The Continental Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 4, April, 1862

'I must bid you good-day,' interrupted Caper; 'your wife will miss you at the sermon: you will attribute it to me; and I would not intentionally be the cause of having her ill-will for anything.'

'Well, she is a pretty hard innimy; and they do talk here in Rome if you don't toe the mark. But ree-ly, you mustn't go off mad (smiling). You must call up with Rocjan and see us; and I ree-ly hope that when your uncle comes you will bring him to my studiyo. I am sure my Enterprise will soot him.'

So Chapin saw them out of his studio. Not until Caper found himself seated on a stone bench under the ilexes of the Villa Borghese, watching the sunbeams darting on the little lizards, and seeing far off the Albanian Mountains, snowcapped against the blue sky—not until then did he breathe freely.

'Rocjean,' said he; 'that stone-cutter down there—that Chapin—'

'Chameau! roared Rocjean. 'He and his kind are doing for art what the Jews did for prize-fighting—they ruin it. They make art the laughing-stock of all refined and educated people. Art applied solely to sculpture and painting is dead; it will not rise again in these our times. But art, the fairy-fingered beautifier of all that surrounds our homes and daily walks, save paintings and statuary, never breathed so fully, clearly, nobly as now, and her pathway amid the lowly and homely things around us is shedding beauty wherever it goes. The rough-handed artisan who, slowly dreaming of the beautiful, at last turns out a stone that will beautify and adorn a room, instead of rendering it hideous, has done for this practical generation what he of an earlier theoretical age did for his cotemporaries when he carved the imperial Venus of Milos. Enough; this is the sermon not preached from stones.'

A Ball At The Costa Palace

One sunlight morning in February, while hard at work in his studio, Caper was agreeably surprised by the entrance of an elderly uncle of his, Mr. Bill Browne, of St. Louis, a gentleman of the rosy, stout, hearty school of old bachelors, who, having made a large fortune by keeping a Western country store, prudently retired from business, and finding it dull work doing nothing, wisely determined to enjoy himself with a tour over the Continent, 'or any other place he might conclude to visit.'

'I say, Jim, did you expect to see me here?' was his first greeting.

'Why, Uncle Bill! Well, you are the last man I ever thought would turn up. They didn't write me a word of your coming over,' answered Caper.

'Mistake; they wrote you all about it; and if you'll drop round at the post-office, you'll find letters there telling you the particulars. Fact is, I am ahead of the mail. Coming over in the steamer, met a man named Orville; told me he knew you, that he was coming straight through to Rome, and offered to pilot me. So I gave up Paris and all that, and came smack through, eighteen days from New York. But I'm dry. Got a match? Here, try one of these cigars.'

Caper took a cigar from his uncle's case, lit it, and then, calling the man who swept out the studios, sent him to the neighboring wine-shop for a bottle of wine.

'By George, Jim, that's a pretty painting: that jackass is fairly alive, and so's the girl with a red boddice. I say, what's she got that towel on her head for? Is it put there to dry?'

'No; that's an Italian peasant girl's head-covering. Most all of them do so.'

'Do they? I'm glad of that. But here comes your man with the liquor.'

And, after drinking two or three tumblers full, Uncle Bill decided that it was pretty good cider. The wine finished, together with a couple of rolls that came with it, the two sallied out for a walk around the Pincian Hill, the grand promenade of Rome. Towards sunset they thought of dinner, and Uncle Bill, anxious to see life, accepted Caper's invitation to dine at the old Gabioni: here they ordered the best dishes, and the former swore it was as good a dinner as he ever got at the Planter's House. Rocjean, who dined there, delighted the old gentleman immensely, and the two fraternized at once, and drank each other's health, old style, until Caper, fearing that neither could conveniently hold more, suggested an adjournment to the Greco for coffee and cigars.

