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It was a passionate ambition the old pettifogger had, to see his scion enter through the front door and with head proudly erect, the precincts of the law, into which he had crawled so cautiously and at the risk, more than once, of being dragged out with a chain fastened to his ankle. Ramon spent several years in Valencia without getting beyond the elementary courses In Common Law. The cursed classes were held In the morn- ing, you see, and he had to go to bed at dawn — the hour when the lights in the pool-rooms went out.

Besides, in his quarters at the hotel he had a mag- nificent shotgun — a present from his father; and homesickness for the orchards made him pass many an afternoon at the pigeon traps where he was far better known than at the University. This fine specimen of masculine youth — tall, mus- cular, tanned, with a pair of domineering eyes to which thick eyebrows gave a touch of harshness — had been born for action, and excitement; Ramon simply couldn't concentrate on books!

Old BruU, who through niggardliness and pru- dence had placed his son on ''half rations," as he put it, sent the boy just money enough to keep him going; but dupe, in turn, of the wiles he had for- merly practiced on the rustics of Alcira. Home to Alcira came rumors of other exploits by the "Prince," as don Jaime called his boy in view of the lattcr's ability to run through money.

In parties with friends of the family, don Ramon's doings were spoken of as scandalous actually — a duel after a quarrel at cards; then a father and a brother — common workingmen in flannel shirts! Old BruU made up his mind to tolerate these es- capades of his son no longer; and he made him give up his studies. Ramon would not be a lawyer; well, after all, one didn't have to have a degree to be a man of importance. Besides the father felt he was getting old; it was hard for him to look after the working of his orchards personally.

He could make good use of that son who seemed to have been born to impose his will upon everybody around him. For some time past don Jaime had had his eye on the daughter of a friend of his. The Brull house showed noticeable lack of a woman's presence. His wife had died shortly after his retirement from busi- ness, and the old codger stamped in rage at the slovenliness and laziness displayed by his servants.

He would marry Ramon to Bernarda — an ugly, ill- humored, yellowish, skinny creature — but sole heir- ess to her father's three beautiful orchards. Be- sides, she was conspicuous for her industrious, eco- nomical ways, and a parsimony in her expenditures that came pretty close to stinginess. Brought up with all the ideas of a rural skinflint, he thought no decent person could object to marrying an ugly bad- tempered woman, so long as she had plenty of money.

The father-in-law and the daughter-in-law under- stood each other perfectly. The old man's eyes would water at sight of that stern, long-faced puri- tan, who never had much to say in the house, but went into high dudgeon over the slightest waste on the part of the domestics, scolding the farmhands for the merest oversight in the orchards, haggling and wrangling with the orange drummers for a cen- time more or less per hundredweight. That new daughter of his was to be the solace of his old age!

Meantime, the "prince" would be off hunting every morning in the nearby mountains and loung- ing every afternoon in the cafe ; but he was no longer content with the admiration of the idlers hanging around a billiard table, nor was he taking part in the game upstairs. He was frequenting the circles of "serious" people now, had made friends with the alcalde and was talking all the time of the great need for getting all "decent" folk together to take the "rabble" in hand!

That's the way I like to see him. The least objection to his views he regarded as a per- sonal insult; he would transfer debates in session cut into the streets and settle them there with 24 THE TORRENT threats and fisticuffs. His greatest glory was to have his enemies say of him: "Look out for that Ramon. He's a tough proposition. He "did favors," assured a living, that is, to every loafer and bully in town. He was ready to be "touched" by anyone who could serve, in tavern and cafe, as advertising agent of his ris- ing fame.

And he rose rapidly, in fact. The old folks who had pushed him forward with influence and coun- sel soon found themselves left far behind. He got able-bodied men exempted from military service ; he winked at corruption in the city councils that backed him, although the per- petrators deserved to go to prison; he saw to it that the constabulary was not too energetic in running down the roders, the "wanderers," who, for some well-placed shot at election time, would be forced to flee to the mountains.

That scallawag was realiz- ing the old man's dream: the conquest of the city, ruling over men where his father had gotten only money! And, in addition don Jaime lived to see THE TORRENT 25 the perpetuation of the Brull dynasty assured by the birth of a grandson, Rafael, the child of a couple who had never loved each other, but were united only by avarice and ambition.

Old Brull died like a saint. He departed this life with the consolation of all the last sacraments. Every cleric in the city helped to waft his soul heavenward with clouds of incense at the solemn obsequies. And, though the rabble — the political opponents of the son, that is — recalled those Wednesdays long before when the flock from the orchards would come to let itself be fleeced in the old Shylock's office, all safe and sane people — peo- ple who had something in this world to lose — mourned the death of so worthy and industrious a man, a man who had risen from the lowest estate and had finally been able to accumulate a fortune by hard work, honest hard work!

In Rafael's father there still remained much of the wild student who had caused so many tongues to wag in his youthful days. But his doings with peasant girls were hushed up now; fear of the cacique's power stifled all gossip; and since, more- over, affairs with such lowly women cost very little money, dona Bernarda pretended to know nothing about them. She did not love her husband much. She was leading that narrow, self-centered life of the country woman, who feels that all her duties are ful- filled if she remains faithful to her mate and keeps saving money.

By a noteworthy anomaly, she, who was so stingy, so thrifty, ready to start a squabble on the public square in defense of the family money against day- 26 THE TORRENT laborers or middlemen, was tolerance itself toward the lavish expenditures of her husband in maintain- ing his political sovereignty over the region. Every election opened a new breach in the fam- ily fortune.

Don Ramon would receive orders to carry his district for some non-resident, who might not have lived there more than a day or two. So those who governed yonder in Madrid had ordered — and orders must be obeyed. In every town whole muttons would be set turning over the fires. Tavern wine would flow like water. Debts would be can- celled and fistfulls of pesetas would be distributed among the most recalcitrant, all at don Ramon's expense of course.

And his wife, who wore a calico wrapper to save on clothes and stinted so much on food that there was hardly anything left for the servants to eat, would be arrayed in splendor when the day for the contest came around, ready in her excitement to help her husband throw the entire house through the window, if need be. This, however, was all pure speculation on her part. The money that was being scattered so madly broadcast was a "loan" simply.

Already her pierc- ing eyes were caressing the tiny, dark-complexioned, restless little creature that lay across her knees, see- ing in him the privileged heir-apparent who would one day reap the harvest from all such family sacri- fices. Dona Bernarda had taken refuge in religion as in a cool, refreshing oasis in the desert of vulgarity and monotony in her life. Thanks to him the wave of demagogy halts at the temple door and evil fails to triumph in the District.

He is the bul- wark of the Lord against the impious! The lower scum would conquer — those wild-eyed mechanics and common laborers who read the Valencian newspapers and talk about equality all the time. And they would divide up the orchards, and demand that the product of the harvests — thousands and thousands of dtiros paid for oranges by the Englishmen and the French — should belong to all.

The sacks of money filled by the old man at the cost of so much roguery were shaken empty over all the 28 THE TORRENT District ; nor were several assaults upon the munici- pal treasury sufficient to bring them back to normal roundness.

