NIGHT EN' 'UMBRIA.
TO him who goes by train nothing could be more un- interesting than one of the flat rich Italian plains. Field after field passes in wearying succession, each a perfect square, each bounded by rows of vine-bung trees arranged in faultless line. Straight roads run from end to end of the landscape, and reflect in their white dust the intolerable glare of a Southern sun. But be who at eventide takes the road and makes his way on foot through such a country will find in every field and hamlet, nay, in every ditch, something either sublime or humorous, something either animal or human to detain his curiosity, some new and delicious smell to revel in, some shift of light to Wonder at in the sky. Take such a walk across the Umbrian plain, and you will be well rewarded. Standing on the battlements of Perugia, you see its richness stretched at your feet, and you see the circle of hills which enclose the plain, dotted here and there with high perchedtowns, each girt with a defensive wall. To the east is Assisi. At first it seems to be but a Titanic heap of stone; but look more closely, and you will discern the massive monastery and church, the monument of its beloved St. Francis. Clearly that should be your goal if you are for a tramp to-night.
So you leave the town gate as the cool of the evening begins. Outside there is a knot of young Perugini indulging in the noisy game of "mora." "On foot? and alone, Signore?" they exclaim in astonishment, when you inquire of them the shortest road; but they will tell it you quite faithfully, and with a mixture of reverence and pity, for lunatics are to them quite harmless persons. You leave them whispering and gesticulating, and begin the few miles of steep descent into the plain. The slope and a following wind give wings to your feet :—
"Give me but the heaven above
And the road before me."
Three miles out of the gate you turn and look back. There is the city, all spires and battlements, framed between the two high hills which form your valley, on a ragged background of red sunset and promise-of-storm. Few even of the greatest of Italian masters attempted that background,—why was it that their distances were nearly always morning light ? And, to you looking, does it seem possible that those streets above you are filled only with ramshackly peasant tilt-carts and men in Shabby bowler hats ? Surely to your ears are borne sounds of a different character,—the clash of steel and the shouts of partigiani. The ghosts of the Baglioni are out, and the church is running with the blood of kinsmen spilt by kinsmen. Or is it Messer Giampaolo himself who is clattering down behind you, on his way to the Dieta at Magione at which he hopes to cook Caesar Borgia's goose for him ?
At length you reach the flat ground and cross a mighty river by a Roman bridge. It roars over a weir at your feet, swollen high by rain, and carries its yellow mass to wash the walls of the Vatican and join the sea at Ostia. It is now dark, but it is the night of the full moon, and already above Assisi, by this time invisible, and the Monte Subasio, a red shimmer indicates her approach. The fleecy clouds over- spreading the sky tell you that rain, too, is at band; so do the frogs, who abound in every ditch, and sing you a swinging march-tune as you stride along. This song accompanies you the whole of the way : a deep bass croak, varied by a liquid treble trill. You look anxiously eastwards, wondering whether the moon will succeed in piercing the increasing clouds ;—ali ! there she conies, yellow, whole and round; your path is alight again, and you take comfort. The Umbrian peasant is a delightful companion for a walk. He has a rare courtesy and incredible simplicity of mind. He has not changed his thoughts, his hovel, or his wooden plough for five hundred years. Tuscany is to him a foreign land, the countries beyond the Alps amyrrapt in mystery; of England he has hardly 'beard. While you are talking to him, you suddenly become aware that all the bills are strangely illuminated. tong rows of red lights spring up on every crag, some tar away, some near. They move on and disappear, and then more lights appear on fresh hills. It is the eve of Good Friday, and every village is following the funeral procession of Christ "with lanterns and torches." There will be one in Assisi to•niorrow," says your friend, "for the Lord will lie dead at the Church of St. Francis, and Madonna will come to fetch Him up to the Cathedral." Jacopo turns into his hut and you walk on alone. But now a new wind springs up with a smell of rain in it, and you are glad to greet the lights of Assisi itself twinkling in the high distance. In front of you a flash falls upon the road ; it is from the lamp at a wayside shrine. You see the use of such things then, and can imagine the comfort of them to a solitary wanderer,
"Who on a lonely road Doth walk in fear and dread."
But there is no "frightful fiend" behind the wanderer in Umbria, not even a teppista, or Roman "hooligan," such as in the streets round the Coliseum will cheerfully cut your throat for half-a-crown, of which he will then give sixpence to the central fund of his "thug club." But do not omit, for all that, to say your "Ave" at the little wayside Calvary; you will walk your next mile all the lighter for doing so. Before eleven o'clock the Church of St. Francis looms black and massive over your head ; the first raindrops fall upon you as you climb the steep path towards supper and bed. It is never too late for Signor Padrone to find an omelette or so for an English traveller.
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