 | THE
INN AT TERRACINA. Tales of a traveller |  |
THE
INN AT TERRACINA.
Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!
“Here comes the estafette from Naples,” said
mine host of the inn at Terracina, “bring out
the relay.”
The estafette came as usual galloping up the
road, brandishing over his head a short-handled
whip, with a long knotted lash; every smack of
which made a report like a pistol. He was a
tight square-set young fellow, in the customary
uniform—a smart blue coat, ornamented with
facings and gold lace, but so short behind as to
reach scarcely below his waistband, and cocked
up not unlike the tail of a wren. A cocked hat,
edged with gold lace; a pair of stiff riding boots;
a fragment of a pair of drawers that scarcely furnished
an apology for modesty to hide behind.
The estafette galloped up to the door and
jumped from his horse.
“A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair
of breeches,” said he, “and quickly—I am behind
my time, and must be off.”
“San Genaro!” replied the host, “why,
where hast thou left thy garment?”
“Among the robbers between this and Fondi.”
“What! rob an estafette! I never heard of
such folly. What could they hope to get from
thee?”
“My leather breeches!” replied the estafette.
“They were bran new, and shone like gold, and
hit the fancy of the captain.”
“Well, these fellows grow worse and worse.
To meddle with an estafette! And that merely
for the sake of a pair of leather breeches!”
The robbing of a government messenger seemed
to strike the host with more astonishment
than any other enormity that had taken place on
wanton an outrage had been committed; the robbers
generally taking care not to meddle with any
thing belonging to government.
The estafette was by this time equipped; for
he had not lost an instant in making his preparations
while talking. The relay was ready:
the rosolio tossed off. He grasped the reins and
the stirrup.
“Were there many robbers in the band?” said
a handsome, dark young man, stepping forward
from the door of the inn.
“As formidable a band as ever I saw,” said
the estafette, springing into the saddle.
“Are they cruel to travellers?” said a beautiful
young Venetian lady, who had been hanging
on the gentleman's arm.
“Cruel, signora!” echoed the estafette, giving
a glance at the lady as he put spurs to his
horse. “Corpo del Bacco! they stiletto all the
men, and as to the women—”
Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!—the
last words were drowned in the smacking of the
the road to the Pontine marshes.
“Holy Virgin!” ejaculated the fair Venetian,
“what will become of us!”
The inn of Terracina stands just outside of
the walls of the old town of that name, on the
frontiers of the Roman territory. A little, lazy,
Italian town, the inhabitants of which, apparently
heedless and listless, are said to be little better
than the brigands which surround them, and indeed
are half of them supposed to be in some
way or other connected with the robbers. A
vast, rocky height rises perpendicularly above it,
with the ruins of the castle of Theodoric the
Goth, crowning its summit; before it spreads
the wide bosom of the Mediterranean, that sea
without flux or reflux. There seems an idle
pause in every thing about this place. The port
is without a sail, excepting that once in a while
a solitary felucca may be seen, disgorging its holy
cargo of baccala, the meagre provision for the
Quaresima or Lent. The naked watch towers,
rising here and there along the coast, speak of
shores: while the low huts, as stations for soldiers,
which dot the distant road, as it winds
through an olive grove, intimate that in the ascent
there is danger for the traveller and facility
for the bandit.
Indeed, it is between this town and Fondi,
that the road to Naples is most infested by banditti.
It winds among rocky and solitary places,
where the robbers are enabled to see the traveller
from a distance, from the brows of hills or
impending precipices, and to lie in wait for him,
at the lonely and difficult passes.
At the time that the estafette made this sudden
appearance, almost in cuerpo, the audacity
of the robbers had risen to an unparalleled height.
They had their spies and emissaries in every town,
village and osteria, to give them notice of the
quality and movements of travellers. They did
not scruple to send messages into the country
towns and villas, demanding certain sums of
money, or articles of dress and luxury; with
menaces of vengeance in case of refusal. They
and fortune into the mountains and obliged them
to write for heavy ransoms; and had committed
outrages on females who had fallen in their
power.
