him out, he looked so, in the few minutes | our attention from each other. The meadows through which he waited for that funeral to were submerged by a freshet, the vineyards dispass by. mantled, the trees without leaves.

I left Greendale soon after, and I have never seen again the little village shut in among the Vermont hills, or heard of the good or ill fortune which pursues that man. But I doubt if the old self-content is in his manner now-if sometimes he does not contrast Mrs. Hetty's loud aggressive ways with that dead girl's gentleness-if his life has not punished him as she poor, loving child would have been the last to desire. If men are ever haunted-as by memory I surely believe they are--he must see, sometimes, that white, frail face against the pane which looked its last at him the day he carried by his bride.

ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME.

WE one,

E are inclined to think the old proverb

Our companion proved to be the Directeur of a small German college on his first pilgrimage to the Holy City; and being a Roman Catholic priest and a German, it is worth recording that he was uniformly unbigoted, courteous, and immaculate in neatness.

Our media of communication being limited by our mutual ignorance of most languages, the Abbé and I were obliged to content ourselves with an occasional pantomimic tourney, by which he made known with his hand upon his heart, and his cigar momentarily suspended, with divers nods and becks and wreathed smiles, that he was eternally my servant to command; and I, by reciprocal demonstrations, that his existence and presence were rather agreeable than otherwise. On my part, however, there was a perpetual mental reservation to the effect that al

we found our way thither through the "Chicka- the place at our side for a certain blessed domhominy," the Bronchitis, and the Leaning Tow-inie afar, whose greater heart and brain would er of Pisa. have reveled where his Papist counterpart only comfortably simmered and smoked.

In retracing the intermediate steps of our progress, however, I shall begin no further back It might have been stated that the first efforts than the ticket-office of the railway from Leg-at sociability between the Abbé and myself were horn, only pausing to protest in the name of euphony against this abominable distortion of the pleasant Livorno, by which it is at least possible, Mr. John Bull, the Leghorners know how to call themselves better than you do.

At the dépôt in Livorno we made an acquaintance which time and chance ripened into an almost friendship. An ecclesiastic, with kindly old face and luminous tonsure, rimmed about with closely-clipped white down, his stout figure incased in faultless cassock and knee breeches, and in tout ensemble not unlike his idolized Pape himself, was exercising his little patience and less Italian in conference with the stupid official in charge, pausing occasionally to relieve himself by objurgation in his native German.

made through an interpreter, until we discovered that he was basely betraying our confidence for his own amusement. Then we laid a "Heart's Content" cable of our own, and signaled "All right, De Sauty," fearless of treachery,

On arriving at Pisa we made our way on foot across the city, rejoicing that it was a few shades cleaner than vile Leghorn.

Murray in hand, we sought the Botanical Gardens; but it required only six fruitless twangs of the Custode's bell to convince us that the plants were despicable and the grapes sour. Then we turned toward that marvelous architectural group, with which, in its most salient feature at least, all the world is familiar; and yet the actual vision had all the enchantment of a glorious discovery.

The Campanile, which fascinated our infantile gaze as it bowed its stately height to us from the nursery dinner-service, done in super-skyey blue on white (stone) China; and familiar to our older eyes by means of marble, alabaster, paint

Of course Number One pricked his ears at the burr of the well-beloved language, and finding the old Abbé's inquiries were also directed toward Pisa, at once joined issues. The result of this confederation was that at 11 A.M. we were on board the train. As it was a warm, bright day we were content to occupy during the briefing, photograph, stove ornaments, and blanc ride seats in a third-class carriage, without glass, being merely roofed and railed about, and innocent of all upholstery. If ever such innocence is bliss it is in a country where every thing lives, moves, and has its beings innumerable.

manger moulds-this, of course, first arrested our steps.