Don Ramon contemplated this squan- dering impassively, proud that people should be talk- ing of his generosity as much as of his power. The whole District worshipped as a sacred flag- staff that bronzed, muscular, massive figure, which floated a huge, flowing, gray-flecked mustache from its upper end. The patio of the Brull mansion was the throne of his sovereignty. His partisans would find him there, pacing up and down among the green boxes of plan- tain trees, his hands clasped behind his broad, strong, but now somewhat stooping back — a majestic back withal, capable of supporting hosts and hosts of friends.

There he "administered justice," decided the fate of families, settled the affairs of towns — all in a few off-hand but short and decisive words, like one of those ancient Moorish kings who, in that self- same territory, centuries before, legislated for their subjects under the open sky. On market-days the patio would be thronged. Carts would stop in long lines on either side of the door. Don Ramon would give them all a hearing, frown- ing gravely meanwhile, his chin on his bosom and one hand on the head of the little Rafael at his side — a pose copied from a chromo of the Kaiser petting the Crown Prince.

On afternoons when the Ayiintamiento was In ses- sion, the chief could never leave his patio. Of course not a chair In the city hall could be dusted without his permission; but he preferred to remain Invisi- ble, like a god, knowing well that his power would seem more terrible if It spoke only from the pillar of fire or from the whirlwind. All day long city councilors would go trotting back and forth from the City Hall to the Brull patio.

The few enemies don Ramon had in the Council — meddlers, dona Bernarda called them — Idiots who swallowed everything In print provided it were against the King and religion — attacked the cacique persistently, censuring everything he did. Don Ra- mon's henchmen would tremble with impotent rage.

Let's see now: somebody go and ask the boss! His companions would gather about him eager to know the reply that don Ramon's wisdom had deigned to suggest; and a quarrel would start then, each one anxious to have the privilege of anni- hilating the enemy with the magic words — all talk- ing at the same time like magpies suddenly set chat- tering by the dawn of a new light.

If the opposition held its ground, again stupefac- tion would come over them. Another mad dash in quest of a new consultation. Thus the sessions would go by, to the great delight of the barber Cupido — the sharpest and meanest tongue in the city — who, whenever the Council met, would observe to his early morning shaves : ''Holiday today: the usual race of councilors bare- back.

This collaboration in the upbuilding and the up- holding of the family influence was the single bond of union between husband and wife. This cold woman, a complete stranger to tenderness, would flush with pleasure every time the chief approved her ideas. If only she were "boss" of "the Party! Don Andres had often said as much himself! This don Andres was her husband's most intimate friend, one of those men who are born to be second everywhere and in everything.

Where don Ramon could not go in person, don Andres would be present for him, as the chief's alter ego. Don Andres had no relatives, and spent almost all his time at the Brull's. He was like a piece of fur- niture that seems always to be getting in the way at first; but when all were once accustomed to him, he became an indispensable fixture in the family.

In the days when don Ramon had been a young subor- dinate of the Ayuntamiento, he had met and liked the man, and taking him into the ranks of his "heel- ers," had promoted him rapidly to be chief of staff. In the opinion of the "boss," there wasn't a cleverer, shrewder fellow in the world than don Andres, nor one with a better memory for names and faces.

Brull was the strategist who directed the campaign; don Andres the tactician who commanded actual operations and cleaned up behind the lines when the enemy was divided and undone. Don Ramon was given to settling everything in a violent manner, and drew his gun at the slightest provocation. If his methods had been followed, "the Party" would have murdered someone every day.

Don Andres had a smooth tongue and a seraphic smile that sim- ply wound alcaldes or rebellious electors around his 32 THE TORRENT little finger, and his specialty was the art of letting loose a rain of sealed documents over the District that started complicated and never-ending prose- cutions against troublesome opponents. He attended to "the chief's" correspondence, and was tutor and playmate to the little Rafael, taking the boy on long walks through the orchard country.

To dona Bernarda he was confidential adviser. That surly, severe woman showed her bare heart to no one in the world save don Andres. When- ever he called her his "senora," or his "worthy mis- tress," she could not restrain a gesture of satisfac- tion; and it was to him that she poured out her com- plaints against her husband's misdeeds.

Her affec- tion for him was that of a dame of ancient chivalry for her private squire. Enthusiasm for the glory of the house united them in such intimacy that the opposition wagged its tongues, asserting that dona Bernarda was getting even for her husband's way- wardness. But don Andres, who smiled scornfully when accused of taking advantage of the chief's in- fluence to drive hard bargains to his own advan- tage, was not the man to be trifled with if gossip ventured to smirch his friendship with the senora.

Their Trinity was most closely cemented, how- ever, by their fondness for Rafael, the little tot des- tined to bring fame to the name of BruU and realize the ambitions of both his grandfather and his father. Rafael was a quiet, morose little boy, whose gen- tleness of disposition seemed to irritate the hard- hearted dona Bernarda. He was always hanging on to her skirts. Every time she raised her eyes she would find the little fellow's gaze fixed upon her. And the little fellow, moody and resigned, would leave the room, as If In obedience to a disagreeable command.

Don Andres alone was successful in amusing the child, with his tales and his strolls through the orchards, picking flowers for him, making whistles for him out of reeds. It was don Andres who took him to school, also, and who advertised the boy's fondness for study everywhere. That kid is going to be another Canovas. Never did a Prince of Wales grow up amid the respect and the adulation heaped upon little Brull.

At school, the children regarded him as a superior being who had condescended to come down among them for his education. A well-scribbled sheet, a lesson fluently repeated, wxre enough for the teach- er, who belonged to "the Party" just to collect his wages on time and without trouble, to declare In prophetic tones: You are destined to great things. How brilliant he is! It's bad for him. See how peaked he looks! The Party organ dedicated an annual article to the scho- lastic prodigies of the "gifted son of our distin- guished chief don Ramon Brull, the country's hope, who already merits title as the shining light of the future!

Here's a duro! On certain occasions, playing in the patio, he had surprised the austere old man gazing at him fixedly, as if trying to foresee his future. Don Andres took charge of settling Rafael in Va- lencia when he began his university studies. The dream of old don Jaime, disillusioned in the son, would be fulfilled in the third generation! And lest the corruption of the city should lead the son astray as it had done Ramon in his student days, she would send don Andres frequently to the capital, and write letter after letter to her Valen- cian friends, particularly to a canon of her inti- mate acquaintance, asking them not to lose sight of the boy.

But Rafael was good behavior itself; a model boy, a "serious" young man, the good canon assured the mother. The distinctions and the prizes that came to him in Alcira continued to pursue him in Valencia; and besides, don Ramon and his wife learned from the papers of the triumphs achieved by their son in the debating society, a nightly gathering of law students in a university hall, where future Scions wrangled on such themes as "Resolved: that the French Revolution was more of a good than an evil," or "Resolved, that Socialism is superior to Christianity.

