unhappy half of the Pontifical States, the influence of the Vatican
has not yet quite morally destroyed the population. The country people
are poor, ignorant, superstitious, rather wild, but kind, hospitable,
and generally honest. If you wish to study them more closely, go to
one of the villages in the province of Frosinone, towards the
Neapolitan frontier. Cross the plains which malaria has made dreary
solitudes, take the stony path which winds painfully up the side of
the mountain. You will come to a town of five or ten thousand souls,
which is little more than a dormitory for five or ten thousand
peasants. Viewed from a distance, this country town has an almost
grand appearance. The dome of a church, a range of monastic buildings,
the tower of a feudal castle, invest it with a certain air of
importance. A troop of women are coming down to the fountain with
copper vessels on their heads. You smile instinctively. Here is
movement and life. Enter! You are struck with a sensation of coldness,
dampness, and darkness. The streets are narrow flights of steps, which
every now and then plunge beneath low arches. The houses are closed,
and seem to have been deserted for a century. Not a human being at the
doors, or at the windows. The streets, silent and solitary.

You would imagine that the curse of heaven had fallen on the country,
but for the large placards on the house-fronts, which prove that
missionary fathers have passed through the place. "_Viva Gesù! Viva
Maria! Viva il sangue di Gesù! Viva il cor di Maria! Bestemmiatori,
tacetevi per l'amor di Maria!_"

These devotional sentences are like so many signboards of the public
simplicity.

A quarter of an hour's walk brings you to the principal square.