Its eight tiers of columns, modeled after the first baby's first block-house, and built, I should judge, by architects fresh from Babel nurseries, lean quite enough to satisfy one's most deflected expectations. Indeed, having climbed half-way up the dizzy height, one insensibly quickens his pace as the stairs dip on the shorter side, and wishes the entire seven bells were hung, as the

I was protected from contact with the "great unwashed" who shared our humble but capacious quarters by the two parsons, the old Abbé, having obtained permission of "the gnädige Frau," puffing all the way at an immense cigar. I may add that, during our subsequent inter-weightier are, on the upper edge of the Tower. course of three months' continuance, he was never known to intermit this sanitary measure, save in church or strange drawing-rooms.

There was little in the landscape to distract

The mountain views from the Campanile are indeed magnificent. That Pisa bears away the palm from all Italian cities in this regard I am not so fool-hardy as to deny in the face of Mr.

Ruskin's affirmation; but very certain am I that there can scarcely be another point on this globe from whence man's handiwork shows so grandly as here, looking down upon the massive pile of the Duomo, the Baptistery, the Campo Santo, and the Leaning Tower itself on which you stand-all within the compass of a few acres. On the southern slope of the topmost gallery a consumptive dandelion was struggling for life. I rescued it from the elemental fury to which its ambition had exposed it, and restored it to immortal bloom by adding it to what is profanely called my "greens." Of this unappreciated collection the same liege villifier maintains that, having gathered herbal souvenirs, I straightway forgot what manner of birth-place they had, and when the time for promotion to the album comes assign them severally according to the moment's fancy.

unique cemetery have an air of hugging to their hearts many an awful mystery whose unfolding would startle Christendom.

But the arcade which shuts in this dread silence is fairly garrulous with tales of eld-a story almost without an end, dragging its slow length along, perhaps sixteen or more feet, and irrepressibly diffusing its quaint gossip on all sides.

I have an ancient aunt whose art-aspirations are totally unappreciated by her immediate relatives. During the temporary absence of the entire corps of domestic police, however, the divine flame burst forth, and the consequence was such a waving of green trees, and flowing of gray rivers, and glooming of cuir-colored rocks, and blazing of crimson suns, and sporting of pink deer, and ringed-streaked and speckled lambs over the walls of her own particular apartment, that not an inch of their pristine whiteness remained. Abundantly compla

aged three years into the sacred inclosure, confident that his pure, beauty-loving soul would grasp the motive of her composition, uncramped by the ignorance and envy of his elders. The young critic seemed at first stunned by the gor geous vision, but suddenly rallying he remarked, with solemn deliberation, "This-do-lookorful!"

We encountered another natural curiosity on these heights of Zion-a cadaverous priest, looking like a fossilized toad-stool with his little shriv-cent, the happy artist introduced a connoisseur eled body and immense shovel-hat, the very antipode of our companion. However, the two cassocks instantly saluted fraternally, and after an interchange of civilities in a species of French our friend the Abbé turned to Number One, with perfectly radiant countenance, as he exclaimed, "Why, do you not know each other? This one also is an American clergyman." The rapturous recognition which the kind old man obviously anticipated did not follow, possibly owing to the "boundless contiguity" of American parishes, which renders the interchange of pulpit courtesies between New. Granada (our new brother's abode) and Massachusetts infrequent. Moreover, Shovel-hat sniffed suspiciously at the unclerical costume of his Protestant fellow-citizen; so we left him to his meditations, and descending rapidly were soon rejoicing over our safe return to a straight line, as we looked upward at the beetling pile of masonry which bent above us.

When my eyes beheld the fasces of the Campo Santo my first thought was that my worthy aunt and her paint-brushes had been here on a rampage, and my first criticism, "This do look orful!"

The horror and mortification of the PreRaphaelite divine at this flagrant exhibition of his wife's obtuseness may be imagined. Sorrowful and alone, save as he grasped Kugler with one hand and Ruskin with the other, he did his duty conscientiously by each square foot of grotesque smearing. The dear old Abbé was my coadjutor. "Potztausend!" quoth he, dismissing the whole subject from Giotto downward.

