joy, and childlike gaiety of soul—back for the
third time, went a certain artist and his family
one winter evening, nine years ago, one of the
results being a book* on Roman matters, which
we are doing a good and welcome service in
helping to make known.

* Roba di Roma, by W. W. Story. "Roba"
means goods, wares, things, or "notions of any and
every kind," from rubbish and riffraff to the most
exquisite product of art and nature. Robaccia means
trash and trumpery—bad, coarse roba; but Mr.
Story has given us roba not robaccia—stores not
rubbish.

In a lumbering yellow chaise, drawn by three
horses abreast, each horse with a collar of bells
jingling round his neck, and cock's plume
feathers nodding in his head, and driven by a
postilion in a gaudy gold-laced jacket, as shabby
and rusty as it was tinselly and tawdry, our
artist and his family drove through the
Campagna—no railroad then—leaving Civita Vecchia
behind them. Their way through the tall skeleton
grasses and the dry cane's tufted feathers of
the rolling slopes, was not without abundance of
local colouring. Plump and rosy little beggar
children—each child an infant Saint John—ran
laughing by the side of the carriage, throwing
summersets whenever they had the chance, and
screaming "dateci qualche cosa" at the top of
their shrill Italian voices, till they seemed to
pierce the very brains of the travellers; contadini,
sitting athwart the tongue of their heavy
carts drawn by the superb grey oxen of the
Campagna, flashed back a merry answer to their
pleasant words of greeting; or a light wine
caretta, ringing along with its horse bright in
rosettes and feathers, and a fierce little pomero
barking furiously at the passers-by, showed the
driver fast asleep under the tall triangular cover;
droves of oxen, driven by bandit-looking men
armed with long poles, and not always safe to
meet, especially if the day be hot and they have
been driven to the verge of their patience, were
bathed in the slanting sunlight, till the grey
grew warm with ruddy gold and brightened into
purple; long lines of horses and mules, tied head
to tail, were shouted and screamed at, as if they
understood la lingua Toscana in bocca Romana,
as well as human beings; flocks of sheep were
watched over by the Pan of the Campagna, in his
shaggy sheepskin breeches and wilderness of
matted hair, who, planting his long pole diagonally
towards him, stretches out his legs wide
apart, and leans against it, tripod fashion, studying
the countenances and behaviour of his flock,
or sleeping in the sunshine; long-haired
cream-coloured goats browsing round the ruins, or
peeping out from behind the bushes on the
knolls, fell into accidental groupings, marvellously
well suited and picturesque; buffaloes dragging
rude wains, their melancholy eyes full of infinite
yearning and regret, plodded wearily along, swaying
their heavy heads at each step; carriages
met them full of expectant faces looking out
for friends returning from Civita Vecchia; and, as
they came nearer to the city, groups of Romans
were walking, talking, and laughing together:—
these were some of their incidents of travel, until
they neared the Porta Cavalleggieri, and the
great mother of nations was fairly won.

Then the glory of glories began. There
was the huge dome of St. Peter's, golden with
the last burning rays of the sunset; beneath,
the pillars of the grand colonnade of Bernini,
standing like giants against the dreamy air;
there, the splashing fountains "shook their
loosening silver in the sun," and the Egyptian
obelisk "pointed its lean finger to the sky;"
the great bell clanging from the belfry, the
Piazza thronged with animated groups. Here
were priests and soldiers moving in separate
masses through the city which both were helping
to enslave; there the ghastly confraternità,
shrouded in white, with two holes left for the
eyes, headed a funeral procession, the waving
black banners of which were marked with the
death's head and cross-bones, blazoned in gilding
on them; there were the lamps set up to the
honour of the Madonna twinkling everywhere
in little shrines, while women, leaning from
the balconies above, talked in loud clear tones
to their friends below; street sellers were howling
out their wares, children were screaming,
men were shouting and a few were swearing,
pifferari were playing, contadini were singing
with their rough mountain voices; and so, in
darkness, tumult, flashing lights at intervals,
and cries and noise never ceasing, the lumbering
old yellow chariot thundered over bridges and
along damp and dirty streets, until it finally
reached its own appointed gate, and there was
rest and silence for the weary.

But not for many hours: for is not December
the month of the pifferari? those contadini of
the Abruzzi mountains, who come down from
their savage steeps to play a novena in Rome to
the honour of the Madonna, and of the bambino
who is to be born when Christmas comes; and is
not their music of the shrillest and most
arousing? They begin early in the morning,
always going in couples, and playing before the
Madonnas set up in shrines against the shops
and houses, or on staircases, or in halls, at the
corners of streets, or down narrow passages and
alleys—wherever, in short, the papal idol is to
be found; one playing the zampogna, or
bag-pipes, the other blowing the piffero, or pastoral
pipe. Sometimes the pipe-player, if of an ardent
temperament, and dissatisfied with the slower
results of science, lays down his pipe, and sings
the verses of the novena in a loud coarse voice,
while the zampogna drones out the accompaniment;
but always the music is of a shrill and
ear-piercing character, only to be tolerated by
the zealous piety of the faithful, or for the
artistic getting up of the performers, with the
heretics. For, indeed, these pifferari are the
most picturesque of all, where all are
picturesque. Their conical hats, adorned with the
peacock's feather or band of red cords and tassels,
laid reverently on the ground when honouring
their Lady; their red waistcoats, blue jackets,
and yellow homespun breeches; their sandals of
untanned hide, bound to the leg by those multitudinous