The police exerted its rigour in vain. The
brigands were too numerous and powerful for a
weak police. They were countenanced and cherished
by several of the villages; and though now
and then the limbs of malefactors hung blackening
in the trees near which they had committed
some atrocity; or their heads stuck upon posts
in iron cages made some dreary part of the road
still more dreary, still they seemed to strike dismay
into no bosom but that of the traveller.
The dark, handsome, young man, and the Venetian
lady, whom I have mentioned, had arrived
early that afternoon in a private carriage,
drawn by mules and attended by a single servant.
They had been recently married, were spending
the honey moon in travelling through these delicious
countries, and were on their way to visit
a rich aunt of the young lady's at Naples.
The lady was young, and tender and timid.
The stories she had heard along the road had filled
her with apprehension, not more for herself
than for her husband; for though she had been
married almost a month, she still loved him almost
to idolatry. When she reached Terracina the rumours
of the road had increased to an alarming
magnitude; and the sight of two robbers' skulls
grinning in iron cages on each side of the old
gateway of the town brought her to a pause. Her
husband had tried in vain to reassure her. They
had lingered all the afternoon at the inn, until it
was too late to think of starting that evening,
and the parting words of the estafette completed
her affright.
“Let us return to Rome,” said she, putting her
arm within her husband's, and drawing towards
him as if for protection—“let us return to Rome
and give up this visit to Naples.”
“And give up the visit to your aunt, too,”
said the husband.
“Nay—what is my aunt in comparison with
face.
There was something in her tone and manner
that showed she really was thinking more
of her husband's safety at that moment than
of her own; and being recently married, and a
match of pure affection, too, it is very possible
that she was. At least her husband thought so.
Indeed, any one who has heard the sweet, musical
tone of a Venetian voice, and the melting
tenderness of a Venetian phrase, and felt the
soft witchery of a Venetian eye, would not
wonder at the husband's believing whatever they
professed.
He clasped the white hand that had been laid
within his, put his arm round her slender waist,
and drawing her fondly to his bosom—“This
night at least,” said he, “we'll pass at Terracina.”
Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!
Another apparition of the road attracted the
attention of mine host and his guests. From
the road across the Pontine marshes, a carriage
a furious pace—the postillions smacking their
whips like mad, as is the case when conscious
of the greatness or the munificence of their fare.
It was a landaulet, with a servant mounted on
the dickey. The compact, highly finished, yet
proudly simple construction of the carriage; the
quantity of neat, well-arranged trunks and conveniences;
the loads of box coats and upper
benjamins on the dickey—and the fresh, burly,
gruff-looking face at the window, proclaimed at
once that it was the equipage of an Englishman.
“Fresh horses to Fondi,” said the Englishman,
as the landlord came bowing to the carriage
door.
“Would not his Excellenza alight and take
some refreshment?”
“No—he did not mean to eat until he got to
Fondi!'
“But the horses will be some time in getting
ready—”
“Ah—that's always the case—nothing but
delay in this cursed country.”
“If his Excellenza would only walk into the
house—”
“No, no, no!—I tell you no!—I want nothing
but horses, and as quick as possible. John!
see that the horses are got ready, and don't let
us be kept here an hour or two. Tell him if
we're delayed over the time, I'll lodge a complaint
with the post-master.”
John touched his hat, and set off to obey his
master's orders, with the taciturn obedience of
an English servant. He was a ruddy, round
faced fellow, with hair cropped close; a short
coat, drab breeches, and long gaiters; and appeared
to have almost as much contempt as his
master for every thing around him.
In the mean time the Englishman got out of
the carriage and walked up and down before the
inn, with his hands in his pockets: taking no
notice of the crowd of idlers who were gazing
at him and his equipage. He was tall, stout,
and well made; dressed with neatness and precision,
wore a travelling cap of the colour of gingerbread,
and had rather an unhappy expression
having yet made his dinner, and partly from not
having been able to get on at a greater rate than
seven miles an hour. Not that he had any other
cause for haste than an Englishman's usual hurry
to get to the end of a journey; or, to use the
regular phrase, “to get on.”
After some time the servant returned from the
stable with as sour a look as his master.
“Are the horses ready, John?”