Still we two rebels found two or three tidbits which pleased us much. An ample section of the infernal regions particularly fascinated the jolly priest, who chuckled and grimaced before it with gusto. In the midst of it sat a colossal Satan, looking as if he had just come out of bed, and had got out of decidedly the wrong side, with horrid arms akimbo and horrid locks

The Campanile can at least plead the example of its mother, the Cathedral, in extenuation of its lapse from rectitude. But with the Duomo and the Baptistery, with all their wonders of art, antiquity, and association, I shall not intermeddle by way of description. In the former, Number One, who is a very Hebrew of the Hebrews in his adoration of mosaics, and will at any time gladly gird himself for a five-mile race after a specimen of which the art authorities simply remark that it is very bad, beheld his first Cim-a-bristle, superintending his very disorderly méabue, and matched in admiration its colossal proportions.

I confess with shame that I had only the remotest idea what a Campo Santo might please to be until I was introduced, in Pisa, to the great father of them all. The soil of the interior court-yard is said to have been brought, during the twelfth century, from the Holy Hill itself. "Dead men tell no tales," especially if deposited in the miracle-working dust of Jerusalem; but the grim, close cypresses which spring from the doubly-sainted dust of this

nage. Ugly imps with pitchforks were actively assisting in setting things to rights. Wretches of every form, sex, order, and dimension were being tossed about their new quarters, obviously not wishing to remain: the whole effect being horribly grotesque. Since my aunt left the Campo Santo time and damp have been busy with blotting, crumbling fingers.

The designs of many of these frescoes it is impossible to decipher; but having followed St. Paul's direction to knowledge-thirsting woman, I am able to state that they all originally

the most lavish gold, could not secure to him, and into which the most accurate guide-books and the lectures of a reliable connoisseur perhaps could only dimly initiate him; yet it seemed wiser to him to go into the midst of these treas

meant something, which was exceedingly grand, gloomy, and peculiar, intimately connected with High Art. Save for this biblical and conjugal authority I should have turned away my eyes from many of those still distinguishable, under the impression that they were wicked carica-ures of Art with eyes half opened rather than tures of Scriptural and saintly lives. stone-blind.

The corridors of the Campo Santo have been accumulating treasures for centuries, and are really a rare old curiosity-shop, rich in the spoils of many lands. The trophies are miscellaneous, ranging from the grumpiest old green Griffon of ancient Araby to the gushing monument of a widow inconsolabile of to-day. Sarcophagi, statues, battle-trophies, altars whose sacred fires expired long ago, bassi-relievi, and all manner of odds and ends of virtuosi, are jumbled in odd confusion. The cool manner in which the human cuckoos of one age take possession of the snug beds of the preceding is strikingly exemplified here. There are even early Christian tombs doing double duty for medieval sinners.

But Rome will never be reached at this lagging pace.

I leave it to any one of common-sense, who has ever stood in the gallery of the Louvre, the Pitti Palazzo, the Vatican, to declare whether every little seed of knowledge he had ever gathered in regard to the history of Art, or of any individual artist or work, did not that day spring up in sixtyfold harvest, and whether he did not mingle with his rejoicings self-execrations because he had so "hated his own soul" as to leave it to such an extent fallow against this glorious ripening-day.

Now toward Rome again.

At six o'clock P.M. we were again in Livorno at our humble inn, of which we were the sole guests, and, to the best of our knowledge, the sole occupants save the landlord. We had an immense apartment furnished with a generous assortment of beds of varying dimensions, with fresh hangings and frescoes, for all which exuberance we were indebted to the fact, subsequently confided to us, that the young factotum of the house was to be married the coming week, and had swept and garnished according ly. Furthermore, we shared with the good Abbé the luxury of a generous fire in the salle à manger, with a writing-table, and unlimited station

Before leaving Pisa, however, let me give truce to nonsense, and say, in justice to myself, that the impression produced upon me by the Campo Santo, even in my ignorance and blindness, was really very great; and now that I, too, have learned to bow before the grand simplicity of holy Giotto, and Orcagna, and the frati Angelico and Bartolemeo, I long to stand once more within the sacred inclosure and learn its lessons with eyes which, I trust, a drop of "heav-ery; paying for all perhaps one-third of the enly rue" has touched.

