The Continental Monthly , Vol. 2 No. 5, November 1862

Yes—look at the beautiful Rose, radiant with dewdrops, ruddy in the morning light, or dreamily lovely, with the moonbeams melting through her moon-shaped petals. Unchanged since that primeval age when she was a living idol—a visible and blest presence of the Great Goddess of beauty and love—whether as Astarte or Ma Nerf Baaltis, Ashtaroth or Venus. Let her breathe in her fragrance of the far times when millions in a strange and busy age now forgotten thronged rose-garlanded to the temples; when, bearing roses, they gathered to wild worship at the Feast of the New Moon, under shady groves or in picturesque high places among the ancient rocks. Rose-breathing, rose-perfumed, amid sweetest music and black Assyrian eyes, in the gliding dance under thousands of brazen serpent lamps, or far in dusky fragrant forests, they adored the Rose Queen—the very visible spirit and incarnation of nature in her loveliest form. Over many a shining sea passed the barks, rose-wreathed, to the far isles of the South: she—the Rose—was there! From many a steep crag looked out on the blue ocean the temple of the Star Queen, the Heaven and Sea-born sister of the Rose: and she was there. Through beautiful temples the lover strayed to meet his love, and, taking the rose from her brow, won her in worship of the Serpent-light of Loveliness: for she, the Rose—the Mystery of all Rapture—was ever there! On coin and jewel, in prayer and song they bore the Rose-Venus to every land in a living, ever-thrilling romaunt—far goldener, more thrilling with poetry than was in later times the dull lay of De Loris and Clopinel: for wherever man found joy and beauty in life, feast, and song, she—the Rose Incarnate—was there. In the Rose was the twin sister of all the mysteries: we may read them as clearly in her, if we will, as ever did rapt Sidonian, or priest, or daughter of the Aryan, or whatever the early unknown burning race may have been, which built fire-towers in melting Lesbos, and names Cor-on, the crowned Corinthos, ere yet a syllable of Greek had ever rung on earth. She is the Cup; her calyx and dew reflect the goblet of life, and the nectar-wine of life, typical in early times of endless generation, in later days of re-generation. Born of the sea, she recalls the Cor-olla Cup-Ark in which Hercules—Arech El Es—crossed the sea between the rosy dawn and ruddy sundown, 'strength upborne by love and life.' She is the Morning Star which hovered over Aphrodite when the Queen rose from the sea, since each was either in that Trinity; as in later days the star shone on him who rose from Maria the sea, accompanied by Iona, the dove. She is the Shell and the Ark of so many ancient legends—that Ark into which life enters, and from which it is born—the Ark of Earth, in which Adon and the flowers sleep till Spring—the Ark of maternal Being, from which man is born—the exquisite and beautiful Rose. She is the Door or Gate of the Transition or Passing Through from death to life: wherever man enters, there is the Rose, and with her all the twin-symbols;—and when, bearing a rose, you chance to pass through some antique rock-gap, far inland, near a running stream, start not, reader, should a strange thrill, as of a solemn vanished life, sweep over you; for so surely as you live, know that in ancient days the footsteps of the rose-bearing worshipper went before you through that narrow pass, performing, by so doing, the rite typical of new birth, revival, and the Covenant. She is the cavern, the secret lair of life and the casket in which that one great arcanum and impenetrable secret of motherhood is forever concealed—forever and forever. They found it hidden—those priests of old—in Woman and in the Rose, in fruits, and in all that lives or grows; they traced the mystery up to godhood; they found it reflected in every object of reception and transit—in the temple, and house, and vase, and moon-like horns; they saw it in the woodland path, winding away in darkness among the trees; it lurked in seeds and nuts: man could crush the grape and burn the flower, but he could not solve the inscrutable mystery of generation and life; and so he hallowed it. Hail to thee, thou, its fairest earthly form, O Rose of sunlight and luxury and love!

In a 'Floral Dictionary' at hand, I find the rose means, 'genteel, pretty.' In another, twenty-four very different interpretations are ascribed to as many varieties of this flower. It is almost needless to say that the modern 'Language of Flowers' is, for the greater part, merely the arbitrary invention of writers entirely ignorant of the signification anciently attached to natural objects. The primary meaning of the rose is love; and it is a rose-garland, and not a tulip, which should stand for a 'declaration of passion,' and, at the same time, for a pledge of secrecy. Many of these modern fancies are, however, very beautiful; as, for instance, in that German lyric in which the Angel of the Flowers confers a fresh grace on the rose by veiling it in moss:

'And, robed in Nature's simplest weed,Could there a flower that rose exceed?'