But Rafael, ever sane and a congenital "mod- erate," was not of those fire-brands; he sat on "the Right" of the august assembly of Wranglers, main- taining a "sound" attitude on all questions, thinking what he thought "with" Saint Thomas and "with" other orthodox sages whom his clerical Mentor pointed out to him. These triumphs were announced by telegraph in the Party papers, which, to garnish the chief's glory and avoid suspicion of "inspiration," always began the article with: "According to a despatch printed In the Metropolitan press You'll see; he'll be a second Manterola!

All the rich girls In town will be after him. He'll have his pick of them. Every time the student came home, his father gave him the same silent caress. In course of time the diiro had been replaced by a hundred peseta note; but the rough claw that grazed his head was falling now with an energy ever weaker and seemed to grow lighter with the years. Rafael, from long periods of absence, noted his father's condition better than the rest. The old man was ill, very ill. As tall as ever, as austere and imposing, and as little given to words.

But he was growing thinner. His fierce eyes were sinking deeper into their sockets. There was little left to him now except his massive frame. His neck, once as sturdy as a bull's, showed the tendons and the arteries under the loose, wrinkled skin; and his mustache, once so arrogant, but now withering with each suc- cessive day, drooped dispiritedly like the banner of a defeated army wet with rain.

The boy was surprised at the gestures and tears of anger with which his mother welcomed expression of his fears. Lot's of use he is to us! May the Lord be mer- ciful and take him off right now. Don Ramon, that somber libertine of Insatiable appetites, prey to a sinister, mysterious inebriation, was tossing in a last whirlwind of tempestuous desire, as though the blaze of sunset had set fire to what re- mained of his vitality.

May this man die as soon as possible I May all this come to an end soon, oh Lord! They were the only ones who dared allude to his disorderly life. He had enough strength left for one more caress the day when, escorted by don Andres, Rafael en- tered with his degree as a Doctor of Law.

And as if he had been waiting around just to see the realization of old Don Jaime's ambition, which he himself had not been able to fulfill, he passed away. All the bells of the city tolled mournfully. The Party weekly came out with a black border a palm wide; and from all over the District folks came in droves to see whether the powerful don Ramon BruU, who had been able to rain upon the just and unjust alike on this earth, could possibly have died the same as any other human being.

Ill When dona Bernarda found herself alone, and absolute mistress of her home, she could not con- ceal her satisfaction. Now they would see what a woman could do. She counted on the advice and experience of don Andres, who was closer than ever to her now; and on the prestige of Rafael, the young lawyer, who bade fair to sustain the reputation of the Brulls. The power of the family continued unchanged. Don Andres, who, at the death of his master, had succeeded to the authority of a second father In the Brull house, saw to the maintenance of relations with the authorities at the provincial capital and with the still bigger fish In Madrid.

Petitions were heard in the patio the same as ever. Loyal party adher- ents were received as cordially as before and the same favors were done, nor was there any decline of influence in places that don Andres referred to as "the spheres of public administration. Don Ramon had left the party machine in perfect condition; all it needed was enough "grease" to keep It running smoothly; and there his widow was besides, ever alert at the slightest suggestion of a creak in the gearing.

Brull's son Is as powerful as the old man himself. He confined his personal activities to obey- ing his mother. Our friends there will be happy to see you. Instead of going out for a ride, spend your after- noon at the Club! They would sit around, filling their coflee-saucers with cigar-ash, disputing as to which was the better orator, Castelar or Canovas, and, in case of a war between France and Germany, which of the two would win — Idle subjects that always provoked disagreements and led to quarrels.

The only time he entered Into voluntary relations with "the Party" was when he took his pen in hand and manufactured for the Brull weekly a series of articles on "Law and Morality" and "Liberty and Faith," — the rehashings of a faithful, industrious plodder at school, prolix commonplaces seasoned with what metaphysical terminology he remembered, and which, from the very reason that nobody under 42 THE TORRENT Stood them, excited the admiration of his fellow partisans.

They would blink at the articles and say to don Andres: "What a pen, eh? Just let anyone dare to argue with him. Deep, that noodle, I tell you! They broke the mould In which the friends of his mother had cast his mind and made him dream of a broader life than the one known to those about him. French novels transported him to a Paris that far outshone the Madrid he had known for a moment in his graduate days.

Love stories awoke in his youth- ful Imagination an ardor for adventure and in- volved passions In which there was something of the intense love of Indulgence that had been his father's besetting sin. He came to dwell more and more in the fictitious world of his readings, where there were elegant, perfumed, clever women, prac- ticing a certain art In the refinement of their vices.

The young ladies of the city seemed to him peasants in disguise, with the narrow, selfish, stingy instincts of their parents. They knew the exact market price of oranges and just how much land was owned by each aspirant to their hand; and they adjusted their love to the wealth of the pretender, believing It the test of quality to appear implacable toward every- thing not fashioned to the mould of their petty life of prejudice and tradition.

For that reason he was deeply bored by his color- less, humdrum existence, so far removed from that other purely imaginative life which rose from the pages of his books and enveloped him with an exotic, exciting perfume. Some day he would be free, and take flight on his own wings; and that day of liberation would come when he got to be deputy. He waited for his com- ing of age much as an heir-apparent waits for the moment of his coronation.

From early boyhood he had been taught to look forward to the great event which would cut his life in two, opening out new pathways for a ''forward march" to fame and fortune. And he'll marry a mil- lionairess! He was like those noble youngsters of bygone centuries who, graced In their cradles by the rank of colonel from the monarch, played around with hoop and top till they were old enough to join their regiments.

He had been born a deputy, and a deputy he was sure to be : for the moment, he was waiting for his cue in the wings of the theatre of life. His trip to Italy on a pilgrimage to see the Pope was the one event that had disturbed the dreary course of his existence. But in that country of mar- vels, with a pious canon for a guide, he visited churches rather than museums.

Of theatres he saw only two — larks permitted by his tutor, whose aus- terity was somewhat mollified In those changing scenes. Indifferently they passed the famous artistic works of the Italian churches, but paused always to venerate some relic with miracles as famous as ab- surd. Even so, Rafael managed to catch a con- fused and passing glimpse of a world different from the one in which he was predestined to pass his life.

From a distance he sensed something of the love of pleasure and romance he had drunk in like an Intoxi- cating wine from his reading. In Milan he admired a gilded, adventurous bohemia of opera; in Rome, the splendor of a refined, artistic aristocracy In per- petual rivalry with that of Paris and London; and In Florence, an English nobility that had come in quest of sunlight and a chance to air Its straw hats, show off the fair hair of its ladies, and chatter Its own language In gardens where once upon a time the somber Dante dreamed and Boccaccio told his merry tales to drive fear of plague away.

That journey, of impressions as rapid and as THE TORRENT 45 fleeting as a reel of moving-pictures, leaving in Rafael's mind a maze of names, buildings, paintings and cities, served to give greater breadth to his thinking, as well as added stimulus to his imagina- tion.

Wider still became the gulf that separated him from the people and ideas he met in his com- mon everyday life. He felt a longing for the extra- ordinary, for the original, for the adventuresome- ness of artistic youth; and political master of a county, heir of a feudal dominion virtually, he never- theless would read the name of any writer or painter whatsoever with the superstitious respect of a rustic churl.