“No, sir—I never saw such a place. There's
no getting any thing done. I think your honour
had better step into the house and get something
to eat; it will be a long while before we get to
Fundy.”
“D—n the house—it's a mere trick—I'll
not eat any thing, just to spite them,” said the
Englishman, still more crusty at the prospect of
being so long without his dinner.
“They say your honour's very wrong,” said
John, “to set off at this late hour. The road's
full of highwaymen.”
“Mere tales to get custom.”
“The estafette which passed us was stopped
by a whole gang,” said John, increasing his
emphasis with each additional piece of information.
“I don't believe a word of it.”
“They robbed him of his breeches,” said
John, giving at the same time a hitch to his own
waistband.
“All humbug!”
Here the dark, handsome young man stepped
forward and addressing the Englishman
very politely in broken English, invited him to
partake of a repast he was about to make.
“Thank'ee,” said the Englishman, thrusting his
hands deeper into his pockets, and casting a
slight side glance of suspicion at the young man,
as if he thought from his civility he must have a
design upon his purse.
“We shall be most happy if you will do us
that favour,” said the lady, in her soft Venetian
dialect. There was a sweetness in her accents
that was most persuasive. The Englishman
cast a look upon her countenance; her beauty
relaxed. He made an attempt at a civil bow.
“With great pleasure, signora,” said he.
In short, the eagerness to “get on” was suddenly
slackened; the determination to famish
himself as far as Fondi by way of punishing the
landlord was abandoned; John chose the best
apartment in the inn for his master's reception,
and preparations were made to remain there
until morning.
The carriage was unpacked of such of its
contents as were indispensable for the night.
There was the usual parade of trunks, and writing
desks, and port-folios, and dressing boxes,
and those other oppressive conveniences which
burthen a comfortable man. The observant
loiterers about the inn door, wrapped up in great
dirt-coloured cloaks, with only a hawk's eye uncovered,
made many remarks to each other on
this quantity of luggage that seemed enough for
an army. And the domestics of the inn talked
with wonder of the splendid dressing case, with
its gold and silver furniture that was spread out
chinked as it was taken out of the trunk. The
strange “Milors” wealth, and the treasures he
carried about him, were the talk, that evening,
over all Terracina.
The Englishman took some time to make his
ablutions and arrange his dress for table, and after
considerable labour and effort in putting himself
at his ease, made his appearance, with stiff
white cravat, his clothes free from the least speck
of dust, and adjusted with precision. He made a
formal bow on entering, which no doubt he
meant to be cordial, but which any one else would
have considered cool, and took his seat.
The supper, as it was termed by the Italian,
or dinner, as the Englishman called it, was now
served. Heaven and earth, and the waters under
the earth, had been moved to furnish it, for there
were birds of the air and beasts of the earth and
fish of the sea. The Englishman's servant, too,
had turned the kitchen topsy turvy in his zeal to
cook his master a beefsteak; and made his appearance
loaded with ketchup, and soy, and
of port wine, from that warehouse, the carriage,
in which his master seemed desirous of carrying
England about the world with him. Every
thing, however, according to the Englishman,
was execrable. The tureen of soup was a
black sea, with livers and limbs and fragments
of all kinds of birds and beasts, floating like
wrecks about it. A meagre winged animal,
which my host called a delicate chicken, was too
delicate for his stomach, for it had evidently died
of a consumption. The macaroni was smoked.
The beefsteak was tough buffalo's flesh, and the
countenance of mine host confirmed the assertion.
Nothing seemed to hit his palate but a dish of
stewed eels, of which he ate with great relish,
but had nearly refunded them when told that
they were vipers, caught among the rocks of Terracina,
and esteemed a great delicacy.
In short, the Englishman ate and growled,
and ate and growled, like a cat eating in company,
pronouncing himself poisoned by every
dish, yet eating on in defiance of death and the
English travellers, almost repented having persuaded
him to the meal; for though very gracious
to her, he was so crusty to all the world beside,
that she stood in awe of him. There is nothing,
however, that conquers John Bull's crustiness
sooner than eating, whatever may be the cookery;
and nothing brings him into good humour
with his company sooner than eating together;
the Englishman, therefore, had not half finished
his repast and his bottle, before he began to think
the Venetian a very tolerable fellow for a foreigner,
and his wife almost handsome enough to be
an Englishwoman.