Suffer me in further digression.

regular rates at the hotels of the guide-books. The alacrity with which our bell was answered, and our orders filled, excited our fears that "service" would be the heaviest item of our bill, until we recognized in the zealous respondent and executor invariably, our landlord, representing in his ubiquitous self, Boots, Waiter, Butler, Cook, Chamber-maid, Porter, and Commissionaire. In this instance, and often subsequently, by a little patient search we were able to secure (with fewer francs than would have necessitated our occupation of a filthy, dark closet in the roof of one of the grand hotels) the cleanest, the largest, and the best which some unrecommended albergo afforded.

Some time ago I heard related (by one who should have been wiser), as a comical absurdity, this fact in regard to a mutual acquaintance: Being about to make the tour of Europe, this acquaintance had proposed, by way of preparation, to secure the services of some competent connoisseur to instruct him somewhat in the mysteries of Art. "Teach him what pictures to like!" was the precise phraseology of the amused narrator. Now I think I am not obtuse to drollery of every degree, yet I failed to appreciate the comic angle of this notion Even before experience had confirmed it, my impression was that the prospective tourist had shown in this After twenty-four hours' detention a boat arthe same sagacity which marks his business rived at five P.M. December 23 we set steam transactions. His days had been spent in active and sail for Civita Vecchia, whither our passbusiness, yet his evenings were conscientiously ports had preceded us. The Mediterranean was devoted to mental culture, and his residence stirred from its depths, the boat crowded with was in the best provincial city of America; still passengers, and the odors were passing show. his amour propre and his national conceit did So, although our tickets included the privilege not blind him to the fact that there was much of the dinner-table, which stretched its offensive for him to learn in that strange land, and that length through the entire sleeping cabin, we disit became him as a provident man to prepare creetly evinced our valor by taking to our berths himself to secure all its advantages. It seemed at once. Peering through my curtains I had to him not enough to buy the best guide-books, the grim satisfaction of seeing all the passenand his gold at the lowest rates; to beg lét-gers disappear from the dinner - table, which ters of introduction, and acquire a smattering of French. There was that in this new old world opening before him which the most fluent French, the most fortunate introductions,

many of them had attacked with noisy zest. One by one I saw the unhappy wights grow pale and betake themselves to cover like stricken deer.

First and foremost among the victims was, I

am glad to say, a smart young Frenchman who, as we sailed out of the harbor, had promenaded the deck in wild spirits, puffing a cigar. Although we (and we alone) escaped absolute seasickness, yet what with the spasms of the steam er, the swearing of men, groaning of women, crying of babies, and frequent shipping of seas, whereby the cabin, stairway, and floor were transformed into an irresponsible waterfall and threatening torrent, we registered this as a night of horrors.

At five the next morning we were roused from a troubled sleep by our jocund "priest all shaven and shorn," proclaiming the incredible news that we were at Civita Vecchia. To our glad surprise it proved true. The ill-wind which we had so bewailed the previous night had actually blown us the good of bringing us to our destination five hours before we were due. I regard this as unprecedented in the history of steam navigation.

When the official, after provoking delay, finally appeared upon the deck with the permits, without which no one is suffered to touch the sacred land, Babel confusion ensued. For ourselves, inasmuch as we had learned to listen for our own name in the most unexpected combinations of the alphabet, and as the Papal envoy's pronunciation was of the loosest, we invariably made a rush at him every time he opened his mouth, until his angry suspicions were so roused against us that it is a marvel that we were ever permitted to descend into one of the rickety craft by which pilgrims from every land are transported to the embraces of His Holiness, and to eat bread in his paradisaical buffet. Doubtless it was owing to our heretical palates that this bread became in our mouths as the apples of Sodom. But in all our travels we were never so badly served. Even the old Abbé, to whom Civita Vecchia was the very antechamber of heaven, pronounced a benediction backward over its purgatorial cuisine. But the light afflictions of starvation and imposition were speedily forgotten after we entered the train for the Holy City.