But our task is to investigate those antique meanings of flowers, that secret language of life and love consecrated to them for thousands of years, and now buried under forgotten lays, legends, and strange relics of art.

MACCARONI AND CANVAS.

IX

ROMAN FIRESIDES

It was a warm day in October when Caper engaged rooms in the Babuino; the sun shone cheerfully, and he took no heed of the cold weather to come: in fact he entertained the popular idea that the land half-way between the tropics and paradise, called Italy, stood in no need of pokers and coal hods: he was mistaken. Awaking one morning to the fact that it was cold, he began an examination of his rooms for a fireplace: there was none. He searched for a chimney—in vain. He went to see his landlady about it: she was standing on a balcony, superintending the engineering of a bucket in its downward search for water. The house was five stories high, and from each story what appeared to be a lightning rod ran down into what seemed to be a well, in a small garden. Up and down these rods, tin buckets, fastened to ropes, were continually running, rattling, clanking down, or being drawn splashing, dripping up; and as they were worked assiduously, it made lively music for those dwelling in the back part of the house.

Having mentioned to the landlady that he wanted a fire, the good woman reflected a moment, and then directed the servant to haul out a sheet iron vessel mounted on legs: this was next filled with charcoal, on which was thrown live coals, and the entire arrangement being placed outside the door on the balcony, the servant bent over and fanned it with a turkey feather fan. Caper looked on in astonishment.

'Are you going to embark in the roast chestnut trade?' he asked.

'Ma che!' answered madame; 'that is your fire.'

'It will bring on asphyxia.'

'We are never asphyxied in Rome with it. You see, the girl fans all the venom out of it; and when she takes it into your room it will be just as harmless as—let me see—as a baby without teeth.'

This comparison settled the question, for it proved it wouldn't bite. Caper managed to worry through the cold weather with this poor consoler: it gave him headaches, but it kept his head otherwise cool, and his feet warm; and, as he lived mostly in his studio, where he had a good wood stove, he was no great loser.

'But,' said he, descanting on this subject to Rocjean, 'how can the Romans fight for their firesides, when they haven't any?'

'They will fight for their scaldine, especially the old women and the young women,' answered Rocjean, 'to the last gasp. There is nothing they stick to like these: even their husbands and lovers are not so near and dear to them.'

'What are they? and, how much do they cost?' asked Caper, artistically.

'Crockery baskets with handles; ten baiocchi,' replied Rocjean, 'You must have noticed them; why, look out of that window: do you see that girl in the house opposite. She has one on the window sill, under her nose, while her hands are both held over the charcoal fire that is burning in it. If there were any proof needed that the idea of a future punishment by fire did not originate in Rome, the best reply would be the bitter hatred the Romans have of cold. I can fancy the income of the church twice as large if they had only thought to have filled purgatory with icebergs and a corresponding state of the thermometer. A Roman, in winter time, would pay twice as many baiocchi for prayers to get a deceased friend out of the cold, as he could otherwise be induced to. The English and other foreigners have, little by little, induced hotel and boarding house keepers to introduce grates and stoves, with good coal and wood fires, wherever they may hire lodgings; but the old Romans still stand by braseras and scaldinas.'

'I caught a bad cold yesterday, thanks to this barbarous custom,' said Caper. 'I was in the Vatican, looking at a pretty girl copying a head of Raphael's, and depending on imagination and charcoal to warm me: the results were chills and the snuffles.'

'Let that be a warning to you against entering art galleries during cold weather. To visit the Borghese collection with the thermometer below freezing point, and see all those semi-nude paintings, whether of saints or sinners, chills the heart; not only that they have no clothes, but that the artists who made the pictures were so radically vulgar—because they were affected!'

'But,' spoke Caper,'they probably painted them in the merry spring time, when they had forgotten all about frozen fountains and oranges iced; or, it may be, in their day wood was cheaper than it is now, and money plentier.'