What would he not give to be a bohemian like the personages he met in the books of Murger, member of a merry band of "intellec- tuals," leading a life of joy and proud devotion to higher things in a bourgeois age that knew only thirst for money and prejudice of class!

Talent for saying pretty things, for writing winged verses that soared like larks to heaven! A garret underneath the roof, off there in Paris, in the Latin Quarter! A Mimi poor but spiritual, who would love him, and — between one kiss and another — be able to dis- cuss — not the price of oranges, like the girls who followed him with tender eyes at home — but serious "elevated" things! In exchange for all that he would gladly have given his future deputyship and all the orchards he had inherited, which, though en- cumbered by mortgages not to mention moral debts 46 THE TORRENT left by the rascality of his father and grandfather — still would bring him a tidy annuity for realizing his bohemian dreams.

Such preoccupations made life as a party leader, tied down to the petty interests of a constituency, quite unthinkable! At the risk of angering his mother, he fled the Club, to court the solitude of the hills and fields. There his imagination could range in greater freedom, peopling the roads, the meadows, the orange groves with creatures of his fancy, often conversing aloud with the heroines of some "grand passion," carried on along the lines laid down by the latest novel he had read.

One afternoon toward the close of summer Rafael climbed the little mountain of San Salvador, which lies close to the city. From the eminence he was fond of looking out over the vast domains of his family. For all the inhabitants of that fertile plain were — as don Andres said whenever he wished to emphasize the party's greatness — like so many cattle branded with the name of Brull.

As he went up the winding, stony trail, Rafael thought of the mountains of Assisi, which he had visited with his friend the canon, a great admirer of the Saint of Umbria. It was a landscape that suggested asceticism. Crags of bluish or reddish rock lined the roadway on either side, with pines and cypresses rising from the hollows, and extending black, winding, snaky roots out over the fallow soil.

At intervals, white shrines with tiny roofs harbored mosaics of glazed tiles depicting the Stations on the Via Dolorosa. The pointed green caps of the cy- presses, as they waved, seemed bent on frightening away the white butterflies that were fluttering about THE TORRENT 47 over the rosemary and the nettles. Reaching the little square In front of the Hermi- tage, he rested from the ascent, stretching out full length on the crescent of rubblcwork that formed a bench near the sanctuary. There silence reigned, the silence of high hill-tops.

From below, the noises of the restless life and labor of the plain came weakened, softened, by the wind, like the murmuring of waves breaking on a distant shore. Among the prickly-pears that grew In close thicket behind the bench, Insects were buzzing about, shining In the sun like buds of gold. Some hens, belonging to the Hermitage, were pecking away In one corner of the square, clucking, and dusting their feathers in the gravel.

Rafael surrendered to the charm of the exquisite scene. With reason had It been called "Paradise" by Its ancient owners. Behind the Hermitage all the lower rihera stretched, one expanse of rice-fields drowned under an artificial flood; then, Sueca and Cullera, their white houses perched on those fecund lagoons like towns in landscapes of India; then, Albufera, with its lake, a sheet of silver glistening in the sunlight; then, Valencia, like a cloud of smoke drifting along the base of a mountain range of hazy blue; and, at last, in the background, the halo, as it were, of this apotheosis of light and color, the Mediterranean — the palpitant azure Gulf bounded by the cape of San Antonio and the peaks of Sagunto and Alme- nara, that jutted up against the sky-line like the black fins of giant whales.

As Rafael looked down upon the towers of the crumbling convent of La Murta, almost hidden in its pine-groves, he thought of all the tragedy of the Reconquest; and almost mourned the fate of those farmer-warriors whose white cloaks he could imagine as still floating among the groves of those magic trees of Asia's paradise. It was the influence of the Moor in his Spanish ancestry. He pictured to himself the tiny kingdoms of those old walls ; vassal districts very like the one his fam- ily ruled. But instead of resting on influence, bribery, intimidation, and the abuse of law, they lived by the lances of horsemen as apt at tiUing the soil as at capering in tournaments with an elegance never equalled by any chevaliers of the North.

He could see the court of Valencia, with the romantic gardens of Ruzafa, where poets sang mournful strophes over the wane of the Valencian Moor, while beautiful maidens listened from behind the blossom- ing rose-bushes. And then the catastrophe came. In a torrent of steel, barbarians swept down from the arid hills of Aragon to appease their hunger in the bounty of the plain — the almogdvares — naked, wild, bloodthirsty savages, who never washed.

And as allies of this horde, bankrupt Christian noblemen, their worn-out lands mortgaged to the Israelite, but good cavalrymen, withal, armored, and with dragon- wings on their helmets; and among the Christians, adventurers of various tongues, soldiers of fortune out for plunder and booty in the name of the Cross — the "black sheep" of every Christian family.

And they seized the great garden of Valencia, installed themselves in the Moorish palaces, called themselves counts and marquises, and with their swords held that privileged country for the King of Aragon, while the conquered Saracens continued to fertilize it with their toil. And Rafael could see, passing like phantoms before his eyes, leaning forward on the necks of small, sleek, sinewy horses, that seemed to fly over the ground, their legs horizontal, their nostrils belching smoke, the Moors, the real people of Valencia, conquered, degenerated by the very abundance of their soil, abandoning their gardens before the onrush of brutal, primitive invaders, speeding on their way toward the unending night of African barbarism.

At this eternal exile of the first Valencians who left to oblivion and decay a civilization, the last vestiges of which today survive in the universities of Fez, Rafael felt the sorrow he would have experienced had it all been a disaster to his family or his party. While he was thinking of all these dead things, life in its feverish agitation surrounded him.

A cloud of sparrows was darting about the roof of the Hermitage. On the mountain side a flock of dark- fleeced sheep was grazing; and when any of them discovered a blade of grass among the rocks, they would begin calling to one another with a melan- choly bleating. Rafael could hear the voices of some women who seemed to be climbing the road, and from his reclin- ing position he finally made out two parasols that were gradually rising to view over the edge of his bench.

One was of flaming red silk, skilfully em- broidered and suggesting the filigreed dome of a mosque; the second, of flowered calico, was appar- ently keeping at a respectful distance behind the first. Two women entered the little square, and as THE TORRENT 51 Rafael sat up and removed his hat, the taller, who seemed to be the mistress, acknowledged his cour- tesy with a slight bow, went on to the other end of the esplanade, and stood, with her back turned to- ward him.

The other sat down some distance off, breathing laboriously from the exertion of the climb. Who were those women? Rafael knew the whole city, and had never seen them. The one seated near him was doubtless the serv- ant of the other — her maid or her companion. She was dressed in black, simply but with a certain charm, like the French soubrettes he had seen in illustrated novels. But rustic origin and lack of cultivation were evident from the stains on the backs of her unshapely hands; from her broad, flat, finger-nails; and from her large ungainly feet, quite out of har- mony with the pair of stylish boots she was wearing — cast-off articles, doubtless, of the lady.

