when told
that they were vipers, caught among the rocks of Terracina, and
esteemed a great delicacy.

In short, the Englishman ate and growled, and ate and growled,
like a cat eating in company, pronouncing himself poisoned by
every dish, yet eating on in defiance of death and the doctor.
The Venetian lady, not accustomed to English travellers, almost
repented having persuaded him to the meal; for though very
gracious to her, he was so crusty to all the world beside, that
she stood in awe of him. There is nothing, however, that conquers
John Bull’s crustiness sooner than eating, whatever may be the
cookery; and nothing brings him into good humor with his company
sooner than eating together; the Englishman, therefore, had not
half finished his repast and his bottle, before he began to think
the Venetian a very tolerable fellow for a foreigner, and his
wife almost handsome enough to be an Englishwoman.

In the course of the repast the tales of robbers which harassed
the mind of the fair Venetian, were brought into discussion. The
landlord and the waiter served up such a number of them as they
served up the dishes, that they almost frightened away the poor
lady’s appetite. Among these was the story of the school of
Terracina, still fresh in every mind, where the students were
carried up the mountains by the banditti, in hopes of ransom, and
one of them massacred, to bring the parents to terms for the
others. There was a story also of a gentleman of Rome, who
delayed remitting the ransom demanded for his son, detained by
the banditti, and received one of his son’s ears in a letter with
information that the other would be remitted to him soon, if the
money were not forthcoming, and that in this way he would receive
the boy by instalments until he came to terms.

The fair Venetian shuddered as she heard these tales. The
landlord, like a true story-teller, doubled the dose when he saw
how it operated. He was just proceeding to relate the misfortunes
of a great English lord and his family, when the Englishman,
tired of his volubility, testily interrupted him, and pronounced
these accounts mere traveller’s tales, or the exaggerations of
peasants and innkeepers. The landlord was indignant at the doubt
levelled at his stories, and the innuendo levelled at his cloth;
he cited half a dozen stories still more terrible, to corroborate
those he had already told.

“I don’t believe a word of them,” said the Englishman.

“But the robbers had been tried and executed.”

“All a farce!”

“But their heads were stuck up along the road.”

“Old skulls accumulated during a century.”

The landlord muttered to himself as he went out at the door, “San
Genaro, come sono singolari questi Inglesi.”

A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced the arrival of more
travellers; and from the variety of voices, or rather clamors,
the clattering of horses’ hoofs, the rattling of wheels, and the
general uproar both within and without, the arrival seemed to be
numerous. It was, in fact, the procaccio, and its convoy—a kind
of caravan of merchandise, that sets out on stated days, under an
escort of soldiery to protect it from the robbers. Travellers
avail themselves of the occasion, and many carriages accompany
the procaccio. It was a long time before either landlord or
waiter returned, being hurried away by the tempest of new custom.
When mine host appeared, there was a smile of triumph on his
countenance.—“Perhaps,” said he, as he cleared away the table,
“perhaps the signor has not heard of what has happened.”

“What?” said the Englishman, drily.

“Oh, the procaccio has arrived, and has brought accounts of fresh
exploits of the robbers, signor.”

“Pish!”

“There’s more news of the English Milor and his family,” said the
host, emphatically.

“An English lord.-What English lord?”

“Milor Popkin.”

“Lord Popkin? I never heard of such a title!”

“_O Sicuro_—a great nobleman that passed through here lately with
his Milady and daughters—a magnifico—one of the grand councillors
of London—un almanno.”

“Almanno—almanno?—tut! he means alderman.”

“Sicuro, aldermanno Popkin, and the principezza Popkin, and the
signorina Popkin!” said mine host, triumphantly. He would now
have entered into a full detail, but was thwarted by the
Englishman, who seemed determined not to credit or indulge him in
his stories. An Italian tongue, however, is not easily checked:
that of mine host continued to run on with increasing volubility
as he conveyed the fragments of the repast out of the room, and
the last that could be distinguished of his voice, as it died
away along the corridor, was the constant recurrence of the
favorite word Popkin—Popkin—Popkin—pop—pop—pop.