In the course of the repast the tales of robbers
which harassed the mind of the fair Venetian,
were brought into discussion. The landlord and
the waiter served up such a number of them as
they served up the dishes, that they almost frightened
away the poor lady's appetite. Among
these was the story of the school of Terracina,
still fresh in every mind, where the students were
carried up the mountains by the banditti, in
bring the parents to terms for the others. There
was a story also of a gentleman of Rome, who
delayed remitting the ransom demanded for his
son, detained by the banditti, and received one
of his son's ears in a letter, with information that
the other would be remitted to him soon, if the
money were not forthcoming, and that in this
way he would receive the boy by instalments
until he came to terms.
The fair Venetian shuddered as she heard these
tales. The landlord, like a true story teller,
doubled the dose when he saw how it operated.
He was just proceeding to relate the misfortunes
of a great English lord and his family, when the
Englishman, tired of his volubility, testily interrupted
him, and pronounced these accounts mere
traveller's tales, or the exaggerations of peasants
and innkeepers. The landlord was indignant at
the doubt levelled at his stories, and the inuendo
levelled at his cloth; he cited half a dozen stories
still more terrible, to corroborate those he
had already told.
“I don't believe a word of them,” said the Englishman.
“But the robbers had been tried and executed.”
“All a farce!”
“But their heads were stuck up along the
road.”
“Old skulls accumulated during a century.”
The landlord muttered to himself as he went
out at the door, “San Genaro, come sono singolari
questi Inglesi.”
A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced
the arrival of more travellers; and from the variety
of voices, or rather clamours, the clattering of
horses' hoofs, the rattling of wheels, and the general
uproar both within and without, the arrival
seemed to be numerous. It was in fact the procaccio,
and its convoy—a kind of caravan of merchandise,
that sets out on stated days, under an
escort of soldiery to protect it from the robbers.
Travellers avail themselves of the occasion, and
many carriages accompany the procaccio. It
was a long time before either landlord or waiter
new custom. When mine host appeared, there
was a smile of triumph on his countenance.—
“Perhaps,” said he, as he cleared away the table,
“perhaps the signor has not heard of what has
happened.”
“What?” said the Englishman, drily.
“Oh, the procaccio has arrived, and has
brought accounts of fresh exploits of the robbers,
signor.”
“Pish!”
“There's more news of the English Milor and
his family,” said the host, emphatically.
“An English lord—What English lord?”
“Milor Popkin.”
“Lord Popkin? I never heard of such a title!”
“O Sicuro—a great nobleman that passed
through here lately with his Milady and daughters—a
magnifico—one of the grand councillors
of London—un almanno.”
“Almanno—almanno?—but! he means alderman.”
“Sicuro, aldermanno Popkin, and the principezza
said mine host, triumphantly. He would now
have entered into a full detail, but was thwarted
by the Englishman, who seemed determined not
to credit or indulge him in his stories. An Italian
tongue, however, is not easily checked: that
of mine host continued to run on with increasing
volubility as he conveyed the fragments of the
repast out of the room, and the last that could
be distinguished of his voice, as it died away
along the corridor, was the constant recurrence
of the favourite word Popkin—Popkin—Popkin
—pop—pop—pop.
The arrival of the procaccio had indeed filled
the house with stories as it had with guests. The
Englishman and his companions walked out after
supper into the great hall, or common room
of the inn, which runs through the centre of the
building; a gloomy, dirty-looking apartment,
with tables placed in various parts of it, at which
some of the travellers were seated in groups,
while others strolled about in famished impatience
for their evening's meal. As the procaccio was
of every class and country, who had come
in all kinds of vehicles; and though they kept in
some measure in separate parties, yet the being
united under one common escort had jumbled
them into companionship on the road. Their
formidable number and the formidable guard that
accompanied them, had prevented any molestation
from the banditti; but every carriage had
its tale of wonder, and one vied with another in
the recital. Not one but had seen groups of
robbers peering over the rocks; or their guns
peeping out from among the bushes, or had been
reconnoitred by some suspicious looking fellow
with scowling eye, who disappeared on seeing
the guard.
