r they use up that class of horses which in
pious America drag oysters to their graves, and in papal Italy drag the
natives to their lairs outside of Rome!'

You will toil along the dusty plain--hot, weary, worn-out--but anon you
begin the ascent of the mountains; then, as you go up, the air grows
purer and cooler. You descend from the _vettura_, and on foot tramp up
the road, perhaps beside the driver, who is innately thankful to you for
saving his horses a heavy pull; and with him, or a fellow-traveler, joke
off the weary feeling you had in the low grounds. Again you are
ascending a still steeper part of the mountain. Now oxen are attached to
the old rumbling rattle-trap of a carriage, and it is _creak_, pull,
yell, and cheer, until you find yourself above the clouds--serene and
calm--away from dust, heat, turmoil, bustle, in an old _locanda_, in a
shaded room, a flask of cool red wine before you, the south wind
rustling the leaves in the lattice, the bell of the old Franciscan
convent sending its clear silver notes away over valley and mountain
from its sleepy old home under the chestnut trees, the crowing of cocks
away down the mountain, the hum of bees in the flower-garden under the
window--the blessed, holy calm of the country!

It is the end aimed at that makes _vettura_-traveling jolly, for it can
well be imagined, as an Englishman justly said of it: 'It is just as
good a vehicle to go to the gallows in, as any I've ever been in, I am
sure.' But it is equally certain that the quiet joys revealed to the man
who travels by it--always be it understood, the man who don't care where
he goes or when he gets there--are many. These quiet joys consist of
exquisite paintings, sketches, scenes, landscapes, or whatever else you
choose to call them, wherein shrines, _asterias_ or taverns, _locandas_
or inns; costumes; shadow of grand old trees; the old Roman stone
sarcophagus turned into a water-trough, into which falls the fountain,
and where the tired horses thrust their dusty muzzles, drawing up water
with a rattling noise, while the south wind plays through the trees, and
they switch the flies from their flanks with their tails; the old
priest, accosted by the three small boys--'they are asking his
blessing,' said Miss Hicks--'they are asking him for a pinch of snuff,'
said Caper--and when she saw him produce his snuff-box, she acquiesced;
the wine-carts instead of swill-carts; the Italian peasants instead of
Paddies; a