'Yes, in the days when three million pilgrims visited Rome in a year. But would you believe it? within thirty miles of this city I have seen enough timber lying rotting on the ground, to half warm the Eternal City? The country people, in the commune where I lived one summer, had the privilege of gathering wood in the forest that crowns the range of mountains backing up from the sea, and separating the Pontine Marshes from the higher lands of the Campagna: but the trunks of the hewn trees, after such light branches as the women could hack off were carried away, were left to rot; for there was no way to get them to Rome—an hour's distance by railroad. Cold? The Romans are numbed to the heart: wait until they are warmed up; wait until they have a chance to make money—there will be no poets like Casti in those days—Casti, who wrote two hundred sonnets against a man who dunned him for—thirty cents! Talk about knowing enough to go into the house when it rains! Why the Roman shopkeepers of the poorer class don't know enough to shut their shop doors when they are starved with cold: you will find this to be the fact. Look, too, at the poor little children! do they ever think of playing fire engine, and thus warming themselves in a wholesome manner? No! One day I was painting away, when I heard a poor, thin little voice, as of a small dinner bell with a croup, and hoping at last I might see the little ones having a good frolic, I went to the window and looked out. What did I see? A small boy with a large, tallow-colored head, carrying a large black cross in the pit of his stomach; another small boy ringing a bell; and five others following along, in a crushed, despondent manner—inviting other boys to hear the catechism explained in the parish church. Meat for babes! I don't wonder the Roman women all want to be men, when I see the men without half the spirit of the women, and, such as they are, loafing away the winter evenings for warmth in wine shops or cafes. Poor Roman women, huddled together in your dark rooms, feebly lighted with a poor lamp, and hugging scaldine for better comfort! Would that the American woman could see her Italian sister, and bless her stars that she did not live under the cap and cross keys.'

'The cold has one good effect,' interrupted Caper; 'the forcible gesticulation of the Italians, which we all admire so much, arises from the necessity they have to do so—in order to keep warm. I have, however, an idea to better the condition of the wood sawyers in the Papal States, by introducing a saw buck or saw horse: as it is, they hold the wood in their hands, putting the saw between their knees, and then fairly rubbing the wood through the saw, instead of the saw through the wood. How, too, the Romans manage to cut wood with such axes as they have is passing strange. It would be well to introduce an American axe here, handle and all.'

'We have an old, old saying in France,' spoke Rocjean:

'Jamais cheval n'y hommeS'amenda pour aller a Rome.'

'Never horse or man mended, that unto Rome wended.' Your American axe is useless without American energy, and would not, if introduced here, mend the present shiftless style of wood chopping: evidently the people will one day take it up and try it—when their minds and arms are free. As it is, the genuine Romans live through their winters without wood in a merry kind of humor; taking the charcoal sent them by chance for cooking with great good nature; and, without words, blessing God for giving them vigorous frames and sturdy bodies to withstand cold and heat. After all, the want of fixed firesides by no manner of means annoys the buxom Roman woman of the people: she picks up her moving stove, the scaldina, and trots out to see her nearest gossip, knowing that her reception will be warm, for she brings warmth with her. There is a copy of Galignani, a round of bull beef, and a dirty coal fire, even in Rome, for every Englishman who will pay for them; but why, oh why! forever hoist the banner of the Blues over the gay gardens of every earthly paradise? Why hide Psyche under a hogshead?'

'Are you asking me those hard questions? For if you are,' said Caper, 'I will answer you thus: A fishwoman passing along a street in Philadelphia one day, heard from an open window the silver-voiced Brignoli practising an aria, possibly from the Traviata: 'That voice,' quoth she, 'would be a fortune for a woman in shad time!''

THE VIOLETS OF THE VILLA BORGHESE

'It is well to be off with the old loveBefore you are on with the new:'

hummed James Caper, as he sauntered, one morning early, through the dewy grass of the Villa Borghese, with his uncle, Bill Browne, leisurely picking a little bouquet of violets—'dim, but sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, or Cytherea's breath.'—and pleasantly thinking of the pretty face of his last love, the blonde Rose, who was at that moment smiling on somebody else in Naples.

'There is nothing keeps a man out of mischief so well as the little portrait a pair of lovely eyes photographs on his heart; is there now, Uncle Bill?'

'No, Jim, you are 'bout right there: if you want to keep the devil out of your heart, you must keep an angel in it. If you can't find a permanent resident, why you must take up with transient customers. First and last, I've had the pictures of half the pretty girls in Saint Louis hanging up in my gallery: as one grows dim I take up another, and that's the way I preserve my youth. If it hadn't been for business, I should have been a married man long ago; and my advice to you, Jim, is to stop off being a bachelor the instant you are home again.'