The fair Venetian listened to all these stories
with that eager curiosity with which we seek to
pamper any feeling of alarm. Even the Englishman
began to feel interested in the subject,
and desirous of gaining more correct information
than these mere flying reports. He mingled in
one of the groups which appeared to be the
a tall thin person, with long Roman nose, a high
forehead, and lively prominent eye, beaming from
under a green velvet travelling cap, with gold
tassel. He was holding forth with all the fluency
of a man who talks well and likes to exert
his talent. He was of Rome; a surgeon by
profession, a poet by choice, and one who was
something of an improvvisatore. He soon gave
the Englishman abundance of information respecting
the banditti. “The fact is,” said he,
“that many of the people in the villages among
the mountains are robbers, or rather the robbers
find perfect asylum among them. They range
over a vast extent of wild impracticable country,
along the chain of Appenines, bordering on different
states; they know all the difficult passes,
the short cuts and strong holds. They are secure
of the good will of the poor and peaceful
inhabitants of those regions whom they never
disturb, and whom they often enrich. Indeed,
they are looked upon as a sort of illegitimate
heroes among the mountain villages, and some
plunder. From these mountains they keep a
look out upon the plains and valleys, and meditate
their descents.
“The road to Fondi, which you are about to
travel, is one of the places most noted for their
exploits. It is overlooked from some distance by
little hamlets, perched upon heights. From
hence, the brigands, like hawks in their nests,
keep on the watch for such travellers as are likely
to afford either booty or ransom. The windings
of the road enable them to see carriages long
before they pass, so that they have time to get
to some advantageous lurking place from whence
to pounce upon their prey.”
“But why does not the police interfere and
root them out?” said the Englishman.
“The police is too weak and the banditti are
too strong,” replied the improvvisatore. “To
root them out would be a more difficult task than
you imagine. They are connected and identified
with the people of the villages and the peasantry
generally; the numerous bands have an
of various conditions in all parts of the country.
They know all that is going on; a gens d'armes
cannot stir without their being aware of it. They
have their spies and emissaries in every direction;
they lurk about towns, villages, inns,—mingle
in every crowd, pervade every place of resort.
I should not be surprised,” said he, “if some one
should be supervising us at this moment.”
The fair Venetian looked round fearfully and
turned pale.
“One peculiarity of the Italian banditti,” continued
the improvvisatore, “is that they wear a
kind of uniform, or rather costume, which designates
their profession. This is probably done
to take away from its skulking lawless character,
and to give it something of a military air in the
eyes of the common people; or perhaps to catch
by outward dash and show the fancies of the
young men of the villages. These dresses or
costumes are often rich and fanciful. Some wear
jackets and breeches of bright colours, richly embroidered;
broad belts of cloth; or sashes of silk
feathers or variously coloured ribbands, and silk
nets for the hair.
“Many of the robbers are peasants who follow
ordinary occupations in the villages for a part
of the year, and take to the mountains for the
rest. Some only go out for a season, as it were,
on a hunting expedition, and then resume the
dress and habits of common life. Many of the
young men of the villages take to this kind of life
occasionally from a mere love of adventure, the
wild wandering spirit of youth and the contagion
of bad example; but it is remarked that they can
never after brook a long continuance in settled
life. They get fond of the unbounded freedom
and rude license they enjoy; and there is something
in this wild mountain life checquered by
adventure and peril, that is wonderfully fascinating,
independent of the gratification of cupidity
by the plunder of the wealthy traveller.”
Here the improvvisatore was interrupted by a
lively Neapolitan lawyer. “Your mention of
the younger robbers” said he, “puts me in mind
mine, which happened in this very neighbourhood.
A wish was of course expressed to hear the adventure
of the doctor by all except the improvvisatore,
who being fond of talking and of hearing
himself talk, and accustomed moreover to harangue
without interruption, looked rather annoyed
at being checked when in full career.
The Neapolitan, however, took no notice of
his chagrin, but related the following anecdote.
| THE
INN AT TERRACINA. Tales of a traveller | |