The arrival of the procaccio had indeed filled the house with
stories as it had with guests. The Englishman and his companions
walked out after supper into the great hall, or common room of
the inn, which runs through the centre building; a gloomy,
dirty-looking apartment, with tables placed in various parts of
it, at which some of the travellers were seated in groups, while
others strolled about in famished impatience for their evening’s
meal. As the procaccio was a kind of caravan of travellers, there
were people of every class and country, who had come in all kinds
of vehicles; and though they kept in some measure in separate
parties, yet the being united under one common escort had jumbled
them into companionship on the road. Their formidable number and
the formidable guard that accompanied them, had prevented any
molestation from the banditti; but every carriage had its tale of
wonder, and one vied with another in the recital. Not one but had
seen groups of robbers peering over the rocks; or their guns
peeping out from among the bushes, or had been reconnoitred by
some suspicious-looking fellow with scowling eye, who disappeared
on seeing the guard.

The fair Venetian listened to all these stories with that eager
curiosity with which we seek to pamper any feeling of alarm. Even
the Englishman began to feel interested in the subject, and
desirous of gaining more correct information than these mere
flying reports.

He mingled in one of the groups which appeared to be the most
respectable, and which was assembled round a tall, thin person,
with long Roman nose, a high forehead, and lively prominent eye,
beaming from under a green velvet travelling-cap with gold
tassel. He was holding forth with all the fluency of a man who
talks well and likes to exert his talent. He was of Rome; a
surgeon by profession, a poet by choice, and one who was
something of an improvvisatore. He soon gave the Englishman
abundance of information respecting the banditti.

“The fact is,” said he, “that many of the people in the villages
among the mountains are robbers, or rather the robbers find
perfect asylum among them. They range over a vast extent of wild
impracticable country, along the chain of Apennines, bordering on
different states; they know all the difficult passes, the short
cuts and strong-holds. They are secure of the good-will of the
poor and peaceful inhabitants of those regions, whom they never
disturb, and whom they often enrich. Indeed, they are looked upon
as a sort of illegitimate heroes among the mountain villages, and
some of the frontier towns, where they dispose of their plunder.
From these mountains they keep a look-out upon the plains and
valleys, and meditate their descents.”

“The road to Fondi, which you are about to travel, is one of the
places most noted for their exploits. It is overlooked from some
distance by little hamlets, perched upon heights. From hence, the
brigands, like hawks in their nests, keep on the watch for such
travellers as are likely to afford either booty or ransom. The
windings of the road enable them to see carriages long before
they pass, so that they have time to get to some advantageous
lurking-place from whence to pounce upon their prey.”

“But why does not the police interfere and root them out?” said
the Englishman.

“The police is too weak and the banditti are too strong,” replied
the improvvisatore. “To root them out would be a more difficult
task than you imagine. They are connected and identified with the
people of the villages and the peasantry generally; the numerous
bands have an understanding with each other, and with people of
various conditions in all parts of the country. They know all
that is going on; a _gens d’armes_ cannot stir without their
being aware of it. They have their spies and emissaries in every
direction; they lurk about towns, villages, inns,—mingle in every
crowd, pervade every place of resort. I should not be surprised,”
said he, “if some one should be supervising us at this moment.”

The fair Venetian looked round fearfully and turned pale.

“One peculiarity of the Italian banditti” continued the
improvvisatore, “is that they wear a kind of uniform, or rather
costume, which designates their profession. This is probably done
to take away from its skulking lawless character, and to give it
something of a military air in the eyes of the common people; or
perhaps to catch by outward dash and show the fancies of the
young men of the villages. These dresses or costumes are often
rich and fanciful. Some wear jackets and breeches of bright
colors, richly embroidered; broad belts of cloth; or sashes of
silk net; broad, high-crowned hats, decorated with feathers of
variously-colored ribbands, and silk nets for the hair.