She was pretty, nevertheless, with a fresh exuberance of youth. Her large, gray, credulous eyes were those of a stupid but playful lamb; her hair, straight, and a very light blond, hung loosely here and there over a freckled face, dark with sunburn. She handled her closed parasol somewhat awkwardly and kept looking anxiously at the doubled gold chain that drooped from her neck to her waist, as if to reas- sure herself that a gift long-coveted had not been lost.

Rafael's interest drifted to the lady. His eyes rested on the back of a head of tightly-gathered golden hair, as luminous as a burnished helmet; on a white neck, plump, rounded; on a pair of broad, lithe shoulders, hidden under a blue silk blouse, the 52 THE TORRENT lines tapering rapidly, gracefully toward the waist; on a gray skirt, finally, falling in harmonious folds like the draping of a statue, and under the hem the solid heels of two shoes of English style encasing feet that must have been as agile and as strong as they were tiny.

The lady called to her maid in a voice that was sonorous, vibrant, velvety, though Rafael could catch only the accented syllables of her words, that seemed to melt together in the melodious silence of the mountain top. The young man was sure she had not spoken Spanish. A foreigner, almost cer- tainly! She was expressing admiration and enthusiasm for the view, talking rapidly, pointing out the prin- cipal towns that could be seen, calling them by their names, — the only words that Rafael could make out clearly.

Perhaps the wife of one of the French or English orange-dealers established in the city! Meanwhile his eyes were devouring that superb, that opulent, that elegant beauty which seemed to be challenging him with its indifference to his presence. The keeper of the Hermitage issued cautiously from the house — a peasant who made his living from visitors to the heights.

Attracted by the promis- ing appearance of the strange lady, the hermit came forward to greet her, offering to fetch water from the cistern, and to unveil the image of the miraculous virgin, in her honor. She was tall, ever so tall, as tall as he perhaps. But the Impression her height of stature made was softened by a grace of figure that revealed strength allied to elegance.

A hot mist of emotion seemed to cloud his vision as he looked into her large eyes, so green, so luminous! The golden hair fell forward upon a forehead of pearly whiteness, veined at the temples with delicate lines of blue. Viewed in profile her gracefully moulded nose, quiv- ering with vitality at the nostrils, filled out a beauty that was distinctly modern, piquantly charming.

In those lineaments, Rafael thought he could recognize any number of famous actresses. He had seen her before. He did not know. Perhaps In some Illustrated weekly! Perhaps In some album of stage celebrities! Or maybe on the cover of some match-box — a common medium of publicity for famous European belles. Of one thing he was cer- tain : at sight of that wonderful face he felt as though he were meeting an old friend after a long absence.

The recluse, in hopes of a perquisite, led the two women toward the door of the hermitage, where his wife and daughter had appeared, to feast their eyes on the huge diamonds sparkling at the ears of the strange lady. She came here alone all the way from Majorca. People down In Palma claim they have the real Virgin. But what can they say for themselves? At the rear, on a baroque altar of tarnished gold, stood the little statue with Its hollow cloak and its black face.

Rapidly, by rote almost, the good man recited the history of the image. The Virgin del Lluch was the patroness of Majorca. A hermit had been com- pelled to flee from there, for a reason no one had been able to discover — perhaps to get away from some Saracen girl of those exciting, war-like days! And to rescue the Virgin from profanation he brought her to Alclra, and built this sanctuary for her. Later people from Majorca came to return her to their Island.

But the celestial lady had taken a liking to Alclra and Its Inhabitants. Over the water, and without even wetting her feet, she came gliding back. Then the Majorcans, to keep what had happened quiet, counterfeited a new statue that looked just like the first.

All this was gospel truth, and as proof, there lay the original hermit buried at the foot of the altar; and there was the Virgin, too, her face blackened by the sun and the salt wind on her miraculous voyage over the sea. The beautiful lady smiled slightly, as she listened.

The maid was all ears, not to lose a word of a lan- guage she but half understood, her credulous peasant eyes traveling from the Virgin to the hermit and fram the hermit to the Virgin, plainly expressing the wonder she was feeling at such a portentous miracle. Rafael had followed the party Into the shrine and taken a position near the fascinating stranger. She, however, pretended not to see him. If the story has been handed down so long, there must be some- thing to it. It was a poorly clad orchard worker, young, it seemed, but with a face pale, and as rough as wrinkled paper, all the crevices and hollows of her cranium showing, her eyes sunken and dull, her unkempt hair escaping from beneath her knotted kerchief.

She was barefoot, carrying her shoes in her hand. She stood with her legs wide apart, as if in an effort to keep her balance. She seemed to feel intense pain whenever she stepped upon the ground. Illness and poverty were written on every feature of her person. The recluse knew her well; and as the unfortunate creature, panting with the effort of the climb, sank upon a little bench to rest her feet, he told her story briefly to the visitors.

She was ill, very, very ill. With no faith in doctors, who, according to her, "treated her with nothing but words"; she believed that the Virgin del IJuch would ultimately cure her. And, though at home she could scarcely move from her chair and was always being scolded by her husband for neglect- ing the housework, every week she would climb the 56 THE TORRENT Steep mountain-side, barefoot, her shoes in her hand. The hermit approached the sick woman, accept- ing a copper coin she offered.

A few couplets to the Virgin, as usual, he supposed! And his daughter came into the chapel — a dirty, dark-skinned creature with African eyes, who might just have escaped from a gipsy band. She took a seat upon a bench, turning her back upon the Virgin with the bored ill-humored expres- sion of a person compelled to do a dull task day after day; and in a hoarse, harsh, almost frantic voice, which echoed deafeningly in that small en- closure, she began a drawling chant that rehearsed the story of the statue and the portentous miracles it had wrought.

The sick woman, kneeling before the altar with- out releasing her hold upon her shoes, the heels of her feet, which were bruised and bleeding from the stones, showing from under her skirts, repeated a refrain at the end of each stanza, imploring the pro- tection of the Virgin. Her voice had a weak and hollow sound, like the wail of a child.

Her sunken eyes, misty with tears, were fixed upon the Virgin with a dolorous expression of supplication. Her words came more tremulous and more distant at each couplet. The beautiful stranger was plainly affected at the pitiful sight. Her maid had knelt and was follow- ing the sing-song rhythm of the chant, with prayers In a language that Rafael recognized at last. It was Italian. But he ransacked his memory in vain. That charming woman had filled his mind with thoughts far other than quotations from the Fathers!

The couplets to the Virgin came to an end. With the last stanza the wild singer disappeared; and the sick woman, after several abortive efforts, rose pain- fully to her feet. The recluse approached her with the solicitude of a shopkeeper concerned for the quality of his wares. Were things going any better? Were the visits to the Virgin doing good? The unfortunate woman did not dare to answer, for fear of offending the miraculous Lady.

She did not know! But that climb! This offering had not had such good results as the previous ones, she thought; but she had faith: the Virgin would be good to her and cure her in the end. At the church door she collapsed from pain. The recluse placed her on his chair and ran to the cistern to get a glass of water.

The Italian maid, her eyes bulging with fright, leaned over the poor woman, petting her: ''Poverinaf Poverinaf. The lady stepped out to the plazoietdy deeply moved, it seemed, by what she had been witnessing. On finding herself once more In the presence of that wonderful panorama, where the eye ran unob- structed to the very limit of the horizon, the charm- ing creature seemed to breathe more freely.

