nothing but the dryness and meagreness of a New England village.



JOURNEY TO FLORENCE.


Civita Castellana, May 24th.--We left Rome this morning, after troubles
of various kinds, and a dispute in the first place with Lalla, our female
servant, and her mother. . . . . Mother and daughter exploded into a
livid rage, and cursed us plentifully,--wishing that we might never come
to our journey's end, and that we might all break our necks or die of
apoplexy,--the most awful curse that an Italian knows how to invoke upon
his enemies, because it precludes the possibility of extreme unction.
However, as we are heretics, and certain of damnation therefore, anyhow,
it does not much matter to us; and also the anathemas may have been blown
back upon those who invoked them, like the curses that were flung out
from the balcony of St Peter's during Holy Week and wafted by heaven's
breezes right into the faces of some priests who stood near the pope.
Next we had a disagreement, with two men who brought down our luggage,
and put it on the vettura; . . . . and, lastly, we were infested with
beggars, who hung round the carriages with doleful petitions, till we
began to move away; but the previous warfare had put me into too stern a
mood for almsgiving, so that they also were doubtless inclined to curse
more than to bless, and I am persuaded that we drove off under a perfect
shower of anathemas.

We passed through the Porta del Popolo at about eight o'clock; and after
a moment's delay, while the passport was examined, began our journey
along the Flaminian Way, between two such high and inhospitable walls of