“Many of the robbers are peasants who follow ordinary occupations
in the villages for a part of the year, and take to the mountains
for the rest. Some only go out for a season, as it were, on a
hunting expedition, and then resume the dress and habits of
common life. Many of the young men of the villages take to this
kind of life occasionally from a mere love of adventure, the wild
wandering spirit of youth and the contagion of bad example; but
it is remarked that they can never after brook a long continuance
in settled life. They get fond of the unbounded freedom and rude
license they enjoy; and there is something in this wild mountain
life checquered by adventure and peril, that is wonderfully
fascinating, independent of the gratification of cupidity by the
plunder of the wealthy traveller.”

Here the improvvisatore was interrupted by a lively Neapolitan
lawyer. “Your mention of the younger robbers,” said he, “puts me
in mind of an adventure of a learned doctor, a friend of mine,
which happened in this very neighborhood.”

A wish was of course expressed to hear the adventure of the
doctor by all except the improvvisatore, who, being fond of
talking and of hearing himself talk, and accustomed moreover to
harangue without interruption, looked rather annoyed at being
checked when in full career.

The Neapolitan, however, took no notice of his chagrin, but
related The following anecdote.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY

My friend the doctor was a thorough antiquary: a little, rusty,
musty Old fellow, always groping among ruins. He relished a
building as you Englishmen relish a cheese, the more mouldy and
crumbling it was, the more it was to his taste. A shell of an old
nameless temple, or the cracked walls of a broken-down
amphitheatre, would throw him into raptures; and he took more
delight in these crusts and cheese parings of antiquity than in
the best-conditioned, modern edifice.

He had taken a maggot into his brain at one time to hunt after
the Ancient cities of the Pelasgi which are said to exist to this
day among the mountains of the Abruzzi; but the condition of
which is strangely unknown to the antiquaries. It is said that he
had made a great many valuable notes and memorandums on the
subject, which he always carried about with him, either for the
purpose of frequent reference, or because he feared the precious
documents might fall into the hands of brother antiquaries. He
had therefore a large pocket behind, in which he carried them,
banging against his rear as he walked.

Be this as it may; happening to pass a few days at Terracina, in
the course of his researches, he one day mounted the rocky cliffs
which overhang the town, to visit the castle of Theodoric. He was
groping about these ruins, towards the hour of sunset, buried in
his reflections,—his wits no doubt wool-gathering among the Goths
and Romans, when he heard footsteps behind him.

He turned and beheld five or six young fellows, of rough, saucy
demeanor, clad in a singular manner, half peasant, half huntsman,
with fusils in their hands. Their whole appearance and carriage
left him in no doubt into what company he had fallen.

The doctor was a feeble little man poor, in look and poorer in
purse. He had but little money in his pocket; but he had certain
valuables, such as an old silver watch, thick as a turnip, with
figures on it large enough for a clock, and a set of seals at the
end of a steel chain, that dangled half down to his knees; all
which were of precious esteem, being family reliques. He had also
a seal ring, a veritable antique intaglio, that covered half his
knuckles; but what he most valued was, the precious treatise on
the Pelasgian cities, which, he would gladly have given all the
money in his pocket to have had safe at the bottom of his trunk
in Terracina.

However, he plucked up a stout heart; at least as stout a heart
as he could, seeing that he was but a puny little man at the hest
of times. So he wished the hunters a “buon giorno.” They returned
his salutation, giving the old gentleman a sociable slap on the
back that made his heart leap into his throat.

They fell into conversation, and walked for some time together
among The heights, the doctor wishing them all the while at the
bottom of the crater of Vesuvius. At length they came to a small
osteria on the mountain, where they proposed to enter and have a
cup of wine together. The doctor consented; though he would as
soon have been invited to drink hemlock.