Although it was the 24th of December the meadows still "stood dressed in living green," flaunting breast-knots of yellow and white blossoms-the Pope's colors-while clouds of dandelion-down crossed our vision of the distant Apennines crowned with snow.

The most eventful lifetime can have few more thrilling moments than those which measure the near approach to Rome. But nobody cares particularly about another's rapturous emotions. They came thick and fast to us; first the "yellow Tiber," with its thickets of strange reeds, sung by Virgil; then the first glimpse of the glorious city itself, five miles away, invested with the awful solitude of the Campagna; then the Claudian aqueduct striding across the desolate plain, indescribably picturesque, with its burden of centuries and its clinging vines; then the grim pyramid of Caius Cestius, and the actual entrance of the gates of Rome.

It was not Mr. Murray's fault that I failed to see also St. Peter's. We were unfortunately seated, and for us the marvelous dome was totally eclipsed by the opacity of a German student on his way to the Propaganda. Having assumed his tall hat, by way of reverential salam, at the first glimpse of the city, as we drew nearer and enthusiasm boiled, he suddenly caught up the rejected soft hat of his travels and thrust it upon the top of his beaver. We sympathized too keenly with his emotion to appreciate at the moment his preposterous aspect, of which he was of course unconscious, and only mildly remonstrated against this supplemental obscuring of our vision. But it was too late for St. Peter's. This was reserved for our seeing under more romantic circumstances than from the window of a railway carriage.

Alighting from the train and entering the station, I defy even the most ardent Roman pilgrim to retain a thread of enthusiasm. It is well known that Pio Nono regards all modern improvements, ecclesiastical or otherwise, as so many infernal-machines, liable at any moment ❝ their bolts to throw, And deal damnation round the land."

Accordingly the Roman railway was laid athwart his pathetic protestations, and often swamped by his tears. (It occurs to me that this lachrymal tendency of His Holiness is at the bottom of the frequent interruption of railroad communication between Rome and the sinful world at the present day.) In accordance with this apprehension a melancholy satisfaction has been found in appropriating as the station of the Roman terminus of the railroad one of the chambers of the Inquisition, whose holier service has been sacrilegiously swept away.

In this chamber of horrors we waited one hour of sixty interminable minutes for the opening of a room in which our luggage was stored. It was not pretended that there was any reason in this, only it was "the custom." In this cold, damp, filthy room there were no seats save a torture-bench, so high that when, after several ineffectual efforts, I was finally perched thereon my feet swung disconsolately clear of the floor; and the only other article in the apartment was a little effigy of the Virgin, which seemed to our weary vision to blink derisively at us, above the lamp which smoked profanely her ancient charms.

Our compagnon du voyage had informed us that his arrival in the Holy City would be welcomed by a Klösterfrau from his native town, but long resident in Rome. He also assured us that he would share with us her kindly offices.

Our tedium was at last relieved by the arrival not of the Klösterfrau, but of her messengers; another German Abbé and an Italian woman. They seemed to recognize their guest from among a crowd of passengers (which included several priests) by a species of pious masonry, I suppose, and greeted him most warmly.

When our heretical persons were presented to the new Abbé by our old friend his surprise bore

a shade of alarm, but his simple heart soon melt- | to his priestly duties, that we discovered that he ed toward us, and bubbled over in exclamations was a hero. of astonishment that we had really come so many thousand miles, not to worship at St. Peter's tomb, but to see what we should see.

Yes; to us was given the honor of being taken into Rome by the very man who took Pio Nono out of the same once upon a time. In the last Revolution, when the mob threatened the Quirinale, this faithful priest made his way into the

of underground railway into the sacred refuge of Gaeta, first exchanging the superb robes in which the present Pope delights to deck himself for the sombre homeliess of an ordinary priest's garb.