This view Is ever so beautiful. But that woman! That poor woman! They despise doctors, and refuse their help, preferring to kill themselves with these barbarous prayers and devotions, which they expect will do them good. But here we are laughing and enjoying ourselves while suffering passes us by, rubs elbows with us even, without our noticing!

Rafael was at a loss for reply. What sort of woman was this? What a way she had of talking! Accustomed as he was to the commonplace chatter of his mother's friends, and stIU under the Influence of this meeting, which had so deeply disturbed him, the poor boy imagined himself in the presence of a sage in skirts — a philosopher under the disguise of THE TORRENT 59 female beauty come from beyond the Pyrenees, from some gloomy German alehouse perhaps, to upset his peace of mind.

The stranger was silent for a time, her gaze fixed upon the horizon. Then around her attractive sen- suous lips, through which two rows of shining, daz- zling teeth were gleaming, the suggestion of a smile began to play, a smile of joy at the landscape. I have never seen you " "There's nothing strange about that. I arrived only yesterday. I know everyone in the city. My name is Rafael Brull. I'm the son of don Ramon, who was mayor of Alcira many times.

The poor fellow had been dying to reveal his name, tell who he was, pro- nounce that magic word so influential in the District, certain it would be the "Open Sesame" to that won- derful stranger's grace! After that, perhaps, she would tell him who she was! But the lady com- mented on his declaration with an "Ah!

A painful silence followed. Rafael was anxious to get out of his plight. That glacial indifference, that disdainful courtesy, which, without a trace of rudeness, still kept him at a distance, hurt his vanity to the quick. But, alas, this time it was cold and menac- ing, a livid flash of lightning refracted from a mirror of ice. He saw her turn toward the doorway of the sanctuary and call her maid. Every step of hers, every movement of her proud figure, seemed to raise a barrier in front of him.

He saw her bend affectionately over the sick orchard- woman, open a httle pink bag that her maid handed her, and, rummaging about among some sparkling trinkets and embroidered handkerchiefs, draw out a THE TORRENT 61 hand filled with shining silver coins. She emptied the money into the apron of the astonished peasant girl, gave something as well to the recluse, who was no less astounded, and then, opening her red parasol, walked off, followed by her maid.

As she passed Rafael, she answered the doffing of his hat with a barely perceptible inclination of her head; and, without looking at him, started on her way down the stony mountain path. The young man stood gazing after her through the pines and the cypresses as her proud athletic figure grew smaller in the distance. The perfume of her presence seemed to linger about him when she had gone, obsessing him with the atmospnere of superiority and exotic elegance that emanated from her whole being.

Rafael noticed finally that the recluse was ap- proaching, unable to restrain a desire to communi- cate his admiration to someone. She had given him a duro, one of those white discs which, In that atheistic age, so rarely ascended that mountain trail! And there the poor invalid sat at the door of the Hermitage, staring into her apron blankly, hypnotized by the glitter of all that wealth!

All the money the lady had brought! Even a gold but- ton, which must have come from her glove! Rafael shared in the general astonishment. But who the devil was that woman? They were barely visible now. The larger of the two, a mere speck of red, was already blend- ing into the green of the first orchards on the plain At last it had disappeared completely.

Left alone, Rafael burst into rage! The place where he had made such a sorry exhibition of him- self seemed odious to him now. He fumed with vexation at the memory of that cold glance, which had checked any advance toward familiarity, re- pelled him, crushed him 1 The thought of his stupid questions filled him with hot shame. Without replying to the "good-evening" from the recluse and his family, he started down the mountain, in hopes of meeting the woman again, somewhere, some time, he knew not when nor how.

The heir of don Ramon, the hope of the District, strode furi- ously on, his arms aquiver with a nervous tremor. And aggressively, menacingly, addressing his own ego as though it were a henchman cringing terror- stricken in front of him, he muttered: "You imbecile! You lout! You peas- ant! You provincial ass! Nor could his political friends guess, that afternoon, why in such fine weather, Rafael should come and shut himself up in the stifling at- mosphere of the Club.

When he came in, a crowd of noisy henchmen gathered round him to discuss all over again the great news that had been keeping "the Party" in feverish excitement for a week past: the Cortes were to be dissolved! The newspapers had been talking of nothing else. The- Intimate friend and lieutenant of the House of Brull was the best informed. If the elections took place on the date indicated by the newspapers, Rafael would still be five or six months sliort of his twenty- fifth birth-day.

But don Andres had written to Madrid to consult the Party leaders. The prime minister was agreeable — "there were precedents! They would send no more "foundlings" from Madrid! Alcira would have no more "un- knowns" foisted upon her! All this bustling expectation left Rafael cold. For years he had been looking forward to that election time, when the chance would come for his free life in Madrid.

Now that it was at hand he was com- pletely indifferent to the whole matter, as if he were the last person in the world concerned. He looked impatiently at the table where don Andres, with three other leading citizens, was hav- ing his daily hand at cards before coming to sit down at Rafael's side.

That' was a canny habit of don Andres. He liked to be seen in his capacity of Regent, sheltering the heir-apparent under the wing of his prestige and experienced wisdom. Well along in the afternoon, when the Club parlor was less crowded with members, the atmosphere freer of smoke, and the ivory balls less noisy on the green cloth, don Andres considered his game at an end, and took a chair in his disciple's circle, where as usual Rafael was sitting with the most parasitic and adulatory of his partisans.

The boy pretended to be listening to their con- versation, but all the while he was preparing men- tally a question he had decided to put to don Andres the day before. At last he made up his mind. Well, yes- terday, up on San Salvador, I met a fine-looking woman who seems to be a foreigner.

She says she's living here. Who is she? That woman got in the day before yester- day, and everybody's seen her already. She's the talk of the town. You were the only one who hadn't asked me about her so far. And now you've bit- ten! What a place this is! In fact, she was born about two doors from you. She once owned the place you have just beyond where you live, and she's the one who sold it to your father — the only property don Ramon ever bought, so far as I know.

Don't you remem- ber? As he went back in his memory, the picture of an old wrinkled woman rose before his mind, a woman round-shouldered, bent with age, but with a kindly face smiling with simple- mindedness and good nature. He could see her now, with a rosary usually in her hand, a camp-stool under her arm, and her mantilla drawn down over her face. The only decent person in her family. The girl has been all over the world sing- ing grand opera.

You were probably too young to remember Doctor Moreno, who was the scandal of the province in those days. If he cried about going to bed so early, his mother would say to him in a mysterious voice : "If you don't keep quiet and go right to sleep I'll send for Doctor Moreno!

Rafael could see him as clearly as if he were sitting there in front of him; with that huge, black, curly beard; those large, burning eyes that always shone with an inner fire; and that tall, angular figure that seemed taller than ever as young Brull evoked it from the hazes of his early years. Perhaps the Doctor had been a good fellow, who knows! He had fled in terror, as almost all good boys did when the Doctor petted them.

