Part 38 (2/2)

”E che fu quell' uomo cos? importante che ? morto? Fu un Duca! un Duca, cari fratelli miei! E, quando mor?, cosa fece? ? montato sopra, montato sopra su alla porta del Paradiso, dove sta San Pietro, colle sue sante chiavi. Picchia il Duca.... 'Chi ? l?,'

disse San Pietro. 'Il Duca di Torlonia!'--'Ah, il Duca di Torlonia,' disse San Pietro, 'quel nome ? ben conosciuto, ben conosciuto davvero.' Quindi si volt? San Pietro all' angelo custode che teneva il libro della vita, e disse, 'Angelo mio, cercate un p?

se trovate quel nome del Duca di Torlonia.' Dunque l'angelo cerc?, cerc? con tanta pena, con tanta inquietudine, volt? tante pagine in quel libro cos? grande della vita, ma disse infine, 'Caro Signor San Pietro mio, mi rincresce tanto, ma quel nome l? non mi riesce di trovarlo.'

”Allora si volt? San Pietro, e disse, 'Caro Signor Duca mio, mi rincresce tanto, ma il suo nome non si trova nel libro della vita.'

Rise il Duca, e disse, 'Ma che sciocchezza! cercate poi il t.i.tolo minore, cercate pure il t.i.tolo maggiore della famiglia, cercate il Principe di Bracciano, e lo troverete sicuramente.' Dunque l'angelo cerc? di nuovo, cerc? con sollecitudine, volt? tante tante pagine in quel libro cos? immenso--ma alla fine disse, 'Caro Signor San Pietro mio, mi rincresce tanto--ma quei nomi non si trovan qui, n?

l'uno, n? l'altro.' Allora disse San Pietro, 'Mi dispiace tanto, Signor Duca mio--ma bisogna scendere pi? gi?--bisogna scendere pi?

gi?.'

”Scese dunque il Duca--poco contento--anzi mortificato di molto--scese gi? alla porta del Purgatorio. Picchia il Duca. 'Chi ?

l?,' disse il guardiano. 'Il Duca di Torlonia' (_piano_). 'Ah, il Duca di Torlonia,' disse il guardiano. 'Anche qui, quel nome ? ben conosciuto, molto ben conosciuto--ma bisogna scendere pi?

gi?--bisogna scendere pi? gi?.'

”Scese dunque il Duca. Ahim?! quant' era miserabile! come gridava, quanto piangeva, ma--gridando, piangendo--scendeva--scendeva gi?--alla porta dell' Inferno, dove sta il Diavolo. Picchia il Duca. 'Chi ? l?,' disse il Diavolo. 'Il Duca di Torlonia'

(_pianissimo_). 'Ah, il Duca di Torlonia,' disse il Diavolo, 'oh siete il benvenuto, entrate qui, caro amico mio, oh quanto tempo siete aspettato, entrate qui, e restate per sempre.' Ecco cari fratelli miei, ecco care sorelle, quel ch' ? success? quest' oggi, stammattina, in citt?, a quel povero Duca di Torloni-a!” &c.

I narrated this story afterwards to Mrs. F. Dawkins and her daughters, and they told me that some friends of theirs were at Rome on August 10, St. Laurence's Day--which fell on a Friday that year--and St. Laurence, as all know, was roasted on a gridiron. That day, the monk began as usual--

”Buon giorno, cari fratelli miei--buon giorno, care sorelle (sniff, sniff, sniff)--ma sento qualche cosa (sniff, sniff)--che cosa sento io (sniff)--sento un odore. E l'odore de che? (sniff, sniff, sniff)--? l'odore di carne (sniff). Chi specie di carne pu? essere?

E l'odore di carne bollito? (sniff). N?, n?, n?, non e bollito (sniff, sniff, sniff). Ah, lo vedo, ? l'odore di carne arrosto, ?

l'odore di carne arrost.i.to--? l'odore d'un santo arrost.i.to--?

l'odore di San Lorenzo.”

Lady Marian Alford used to tell a similar story. Lord Brownlow was at S.

Agostino, when a monk, who was walking about, preaching, in the great pulpit there, said, ”Che odore sento io? E l'odore di montone?--n?! ?

l'odore di presciutto?--n?! ? l'odore delle anime che friggono nell'

inferno.”

I cannot remember whether it was in this or the preceding winter that I spent an evening with Dr. Lus.h.i.+ngton, the famous judge, who, having been born in the beginning of 1782, and preserving evergreen all the recollections of his long life, was one of the most delightful of men. I remember his describing how all the places ending in _s_ in England take their names from people who have lived there. Leeds is so called from an old person called Leed or Lloyd, of whom the great city is now the only memorial. Levens is from Leofwin.

He said that ”the d.u.c.h.esse d'Angoul?me never forgave the Court of Rome for not canonising her father.” She always regarded Louis XVI. as a saint. Of her mother she spoke with less confidence--”she had faults,”

she said, ”but they were terribly expiated.”

Dr. Lus.h.i.+ngton said that when he was a very little child travelling alone with his father, the carriage stopped near a public-house, and the footman and coachman, with the license of those times, went in to drink. He was himself asleep in the corner of the carriage, when a pistol, directed at his father, came cras.h.i.+ng in at the window, with a demand for money. Dr. Lus.h.i.+ngton distinctly remembered his father drawing out a long green silk purse, in which were one hundred guineas, and deliberately counting out twelve guineas into the man's hand, and saying, ”There, take that, that is enough.” ”Well,” said the man, ”but I must have your watch.”--”No,” said his father, ”it is an old family watch, and I cannot give it to you.” Upon this the man said, ”Well, G.o.d bless you,” and went away. Immediately after the servants came out of the inn, and hearing what had happened, said they were armed, they could pursue the highwayman, and they could easily take him. ”No,” said Dr.

Lus.h.i.+ngton's father, ”let him go. The man G.o.d-blessed _me_, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if I hang _him_.”

At this time I took the opportunity of persuading Dr. Lus.h.i.+ngton to tell me himself the most celebrated of his stories, which I had already heard from his son G.o.dfrey and from Arthur Stanley. I wrote it down at the time, and here it is, in the very words of the old judge.

”There was once, within my memory, an old gentleman who lived in Kent, and whose name, for very obvious reasons, I cannot mention, but he lived in _Kent_. He was a very remarkable old man, and chiefly because in the whole course of his very, very long life--for he was extremely old--he had never been known on any single occasion to want presence of mind; he had always done exactly the right thing, and he had always said exactly the right word, at exactly the right moment. The old gentleman lived alone.

That is to say, he had never married, and he had no brother or sister or other relation living with him, but he had a very old housekeeper, a very old butler, a very old gardener--in fact, all the old-fas.h.i.+oned retinue of a very old-fas.h.i.+oned household, and, bound together by mutual respect and affection, the household was a very harmonious one.

”Now I must describe what the old gentleman's house was like.

<script>