The new Abbé had been so long absent from his native country that his Italian speech was readiest, but he used the German also, and oc- | Palace, and ran his Holiness out upon a species casionally an English sentence for my peculiar benefit. The woman, however, was ignorant of all but Italian, although I at first supposed that the ejaculation which the animated conversation into which the three priests fell frequently extracted from her was our English expletive, "dear me," but it proved to be Deo mio instead. However, Number One insists that "dear me sus," which is the innocent explosive of many a weary or amazed Englishspeaking saint, is only a corruption of Dea me sustine.

When Pio Nono returned in triumphant state to his throne his humble deliverer was not forgotten. He made him military chaplain, and to this day frequently grants him gracious entrance to the domestic sanctum of the Vatican.

One has not really scen Rome until he has seen St. Peter's, and we did not let a day dawn before we had stood in the world-famed Piazza. But having played so long by the way, I must defer till another time the story of our Christ

At last we were permitted to lay hands upon our luggage, and emerge from our prison. There was no resisting the generous kindness of our Abbé. Against our remonstrances he commend-mas-eve. ed us to the fatherly care of his brother-cassock, reserving for himself only the aid of the forlorn woman with her everlasting "Deo mio!"

66

TYPOGRAPHICAL ERRORS.

It seemed to us that it would be funnier HARPER'S MAGAZINE, some time since,

suggested a collection of typographical er

rors. The following may be accepted as a contribution in that direction. Many of these instances may be familiar, while many others have not before received special notice. Now for a beginning, with illustrations of paragraphs made ludicrous by the transposition of lines.

Two articles had been prepared for a New York daily (one containing a sermon preached by an eminent divine, and the other about the freaks of a mad dog), but, unfortunately, the foreman, when placing them in the form, "mixed" them, making the following contre-temps :

"The Rev. James Thompson, rector of St. Andrew's Church, preached to a large concourse of people on Sunday last. This was his last sermon. In a few weeks he will

him to cross the Atlantic. He exhorted his brethren and

than Punch," and possibly more alarming than Colenso, to our friends and parishioners at home could they see us at that moment in our little coiture buzzing through the narrow streets of Rome with "wot larks" legibly written on our faces, while opposite us, on the little drop-seat, beaming at us graciously from under his immense shovel-hat, sat the Roman priest; while racing with us for some distance was a similar vehicle, in which sat good old Abbé S with his fatherly smile, and the solemn old woman with her pious refrain. But soon our ways parted. Abbé S was whirled away to his quarters, already secured for him on the heights beyond the Vatican; while we, under the direction of our new patron, sought for lodgings. There was a volume of significance in the ig-bid farewell to his congregation, as his physicians advise norance which this priest displayed in regard to the objects of interest which we passed, and his childish amazement at our enthusiastic inquiries Even the Pantheon, before whose hoary majesty we held our breath, he pointed out to us as Santa Maria ad Martyres, one of the thousand parish churches in Rome! The tread-mill offices of his daily life might as well have been performed in the desert of Sahara as amidst the glories of antiquity, history, and art. He had actually never entered the Gallery of the Vati-subject, and another on fattening swine. What can until he accompanied our friend the Abbé a few days after our arrival, although for many years he had lived within three minutes' walk of its treasures. He was one of the most faithful and simple-hearted men I ever saw, but by no means the cleanliest or wisest.

It was several days after he had deposited us at a comfortable albergo, and dismissed our voiture (without the tax which the driver attempted to impose upon our ignorance), and returned

sisters, and after offering a devout prayer, took a whim to cut up some frantic freaks. He ran up Timothy Street to Johnson, and down Benefit Street to College. At this stage of the proceedings a couple of boys seized him, tied crowd collected, and for a time there was a grand scene of noise, running, and confusion. After some trouble he was shot by a policeman."

a tin kettle to his tail, and he again started. A great

A similar accident of the types lately occurred in the experience of a Western editor, who gave out two articles for his paper-one on a political

was his surprise, in looking over his paper on the following morning, to find that by some sleight of hand on the part of the printer, the articles had changed headings, and that one of them began:

"GREAT HOGS!

"Under this head, we include the clergy, the editorial fraternity, and the members of Congress."

Blackwood's Magazine mentions an odd incident which occurred to a book called "The Men