'I think I shall, the instant I find one with the beauty of an Italian, the grace of a French girl, the truth and tenderness of a German, the health of an Englishwoman, and—'

'Draw it mild, my boy,' broke in Uncle Bill: 'here she comes!'

Caper and his uncle were standing, as the latter spoke, under the group of stone pines, from whose feet there was a lovely view of the Albanian snow-capped mountains, and they saw coming toward them two ladies. There was the freshness of the morning in their cheeks, and though one was older than the other, joy-bringing years had passed so kindly with her, that if Caper had not known she was the mother of the younger lady—they would have passed for sisters. When he first saw them, the latter was gathering a few violets; when she rose, he saw the face of all others he most longed to see.

He had first seen her the life of a gay party at Interlachen; then alone in Florence, with her mother for companion, patiently copying the Bella di Tiziano in the Pitti palace; then in Venice, one sparkling morning, as he stepped from his gondola on the marble steps of a church, he met her again: this time he had rendered himself of assistance to the mother and daughter, in procuring admittance for them to the church, which was closed to the public for repairs, and could only be seen by an especial permit, which Caper fortunately had obtained. They were grateful for his attention, and when, a few days afterward, he met them in company with other of his American friends, and received a formal introduction, the acquaintance proved one of the most delightful he had made in Europe, rendering his stay in Venice marked by the rose-colored light of a new love, warming each scene that passed before his dreamy gaze. But other cities, other faces: memory slept to awake again with renewed strength at the first flash of light from the eyes of Ida Buren, there, over the spring violets of the Villa Borghese.

The meeting between Mrs. Buren, her daughter, and Caper, was marked, on the part of the ladies, with that cordiality which the truly well bred show instinctively to those who merit it—to those who, brave and loyal, prove, by word and look, that theirs is the right to stand within the circle of true politeness and courtesy.

'And so,' Mrs. Buren concluded her greeting, 'we are here in Rome, picking violets with the dew on them, and waiting for the nightingales to sing before we leave for Naples.'

'And forget,' said Caper, among the violets of Pæstum, the poor flowers of the Borghese? I protest against it, and beg to add this little bouquet to yours, that their united perfume may cause you to remember them.'

'I accept them for you, mother,' spoke Ida; 'and that they may not be forgotten, I will make a sketch at once of that fountain under the ilex trees, and Mr. Caper in classic costume, making floral offerings to Bacchus—of violets.'

'And why not to Flora?'

'I have yet to learn that Flora has a shrine at—Monte Testaccio! where the Signore Caper, if report speaks true, often goes and worships.'

'That shrine is abandoned hereafter: where shall my new one be?'

'In the Piazza di Spagna, No.–,' said Mrs. Buren, smiling at Caper's mournful tone of voice. 'While the violets bloom we shall be there. Good morning!'

The ladies continued their walk, and although, as they turned away, Ida dropped a tiny bunch of violets, hidden among two leaves, Caper, when he picked it up, did not return it to her, but kept it many a day as a souvenir of his fair countrywoman.

'They are,' said Uncle Bill, slowly and solemnly, 'two of the finest specimens of Englishwomen I ever saw, upon me word, be gad!'

'They are,' said Caper, 'two of the handsomest Americans I ever met.'

'Americans?' asked Uncle Bill, emphatically.

'Americans!' answered Caper, triumphantly.

'Shut up your paint shop, James, my son, call in the auctioneer, stick up a bill 'To Let.' Let us return at once to the land of our birth. No such attractions exist in this turkey-trodden, maccaroni-eating, picture-peddling, stone-cutting, mass-singing land of donkeys. Let us go. Americans!'

'Yes, Americans—Bostonians,'

'Farewell, seventy-five niggers—good-by, my speculations in Lewsianny cotton planting—depart from behind me, sugar crops on Bayou Fooshe! I am of those who want a Mrs. Browne, a duplicate of the elderly lady who has just departed, at any price. James, my son, this morning shalt thou breakfast with me at Nazzari's; and if thou hast not a bully old breakfast, it's because the dimes ain't in me—and I know they are. Nothing short of cream de Boozy frappayed, paddy frog grass pie, fill it of beef, and myonhays of pullits, with all kinds of saucy sons and so forth, will do for us. We have been among angels—shall we not eat like the elect? Forward!'