While they were in the café, Rocjean quietly proposed something to Caper, who at once assented; the latter then said to Uncle Bill,—

'You have arrived in Rome just at the right time. You may have heard at home of the great Giacinti family; well, the Prince Nicolo di Giacinti gives a grand ball to-night at the Palazzo Costa. Rocjean and I have received invitations, embracing any illustrious strangers of our acquaintance who may happen to be in Rome; so you must go with us. You have no idea, until you come to know them intimately, what a good-natured, off-hand set the best of the Roman nobility are. Compelled by circumstances to keep up for effect an appearance of great reserve and dignity before the public, they indemnify themselves for it in private by having the highest kind of old times. They are passionately attached to their native habits and costumes, and though driven, on state occasions especially, to imitate French and English habits, yet they love nothing better than at times to enjoy themselves in their native way. The ball given by the prince to-night is what might be called a free-and-easy. It is his particular desire that no one should come in full dress; in fact, he rather likes to have his stranger guests come in their worst clothes, for this prevents the attention of the public being called to them as they enter the palace. After you have lived some time in Rome you will see how necessary it is to keep dark, so you will see no flaring light at the palace gate; it's all as quiet and common-place as possible. The dresses, you must remember, are assumed for the occasion because they are, or were, the national costume, which is fast disappearing, and if it were not for the noble wearers you will see to-night, you could not find them anywhere in Rome. You will perhaps think the nobility at the ball hardly realize your ideas of Italian beauty and refinement, compared with the fine specimens of men and women you may have seen among the Italian opera singers at home: well, these same singers are picked specimens, and are chosen for their height and muscular development from the whole nation, so that strangers may think all the rest at home are like them: it is a little piece of deception we can pardon.'

After this long prelude, Rocjean proposed that they should try a game of billiards in the Café Nuovo. After they had played a game or two, and drank several mezzo caldos, or rum punches, they walked up the Corso to the Via San Claudio, No. 48, and entered the palace gate. It was very dark after they entered, so Rocjean, telling them to wait one moment, lit a cerina, or piece of waxed cord, an article indispensable to a Roman, and, crossing the broad courtyard, they entered a small door, and after climbing and twisting and turning, found a ticket-taker, and the next minute were in the ball-room.

Uncle Bill was delighted with the excessively free-and-easy ball of Prince Giacinti, but was very anxious to know the names of the nobility, and Rocjean politely undertook to point out the celebrities, offering kindly to introduce him to any one he might think looked sympathetic; 'what they call simpatico in Italian,' explained Rocjean.

'That pretty girl in Ciociara costume is the Condessa or Countess Stella di Napoli.'

'Introduce me,' said Uncle Bill.

Rocjean went through the performance, concluding thus: 'The countess expresses a wish that you should order a bottiglia (about two bottles) of red wine.'

'Go ahead,' quoth Uncle Bill; 'for a nobility ball this comes as near a dance-house affair as I ever want to approach. By the way, who is that pickpocket-looking genius with eyes like a black snake?'

'Who is that?' said Rocjean, theatrically. 'Chut! a word in your ear; that is An-to-nel-li!'

'The devil! But I heard some one only a few minutes ago call him Angelucio.'

'That was done satirically, for it means big angel, which you, who read the papers, know that Antonelli is not. But here comes the wine, and I see the countess looks dry. Pour out a half-dozen glasses for her. The Roman women, high and low, paddle in wine like ducks, and it never upsets them; for, like ducks, their feet are so large that neither you nor wine can throw them. I wish you could speak Italian, for here comes the Princess Giacinta con Marchese—'

'I wish,' said Uncle Bill, 'you would talk English.'

'Well,' continued Rocjean, 'with the Marchioness Nina Romana, if you like that better. Shall I introduce you?'

'Certainly,' replied the old gentleman, 'and order two more what d'ye call 'ems. It's cheap—this knowing a princess for a quart of red teaberry tooth-wash, for that's what this "wine" amounts to. I am going to dance to-night, for the Princess Giacinta is a complete woman after my heart, and weighs her two hundred pound any day.'

The nobility now began begging Rocjean and Caper to introduce them to his excellency Il vecchio, or the old man; and Uncle Bill, in his enthusiasm at finding himself surrounded with so many princes, Allegrini, Pelligrini, Sapgrini, and Dungreeny, compelled Caper to order up a barrel of wine, set it a-tap, and tell the nobility to 'go in.' It is needless to say that they went in. Many of the costumes were very rich, especially those of the female nobility; and in the rush for a glass of wine the effect of the brilliant draperies flying here and there, struggling and pushing, was notable. The musicians, who were standing on what appeared to be barrels draped with white cloth, jumped down and tried their luck at the wine-cask, and, after satisfying their thirst, returned to their duties. There was a guitar, mandolin, violin, and flute, and the music was good for dancing. Uncle Bill was pounced on by the Princess Giacinta and whirled off into some kind of a dance, he did not know what; round flew the room and the nobility; round flew barrels of teaberry tooth-wash, beautiful princesses, big devils of Antonellis. Lights, flash, hum, buzz, buzz, zzz—ooo—zoom!