What a horrible reputation Doctor Moreno had! The curates of the town spoke of him in terms of hair-raising horror. An infidel! A man cut off from Mother Church! Nobody knew for certain just what high authority had excommunicated him, but he was, no doubt, outside the pale of decent, Christian folks. Proof of that there was, a-plenty. His whole attic was filled with mysterious books in foreign languages, all containing horrible doctrines against God and the authority of His representatives on earth.

He defended a certain fellow by the name of Darwin, who claimed than men were related T to monkeys, a view that gave much amusement ta the indignant dona Bernarda, who repeated all the jokes on the crazy notion her favorite preacher cracked of a Sunday in the pulpit. And such a sorcerer! Hardly a disease could resist Doctor Moreno. He worked wonders in the suburbs, among the lower scum; and those laborers adored him with as much fear as affection. That devil of a physician used new and unheard-of treatments he learned from atheistic reviews and suspicious books he imported from abroad.

The parish priest is now making his visits in every ward of the city, to register the names of the Catholics in all the houses, so as to insure a confession from each during this season of penance. And woe to any wight who fails to do his duty! His name will be placarded in the church, and he will be punished according to circumstances,—perhaps by a mortification to the pocket, perhaps by the penance of the convent; and perhaps his fate will be worse, if he be obstinate.

So nobody is obstinate, and all go to confession like good Christians, and confess what they please, for the sake of peace, if not of absolution. The Francescani march more solemnly up and down the alleys of their cabbage-garden, studiously with books in their hands, which they pretend to read; now and then taking out their snuff-stained bandanna and measuring it from corner to corner, in search of a feasible spot for its appropriate function, and then rolling it carefully into a little round ball and returning it to the place whence it came.

Whatever penance they do is not to Father Tiber or Santo Acquedotto, excepting by internal ablutions,—the exterior things of this world being ignored. There is no meat-eating now, save on certain festivals, when a supply is laid in for the week. But opposites cure opposites, contrary to the homoeopathic rule, and their magro makes them gras so. This is to call together the children of the parish to learn their Dottrina or Catechism,—from which the Second Commandment is, however, carefully expurgated, lest to their feeble minds the difference between bowing down to graven images, or likenesses of things in the earth, and what they do daily before the images and pictures of the Virgin and Saints may not clearly appear.

Indeed, let us cheerfully confess, in passing, that, by a strange forgetfulness, this same Commandment is not reestablished in its place even in the catechism for older persons,—of course through inadvertence. However, it is of no consequence, as the real number of Ten Commandments is made up by the division of the last into two ; so that there really are ten.

And in a country where so many pictures are painted and statues made, perhaps this Second Commandment might be open to misconstruction, if not prohibited by the wise and holy men of the Church. Meantime the snow is gradually disappearing from Monte Gennaro and the Sabine Mountains. Picnic parties are spreading their tables under the Pamfili Dori-a pines, and drawing St. There is no lack of places that Time has shattered and strewn with relics, leaving Nature to festoon her ruins and heal her wounds with tenderest vines and flowers, where one may spend a charming day and dream of the old times.

Spring— prima vera , the first true thing, as the Italians call it—has come. The nightingales already begin to bubble into song under the Ludovisi ilexes and in the Barberini Gardens. Daisies have snowed all over the Campagna,—periwinkles star the grass,—crocuses and anemones impurple the spaces between the rows of springing grain along the still brown slopes.

At every turn in the streets baskets-full of mammole, the sweet-scented Parma violet, are offered you by little girls and boys; and at the corner of the Condotti and Corso is a splendid show of camelias, set into beds of double violets, and sold for a song. Now and then one meets huge baskets filled with these delicious violets, on their way to the confectioners and caffes, where they will be made into syrup ; for the Italians are very fond of this bibite, and prize it not only for its flavor, but for its medicinal qualities.

Violets seem to rain over the villas in the spring,— acres are purple with them, and the air all around is sweet with their fragrance. Every day, scores of carriages are driving about the Borghese grounds, which are open to the public, and hundreds of children are running about, plucking flowers and playing on the lovely slopes and in the shadows of the noble trees, while their parents stroll at a distance and wait for them in the shady avenues. At the Pamfili Doria villa the English play their national game of cricket, on the flowerenamelled green, which is covered with the most wondrous anemones; and there is a matinee of friends who come to chat and look on.

The Italians lift their hands and wonder what there is in it to fascinate the English; and the English in turn call them a lazy, stupid set, because they do not admire it. But those who have seen pallone will not, perhaps, so much wonder at the Italians, nor condemn them for not playing their own game, when they remember that the French have turned them out of their only amphitheatre adapted for it, and left them only pazienza. If one drives out at any of the gates, he will see that spring is come.

The hedges are putting forth their leaves, the almond-trees are in full blossom, and in the vineyards the contadini are setting cane-poles and trimming the vines to run upon them. Here and there, the smoke of distant bonfires, burning heaps of useless stubble, shows against the dreamy purple hills like the pillar of cloud that led the Israelites. One smells the sharp odor of these fires everywhere, and hears them crackle in the fields. On festa -days the way-side osterias con cucina are crowded by parties who come out to sit under the frascati of vines and drink the wine grown on the very spot, and regale themselves with a frittata of eggs and chopped sausages, or a slice of agnello, and enjoy the delicious air that breathes from the mountains.

The old cardinals descend from their gilded carriages, and, accompanied by one of their household and followed by their ever-present lackeys in harlequin liveries, totter along on foot with swollen ankles, lifting their broad red hats to the passers-by who salute them, and pausing constantly in their discourse to enforce a phrase or take a pinch of snuff.

Files of scholars from the Propaganda stream along, now and then, two by two, their leading-strings swinging behind them, and in their ranks all shades of physiognomy, from African and Egyptian to Irish and American. Scholars, too, from the English College, and Germans, in red, go by in companies. All the schools, too, will be out,—little boys, in black hats, following the lead of their priest-master, for all masters are priests, and orphan girls in white, convoyed by Sisters of Charity, and the deaf and dumb with their masters.

Scores of ciocciari, also, may be seen in faded scarlets, with their wardrobes of wretched clothes, and sometimes a basket with a baby in it, on their heads. The contadini, who have been to Rome to be hired for the week to labor on the Campagna, come tramping along too, one of them often mounted on a donkey, and followed by a group carrying their tools with them; while hundreds of the middle classes, husbands and wives with their children, and paini and paine, with all their jewelry on, are out to take their festa stroll, and to see and ne seen.

Once in a while, the sadness of Lent is broken by a Church festival, when all the fasters eat prodigiously and make up for their usual Lenten fare. One of the principal days is that of the 19th of March, dedicated to San Giuseppe, the most ill-used of all the saints, when the little church in Capo le Case, dedicated to him, is hung with brilliant draperies, and the pious flock thither in crowds to say their prayers.

The great curtain is swaying to and fro constantly as they come and go, and a file of beggars is on the steps to relieve you of baiocchi. Beside them stands a fellow who sells a print of the Angel appearing to San Giuseppe in a dream, and warning him against the sin of jealousy. Four curious lines beneath the print thus explain it:—. Whether Joseph is satisfied or not with this explanation, it would be difficult to determine from his expression, He looks rather haggard and bored than persuaded, and certainly has not that cheerful acquiescence of countenance which one is taught to expect.

