me as it were of themselves, in such a penetrating, cold-blooded way, that for a moment I never thought of him to whom they belonged. When I did examine him, with a rapid flash of reflection that we were alone in the midst of a solitude, I was a little startled and alarmed. He stood erect or slightly bent, with his arms crossed upon his breast, and resting on a forked stick, one end of which was driven a few inches into the turf. He wore the conical hat usually worn by the Italian peasants, from under which fell his long hair, casting shadows on his neck and shoulders. His limbs were protected by a highly complicated invention. The leg and foot were first swathed in linen, which did duty for stockings, and then the foot was laid upon a sole of thick undressed leather, to the corners of which were attached long slender thongs of the same material. The thongs were then brought round the foot and leg, crossing and interlacing each other in a rude sort of network, until they were at length made fast at the knee. Coarse breeches and a sheep-skin coat, over which, bugle-fashion, hung a gourd for holding water, completed his attire. The coat, however, was not made in accordance with the rules laid down for such garments in the old song. The fleshy side of the sheepskin was in, not out, and the woolly side was out, not in. A flock of sheep close at hand, watched by a dog, told me that I had before me one of the Pecoraj, or shepherds of the Campagna. Curious to learn what kind of life was led by this class of men, so completely shut out from the world, I visited them more than once. That life I found to be quiet, tranquil, simple, and not unhappy. They are certainly not such shepherds as appear from plays to have lived in Arcadia, and I found but few among them who could claim a likeness to Corydon or to Alexis. But plain, homely, practical virtues I did find among them; and qualities for which I had never given them credit. I do not pretend to give here a complete sketch of their character and manners. I aim only at a faithful account of my own experience among them.
When October has come round, and the grapes and olives have been gathered in, there is a general stir in the hamlets on the mountains of the Abruzzi and the Neapolitan highlands. The fierce heat is now over, and the poisonous malaria of the plains is yielding to the fresh autumn breezes. It is time to bring the flocks to the valleys and low-lying pastures, where they may roam undisturbed until the month of May drives them back to the hills. The note of preparation is sounded among the shepherd families, and after a few days of preparation all is made ready for the journey. It cannot, however, be said that they leave their household gods behind them, for the simple reason that they carry their household along with them. First in the procession come the sheep, for whose benefit the entire march has been undertaken, guarded by dogs, whose names “Fidele,” “Pecorone,” and such like, sufficiently indicate their qualities and functions. Then the men, each after his own charge. The women and children, laden with the utensils and little necessary domestic property, bring up the rear. We may be certain that they have classed under the latter head of necessary articles, huge necklaces, each bead of which is as large as a pigeon’s egg, heavy pendants for the ears, and flaming red and green gowns, to make a brave show on Sundays and festivals. In this order they leave the sloping streets of the village, and wind along the mountain roads, now hidden in a chestnut forest, now emerging from its shady depths, now resting near some rustic chapel, where the women arrange the wild flowers they have gathered on the way. At length they arrive at the appointed pastures; the sheep are turned out, and in a short time the whole plain is dotted with their white fleeces. The shepherds then put up their huts; some building in solitary places, others sociably near each other. Thus settled for the season, they move about in search of new pastures when the wants of the flocks render such a step necessary. For a circuit of about six miles round Rome, the vast expanse of meadow is inhabited for six or eight months of the year by this nomadic population.
The man with whom I had fallen in belonged to a numerous community, composed for the most part of Neapolitans from a district in the Abruzzi Ulteriori, north of the town of Rieti, and not far east of Terni. About two hundred of his comrades were employed in the pasturages near the place where we stood. A simple organisation rendered the government of this large body of men a very easy task. They were divided into four sets, each set consisting of fifty men, and commanded by a corporal called by way of distinction “il padrone,” the master.
Although nomadic in every sense of the word, this shepherd community was almost entirely free from the dissolving influences such a life is naturally prone to create. They brought with them from their mountains not only the spirit and traditions of hamlet life, but also that life itself. Each household remaining entirely, or almost entirely, the same in its members as when under its roof-tree, preserved towards its neighbours the same relations that bound them when at home together. It was a village without the cottages; it was rustic life without the cultivation of land. The poet who would write for them, should sing to them both Bucolics and Georgics; the former for their wanderings in the plains, the latter for the season of their abode on the hills. They might be taken for a small Jewish community of old, what time each seventh year brought rest from the labours of the fields, and blunted the edge of the pruner’s knife. Yet, in them no traces were visible of that thorough idleness which we have been taught to believe natural to the Italian peasant. Bravely and unrepiningly did they endure much hardship while tending their herds. A simple occurrence served to make me acquainted with the manner in which, after the day’s work, they spent the evening hours. One day as I conversed with one of the youths of the party, he happened to. let fall close to my feet a few small books. Surprised not a little at the love of reading to which the books bore witness, and wondering that he was even able to read at all, I inquired what they were. “Only some nonsense,” was the reply. They were a collection of ballads of adventure,