Uncle Bill opened his eyes as the sunlight shed one golden bar into his sleeping-room at the Hotel d'Europe, and there by his bedside sat his nephew, Jim Caper, reading a letter, while on a table near at hand was a goblet full of ice, a bottle of hock, and another bottle corked, with string over it.

'It's so-da wa-ter,' said Uncle Bill, musing aloud.

'Hallo, uncle, you awake?' asked Caper, suddenly raising his eyes from his letter.

'I am, my son. Give thy aged father thy blessing, and open that hock and soda water quicker! I say, Jim, now, what became of the nobility, the Colonnas and Aldobrandinis, after they finished that barrel? Strikes me some of them will have an owlly appearance this morning.'

'You don't know them,' answered Caper.

'I am beginning to believe I don't, too,' spoke Uncle Bill. 'I say, now, Jim, where did we go last night?'

'Why, Uncle Bill, to tell you the plain truth, we went to a ball at the Costa Palace, and a model ball it was, too.'

'I have you! Models who sit for you painters. Well, if they arn't nobility, they drink like kings, so it's all right. Give us the hock, and say no more about it.'

Howe's Cave

Few persons, perhaps, are aware that Schoharie County, N.Y., contains a cave said to be nine or ten miles in extent, and, in many respects, one of the most remarkable in America. Its visitors are few,—owing, probably, to its recent discovery, together with its comparative inaccessibility;—yet these few are well rewarded for its exploration.

In the month of August, 1861, I started, with three companions, to visit this interesting place.

I will not weary the reader by describing the beauty of the Hudson and the grandeur of the Catskills; yet I would fain fix in my memory forever one sunrise, seen from the summit of a bluff on the eastern bank of the river, when the fog, gradually lifting itself from the stream, and slowly breaking into misty fragments, unveiled broad, smiling meadows, dark forests, village after village, while above all, far in the distance, rose the Catskills, clear in the sunlight.

After two days crowded with enjoyment, we arrived in Schoharie, where we passed the night. Having given orders to be called at five, we took advantage of the leisure hour this arrangement gave us to view, the next morning.

An Old Fort

In reality, the 'fort' is a dilapidated old church, used as a shelter during the Indian wars, and also in the days of the Revolution. On the smooth stones that form the eastern side are carved the names of the soldiers who defended it, with the date, and designation of the regiment to which they belonged. I deciphered also, among other curious details, the name of the person who 'gave the favor of the ground.' I would gladly have indulged my antiquarian tastes by copying these rude inscriptions; but the eager cries of my companions compelled me to hurry on.

The western portion of the structure has also its story to tell. The traces of besieging cannon balls are still to be distinctly seen, and in one place I observed a smooth, round hole, made by the passage of a ball into the interior of the fort.

As I stood on the walls of this ancient building, surveying the valley it overlooked, with its straggling village lying at our feet, and the fair Schoharie Creek, now gleaming in the sunlight of the meadows, or darkening in the shade of the trees that overhung it, the past and the present mingled strongly in my thoughts.

The Stars and Stripes, that on this very spot had seen our fathers repelling a foreign foe, now waved over their sons, forced from their quiet homes, not to contend with the stranger and the alien, but to subdue those rebellious brothers whose sacrilegious hands had torn down that sacred flag, reared amidst the trials and perils of '76. Not less noble the present contest than the past, nor less heroic the soldier of to-day than the patriot of the Revolution. We continue to-day the fight they fought against injustice and oppression—a conflict that will end only when every nation and every race shall lift unshackled hands up to God in thanksgiving for the gift of freedom. A deeper love of my country, and a firmer trust in the God of truth and justice, sank into my heart as I turned away from those rude walls, sacred to the memory of departed valor.

We hurried back to the breakfast that awaited us, and then drove to

The Cave