nterior of his drawer he often brings forth an
orange, or a bunch of grapes, or handful of chestnuts, supplied by them,
as a dessert for the thick cabbage-soup which he eats at _mezzo giorno_.

In the busiest street of Rome, the pure Campagna song may often be heard
from the throat of some _contadino_, as he slowly rumbles along in his
loaded wine-cart,--the little dog at his side barking a sympathetic
chorus. This song is rude enough, and seems in measure founded upon the
Church chant. It is in the minor key, and consists ordinarily of two
phrases, ending in a screaming monotone, prolonged until the breath of
the singer fails, and often running down at the close into a blurred
chromatic. No sooner is one strain ended than it is suddenly taken up
again in the _prestissimo_ time and "slowed" down to the same dismal
conclusion. Heard near, it is deafening and disagreeable. But when
refined by distance, it has a sad and pleasant effect, and seems to
belong to the place,--the long wail at the close being the very type
of the melancholy stretches of the Campagna. In the same way I have
frequently thought that the _Jodeln_ of the Swiss was an imitation of
the echo of the mountains, each note repeated first in octave, or fifth,
and then in its third below. The Campagna song is to be heard not only
in the Campagna, but everywhere in the country,--in the vineyards,
in the grain-fields, in mountain and valley, from companies working
together, and from solitary _contadini_,--wherever the influence and
sentiment of the Roman Campagna is felt. The moment we get into Tuscany,
on the one side, or over into Naples, on the other, it begins to be
lost. It was only the other day, at nightfall, that I was sauntering
out on the desolate Campagna towards Civita Vecchia. The shadows were
deepening and the mists beginning to creep whitely along the deep
hollows. Everything was dreary and melancholy enough. As I paused to
listen to the solitude, I heard the grind of a distant invisible cart,
and the sound of a distant voice singing. Slowly the cart came up over
the crest of the hill, a dark spot against the twilight sky, and mounted
on the top of a load of brushwood sat a _contadino_, who was singing to
himself these words,--not very consolatory, perhaps, but so completely
in harmony with the scene and the time that they struck me forcibly:--

"E, bella, tu non piangera-a-a-i,
Sul giorno ch'io saro mor-or-or-to-o-o-o-o-o."[D]

[Footnote D