We shall have done the child no
good office in bringing her here, if the rest of her life is to be a
dream of this "city of the soul," and an unsatisfied yearning to come
back to it. On the other hand, nothing elevating and refining can be
really injurious, and so I hope she will always be the better for Rome,
even if her life should be spent where there are no pictures, no statues,
nothing but the dryness and meagreness of a New England village.
JOURNEY TO FLORENCE.
Civita Castellana, May 24th.--We left Rome this morning, after troubles
of various kinds, and a dispute in the first place with Lalla, our female
servant, and her mother. . . . . Mother and daughter exploded into a
livid rage, and cursed us plentifully,--wishing that we might never come
to our journey's end, and that we might all break our necks or die of
apoplexy,--the most awful curse that an Italian knows how to invoke upon
his enemies, because it precludes the possibility of extreme unction.
However, as we are heretics, and certain of damnation therefore, anyhow,
it does not much matter to us; and also the anathemas may have been blown
back upon those who invoked them, like the curses that were flung out
from the balcony of St Peter's during Holy Week and wafted by heaven's
breezes right into the faces of some priests who stood near the pope.
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