Our road lay through a lovely country, alternating from hill to vale, and at every ascent beautiful glimpses of sea varying the prospect. As we toiled slowly along, the contadino chiefly left his biroccio to the care of a little boy, and walking beside the carriage, devoted his attention to his landlord. Their conversation was very animated, and turned upon the state of the country, their prospects for the harvest, the hardship of being deprived of fire-arms by the Austrian general (the Pontifical States were then, as now, under martial law), the consequent boldness of the robbers who infested the neighbourhood, and their inability to resist them; besides many other matters connected with their mutual interests. In about two hours' time, we arrived at the place of our destination, and the assembled friends came out to the gate to welcome us: there were all the nearest of kin on both sides, the fathers, the mothers, the brothers and sisters, besides others more remotely connected, and affording in their contrasts of old age and childhood, decrepitude and vigour, an admirable study of grouping and physiognomy.
The first stage of proceedings was to conduct us to the house, which was as rude and comfortless as most of its description, the ground-floor being shared between the silkworms and cows, and the upper story, inhabited by the family, being attainable only by a steep outer staircase. At the threshold we found some more venerable dames, by whom we were ushered—the padrone amongst the rest—to pay our respects to the young mother, who lay smiling in her bed, the tiny stranger by her side, all swathed and swaddled, and her gossips talking and chattering around her, or bustling to and from the kitchen, which adjoined her room, in utter violation of every orthodox rule of quiet and good nursing. From thence, as soon as we were considered sufficiently rested, we were marshalled for the christening—a little girl of twelve years old, the contadino's sister, carrying the baby, and the rest all following in order. It was then, as we went along, that the terrible fact of our being heretics began to transpire, and I was amused at the pitying interest with which we were surveyed: on entering the village church, in particular, when it was remarked we took no holy water, nor crossed ourselves, we overheard one old woman whisper to her cronies, “_Peccato, non sono Cristiane!_” and the little children, clinging to their grandams' skirts, peered at us inquisitively with their glorious black eyes gleaming through the tangled golden hair which hung about them like a mane.