MACCARONI AND CANVAS.

IV.

THE FAIR AT GROTTO FERRATA.

No matter how well and hearty you may be, if you are in Rome, in summer, when the scirocco blows, you will feel as if convalescent from some debilitating fever; in winter, however, this gentle-breathing south-east wind will act more mildly; it will woo you to the country, induce you to sit down in a shady place, smoke, and ‘muse.’  That incarnate essence of enterprise, business, industry, economy, sharpness, shrewdness, and keenness—­that Prometheus whose liver was torn by the vulture of cent per cent—­eternally tossing, restless DOOLITTLE, was one day seen asleep, during bank hours, on a seat in the Villa Madama.  The scirocco blew that day:  Doolittle fell.

At breakfast, one morning in the latter part of the month of March, Caper proposed to Roejean and another artist named Bagswell, to attend the fair held that day at Grotto Ferrata.

‘What will you find there?’ asked Roejean.

’Find?—­I remember, in the Bohemian Girl, a song that will answer you,’ replied Caper; ’the words were composed by the theatrical poet Bunn’: 

  ’Rank, in its halls, may not find
  The calm of a happy mind;
      So repair
      To the Fair,
  And they may be met with there.’

‘Unsatisfactory, both the grammar and the sentiment,’ said Bagswell; ’it won’t work; it’s all wrong.  In the first place, rank, in its hauls, may find the calm of a happy mind:  for instance, the captain of a herring-smack may find the calm of a very happy mind in his hauls of No. 1 Digbys; more joy even than the fair could afford him.  Let us go!’

Bagswell was a ‘funny’ Englishman.

They went—­taking the railroad.  Dashing out of the station, the locomotive carried them, in half an hour, to the station at Frascati, whirling them across the Campagna, past long lines of ruined or half-ruined and repaired aqueducts; past Roman tombs; past Roma Vecchia, the name given to the ruins of an immense villa; landing them at the first slope of the mountains, covered at their base with vineyards, olive and fruit-trees, and corn-fields, while high over them gleamed glistening white snow-peaks.

The walk from Frascati to the Grotto, about three miles, was beautiful, winding over hills through a fine wood of huge old elms and plane-trees.  In the warm sun-light, the butterflies were flitting, while the road-side was purple with violets, and white and blue with little flowers.  From time to time, our three artists had glimpses of the Campagna, rolling away like the ocean, to dash on Rome, crowned by St. Peter’s; the dome of which church towers above the surrounding country, so that it can be seen, far and wide, for thirty miles or more.  The road was alive with walkers and riders; here a dashing, open carriage, filled with rosy English; there a contadino,