building would long ago have become an impassable chaos of stones and
shrubbery. The Trinita cannot be _restored_ without enormous outlay;
nobody dreams of such a thing. A yearly expenditure of ten pounds,
however, would go far towards arresting its fall. But where shall the
money be found? This enthusiastic nation, so enamoured of all that is
exquisite in art, will spend sixty million francs on a new Ministry of
Justice which, barely completed, is already showing signs of disrupture;
it will cheerfully vote _(vide_ daily press) the small item of eighty
thousand francs to supply that institution with pens and ink--lucky
contractor!--while this and a hundred other buildings of singular beauty
are allowed to crumble to pieces, day by day.

Not far from the abbey there stands a church dedicated to Saint Roque.
Go within, if you wish to see the difference between Benedictine dignity
and the buffoonery which subsequently tainted the Catholicism of the
youth. On its gable sits a strange emblem: a large stone dog, gazing
amiably at the landscape. The saint, during his earthly career, was
always accompanied by a dog, and now likes to have him on the roof of
his sanctuary.

The Norman church attached to the Trinita lies at a lower level than
that building, having been constructed, says Lupoli, on the foundations
of a temple to Hymenaeus. It may be so; but one distrusts Lupoli. A
remarkable Norman capital, now wrought into a font, is preserved here,
and I was interested in watching the behaviour of a procession of female
pilgrims in regard to it. Trembling with emotion, they perambulated the
sacred stone, kissing every one of its corners; then they dipped their
hands into its basin, and kissed them devoutly. An old hag, the mistress
of the ceremonies, muttered: "tutti santi--tutti santi!" at each
osculation. Next, they prostrated themselves on the floor and licked