During breakfast, Caper discoursed at length with his uncle of the two ladies they met in the villa.

Mrs. Buren, left a widow years since, with a large fortune, had educated her only child, Ida, systematically, solidly, and healthily. The child's mind, vine-like, clings for support to something already firm and established, that it may climb upward in a healthy, natural growth, avoiding the earth; so the daughter had found in her mother a guide toward the clear air where there is health and purity. Ida Buren, with clear brown eyes, high spirits, rosy cheeks, and full perfected form, at one glance revealed the attributes that Uncle Bill had claimed for her so quickly. With all the beauty of an Italian, she had her perceptions of color and harmony in the violets she gathered; the truth and tenderness of a German, to appreciate their sentiment; the health of an Englishwoman, to tramp through the dewy grass to pick them; the grace of a Frenchwoman, to accept them from Nature with a merci, madame!

Caper had now a lovely painting to hang up in his heart, one in unison with the purity and beauty of the violets of the Villa Borghese.

THE CARNIVAL

There is lightness and brightness, music, laughter, merry jests, masks, bouquets, flying flowers, and confetti around you; you are in the Corso, no longer the sober street of a solemn old city, but the brilliant scene of a pageant, rivalling your dreams of Fairy land, excelling them; for it is fresh, sparkling, real before your eyes. From windows and balconies wave in the wind all-colored tapestries, flutter red, white, and golden draperies; laugh out in festal garments gay revellers; fly through the golden sunlight showers of perfumed flowers; beam down on you glances from wild, loving eyes, sparkling with fun, gleaming with excitement, thrilling with witching life.

Hurrah for to-day! Fiori, fiori, ecco fiori! Baskets of flowers, bunches of flowers, bouquets of flowers, flowers natural and flowers artificial, flowers tied up and flowers loose. Confetti, confetti, ecco confetti! Sugar plums white, sugar plums blue, bullets and buckshot of lime water and flour. Whiz! down comes the Carnival shower: 'Bella, donzella, this bouquet for thee!' Up go the white camellias and blue violets: 'down comes a rosebud for me.' What wealth of loveliness and beauty in thousands of balconies and windows; what sheen of brilliance in the vivid colors of the varied costumes!

The Carnival has come!

Right and left fly flowers; and here and there dart in between wheels and under horses' legs, dirty, daring Roman boys, grasping the falling flowers or confetti. From a balcony, some wealthy forestiero ('Ugh! how rich they are!' grumbles the coachman) scatters baiocchi broadcast, and down in the dirt and mud roll and tumble the little ragamuffins, who never have muffins, and always have rags—and 'spang!' down comes a double handful of hard confetti on Caper's head, as he rides by in an open carriage. He bombards the window with a double handful of white buckshot; but a woman in full Albano costume, crimson and white, aims directly at him a beautiful bouquet. Not to be outdone, Caper throws her a still larger one, which she catches and keeps—never throwing him the one she aimed! He is sold! But 'whiz, whir!' right and left fly flowers and confetti; and—oh, joy unspeakable!—an Englishman's chimney-pot hat is knocked from his head by a strong bouquet; and we know

'There is a noun in Hebrew means 'I am,'The English always use to govern d–n,'

and that he is using it severely, and don't see the fun, you know—of throwing things! Who cares? Avanti!

Caper had filled the carriage with loose flowers, small bouquets, a basket of confetti, legal and illegal size, for the Carnival. Edict strictly prohibited persons from throwing large-sized bouquets and confetti; consequently, everybody considered themselves compelled to disobey the command. Rocjean, who was in the carriage with Caper, delighted the Romans with his ingenuity in attaching bouquets to the end of a long fish pole, and thus gently engineering them to ladies in windows or balconies. The crowd in the Corso grows larger and larger—the scene in this long street resembles a theatre in open air, with decorations and actors, assisted by a large supply of infantry and cavalry soldiers to keep order and attend to the scenes. The prosaic shops are no longer shops, but opera boxes, filled with actors and actresses instead of spectators, wearing all varieties of costume; the Italian ones predominant, gay, bright, and beautifully adapted to rich, peach-like complexions. Why call them olive complexions? For all the olives ever seen are of the color of a sick green pumpkin, or a too, too ripe purple plum; and who has ever yet seen a beautiful Italian maiden of either of these morbid colors?