These frittelle, which are a sort of delicate doughnut, made of flour mixed sometimes with rice, are eaten by all good Catholics, though one need not be a Catholic to find them excellent eating. The latter alternative seems little probable, when one sees the quantity of provision laid in by the vendors. For all sorts of fries the Romans are justly celebrated.

But not only at this time and at these booths are good fritti to be found. It is a favorite mode of cooking in Rome; and a mixed fry fritta mista of bits of liver, brains, cauliflower, and carciofi is a staple dish, always ready at every restaurant. At any osteria con cucina on the Campagna one is also sure of a good omelet and salad; and, sitting under the vines, after a long walk, I have made as savory a lunch on these two articles as ever I found in the most glittering restaurant in the Palais Royal.

One great festa there is during Lent at the little town of Grotta-Ferrata, about fourteen miles from Rome. It takes place on the 25th of March, and sometimes is very gay and picturesque, and always charming to one who has eyes to see and has shed some of his national prejudices. As we advance through noble elms and planetrees, crowds of contadini line the way, beggars scream from the banks, donkeys bray, carretti rattle along, until at last we arrive at a long meadow which seems alive and crumbling with gayly dressed figures that are moving to and fro as thick as ants upon an ant-hill.

Here are gathered peasants from all the countryvillages within ten miles, all in their festal costumes; along the lane which skirts the meadow and leads through the great gate of the old fortress, donkeys are crowded together, and keeping up a constant and outrageous concert; saltimbanci , in harlequin suits, are making faces or haranguing from a platform, and inviting everybody into their pennyshow.

From inside their booths is heard the sound of the invariable pipes and drum, and from the lifted curtain now and then peers forth a comic face, and then disappears with a sudden scream and wild gesticulation. Meantime the closely packed crowd moves slowly along in both directions, and on we go through the archway into the great court-yard.

Here, under the shadow of the monastery, booths and benches stand in rows, arrayed with the produce of the countryvillages,—shoes, rude implements of husbandry, the coarse woven fabrics of the contadini, hats with cockades and rosettes, feather brooms and brushes, and household things, with here and there the tawdry pinchbeck ware of a peddler of jewelry, and little quadretti of Madonna and saints.

Extricating ourselves from the crowd, we ascend by a stone stairway to the walk around the parapets of the walls, and look down upon the scene. How gay it is! Around the fountain, which is spilling in the centre of the court, a constantly varying group is gathered, washing, drinking, and filling their flasks and vases. Near by, a charlatan, mounted on a table, with a huge canvas behind him painted all over with odd cabalistic figures, is screaming, in loud and voluble tones, the virtues of his medicines and unguents, and his skill in extracting teeth.

One need never have a pang in tooth, ear, head, or stomach, if one will but trust his wonderful promises. In one little bottle he has the famous water which renews youth; in another, the lotion which awakens love, or cures jealousy, or changes the fright into the beauty. All the while he plays with his tame serpents, and chatters as if his tongue went of itself, while the crowd of peasants below gape at him, laugh with him, and buy from him.

Listen to him, all who have ears! Udite, udite, O rustici! Attenti, non fiatate! Io spazzo gli spedali E la salute a vendere Per tutto il mondo io vo. Compratela, compratela,— Per poco io ve la do. O voi matrone rigide, Ringiovanir bramate? Le vostre rughe incomode Con esso cancellate.

Volete, voi donzelle, Ben liscia aver la pelle? Voi giovani galanti, Per sempre avere amanti, Comprate il mio specifico,— Per poco io ve lo do. Comprate il mio specifico,— Per poco io ve lo do. And so on and on and on. There is never an end of that voluble gabble. Nothing is more amusing than the Italian ciarlatano, wherever you meet him; but, like many other national characters, he is vanishing, and is seen more and more rarely every year.

Perhaps he has been promoted to an office in the Church or government, and finds more pickings there than at the fairs; and if not, perhaps he has sold out his profession and good-will to his confessor, who has mounted, by means of it into a gilded carriage, and wears silk stockings, whose color, for fear of mistake, I will not mention. But to return to the fair and our station on the parapets at Grotta-Ferrata.

Opposite us is a penthouse, where nobody peaks and pines. But there is no riot and no quarrelling. If we lift our eyes from this swarm below, we see the exquisite Campagna with its silent, purple distances stretching off to Rome, and hear the rush of a wild torrent scolding in the gorge below among the stones and olives. But while we are lingering here, a crowd is pushing through into the inner court, where mass is going on in the curious old church.

One has now to elbow his way to enter, and all around the door, even out into the middle court, contadini are kneeling. Besides this, the whole place reeks intolerably with garlic, which, mixed with whiff of incense from the church within and other unmentionable smells, makes such a compound that only a brave nose can stand it. Here in this old monastery, as the story goes, he sought refuge from the fierce Salvator Rosa, by whom his life was threatened, and here he painted his best works, shaking in his shoes with fear.

When we have examined these frescoes, we have done the fair of Grotta-Ferrata ; and those of us who are wise and have brought with us a well-packed hamper stick in our hat one of the red artificial roses which everybody wears, take a charming drive to the. Villa Conti, Muti, or Falconieri, and there, under the ilexes, forget the garlic, finish the day with a picnic, and return to Rome when the western sun is painting the Alban Hill.

Everybody eats them in Italy; the upper classes show them to their dishes to give them a flavor, and the lower use them not only as a flavor, but as a food. When only a formal introduction of them is made to a dish, I confess that the result is far from disagreeable ; but that close, intimate, and absorbing relation existing between them and the lowest classes is frightful.

And, indeed, so he is ; for the canopy of the soft blue sky is above him, and the plashing fountains lull him to his dreams. Nor is he without ancient authority for his devotion to those twin saints, Cipolla and Aglio. On this occasion, several curious reasons for their use are adduced, of which we who despise them should not he ignorant.

The time of the church processions is now coming, and one good specimen takes place on the 29th of March, from the Santa Maria in Via, which may stand with little variations for all the others. These processions, which are given by every church once a year, are in honor of the Madonna, or some saint specially reverenced in the particular church. They make the circuit of the parish limits, passing through all its principal streets, and every window and balcony is decorated with yellow and crimson hangings, and with crowds of dark eyes.

The front of the church, the steps, and the street leading to it, are spread with yellow sand, over which are scattered sprigs of box. Then follows a huge wooden cross, garlanded with golden ivyleaves, and also upheld by the confraternita, who stagger under its weight. Next come two crucifixes, covered, as the body of Christ always is during Lent and until Resurrection-Day, with cloth of purple, the color of passion.

Then comes the bishop in his mitre, his yellow stole upheld by two principal priests, the curate and subeurate, and to him his acolytes waft incense, as well as to the huge figure of the Madonna which follows. This figure is of life-size, carved in wood, surrounded by gilt angels, and so heavy that sixteen stout facchini, whose shabby trousers show under their improvised costume, are required to bear it along.

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