The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 5, No. 28, February, 1860

V >> Various >> The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 5, No. 28, February, 1860

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"Forgive me," I said, breathlessly. "I could not part with old friends
so, after wishing so much for them."

He took both my hands in his. "Have you wished for me, Rachel?" he said,
tenderly. "I thought you would scarcely have treated a stranger with so
little kindness."

"I was afraid to be warmer," I said.

"Afraid of what?" he asked.

My mouth was unsealed. "Are you to be married?" I asked.

"I have no such expectation," he answered.

"And are not engaged to any one?"

"To nothing but an old love, dear! Was that why you were afraid to show
yourself to me?"

"Yes!" I answered, making no resistance to the arm that was put gently
round me. He was mine now, I knew, as I felt the strong heart beating
fast against my own.

"Rachel," he whispered, "the only woman I ever did or ever can love,
will you send me away again?"

A SHETLAND SHAWL.

It was made of the purest and finest wool,
As fine as silk, and as soft and cool;
It was pearly white, of that cloud-like hue
Which has a shadowy tinge of blue;
And brought by the good ship, miles and miles,
From the distant shores of the Shetland Isles.

And in it were woven, here and there,
The golden threads of a maiden's hair,
As the wanton wind with tosses and twirls
Blew in and out of her floating curls,
While her busy fingers swiftly drew
The ivory needle through and through.

The warm sun flashed on the brilliant dyes
Of the purple and golden butterflies,
And the drowsy bees, with a changeless tune,
Hummed in the perfumed air of June,
As the gossamer fabric, fair to view,
Under the maiden's fingers grew.

The shadows of tender thought arise
In the tranquil depths of her dreamy eyes,
And her blushing cheek bears the first impress
Of the spirit's awakening consciousness,
Like the rose, when it bursts, in a single hour,
From the folded bud to the perfect flower.

Many a tremulous hope and care,
Many a loving wish and prayer,
With the blissful dreams of one who stood
At the golden gate of womanhood,
The little maiden's tireless hands
Wove in and out of the shining strands.

The buds that burst in an April sun
Had seen the wonderful shawl begun;
It was finished, and folded up with pride,
When the vintage purpled the mountain-side;
And smiles made light in the violet eyes,
At the thought of a lover's pleased surprise.

The spider hung from the budding thorn
His baseless web, when the shawl was worn;
And the cobwebs, silvered by the dew,
With the morning sunshine breaking through,
The maiden's toil might well recall,
In the vanished year, on the Shetland Shawl.

For the rose had died in the autumn showers,
That bloomed in the summer's golden hours;
And the shining tissue of hopes and dreams,
With misty glories and rainbow gleams
Woven within and out, was one
Like the slender thread by the spider spun.

As fresh and as pure as the sad young face,
The snowy shawl with its clinging grace
Seems a fitting veil for a form so fair:
But who would think what a tale of care,
Of love and grief and faith, might all
Be folded up in a Shetland Shawl?

ROBA DI ROMA.

[Continued.]

CHAPTER VI.

GAMES IN ROME.

Walking, during pleasant weather, almost anywhere in Rome, but
especially in passing through the enormous arches of the Temple of
Peace, or along by the Colosseum, or some wayside _osteria_ outside the
city-walls, the ear of the traveller is often saluted by the loud,
explosive tones of two voices going off together, at little intervals,
like a brace of pistol-shots; and turning round to seek the cause of
these strange sounds, he will see two men, in a very excited state,
shouting, as they fling out their hands at each other with violent
gesticulation. Ten to one he will say to himself, if he be a stranger in
Rome, "How quarrelsome and passionate these Italians are!" If he be an
Englishman or an American, he will be sure to congratulate himself on
the superiority of his own countrymen, and wonder why these fellows
stand there shaking their fists at each other, and screaming, instead of
fighting it out like men,--and muttering, "A cowardly pack, too!" will
pass on, perfectly satisfied with his facts and his philosophy. But what
he has seen was really not a quarrel. It is simply the game of _Mora_,
as old as the Pyramids, and formerly played among the host of Pharaoh
and the armies of Caesar as now by the subjects of Pius IX. It is thus
played.

Two persons place themselves opposite each other, holding their right
hands closed before them. They then simultaneously and with a sudden
gesture throw out their hands, some of the fingers being extended, and
others shut up on the palm,--each calling out in a loud voice, at the
same moment, the number he guesses the fingers extended by himself and
his adversary to make. If neither cry out aright, or if both cry out
aright, nothing is gained or lost; but if only one guess the true
number, he wins a point. Thus, if one throw out four fingers and the
other two, he who cries out six makes a point, unless the other cry out
the same number. The points are generally five, though sometimes they
are doubled, and as they are made, they are marked by the left hand,
which, during the whole game, is held stiffly in the air at about the
shoulders' height, one finger being extended for every point. When the
_partito_ is won, the winner cries out, "_Fatto!_" or "_Guadagnato!_" or
"_Vinto!_" or else strikes his hands across each other in sign of
triumph. This last sign is also used when Double _Mora_ is played, to
indicate that five points are made.

So universal is this game in Rome, that the very beggars play away their
earnings at it. It was only yesterday, as I came out of the gallery of
the Capitol, that I saw two who had stopped screaming for "_baiocchi per
amor di Dio_," to play pauls against each other at _Mora_. One, a
cripple, supported himself against a column, and the other, with his
ragged cloak slung on his shoulder, stood opposite him. They staked a
paul each time with the utmost _nonchalance_, and played with an
earnestness and rapidity which showed that they were old hands at it,
while the coachmen from their boxes cracked their whips, and jeered and
joked them, and the shabby circle around them cheered them on. I stopped
to see the result, and found that the cripple won two successive games.
But his cloaked antagonist bore his losses like a hero, and when all was
over, he did his best with the strangers issuing from the Capitol to
line his pockets for a new chance.

Nothing is more simple and apparently easy than _Mora_, yet to play it
well requires quickness of perception and readiness in the calculation
of chances. As each player, of course, knows how many fingers he himself
throws out, the main point is to guess the number of fingers thrown by
his opponent, and to add the two instantaneously together. A player of
skill will soon detect the favorite numbers of his antagonist, and it is
curious to see how remarkably clever some of them are in divining, from
the movement of the hand, the number to be thrown. The game is always
played with great vivacity, the hands being flung out with vehemence,
and the numbers shouted at the full pitch of the voice, so as to be
heard at a considerable distance. It is from the sudden opening of the
fingers, while the hands are in the air, that the old Roman phrase,
_micare digitis_, "to flash with the fingers," is derived.

A bottle of wine is generally the stake; and round the _osterias_, of a
_festa_-day, when the game is played after the blood has been heated and
the nerves strained by previous potations, the regular volleyed
explosions of "_Tre! Cinque! Otto! Tutti!_" are often interrupted by hot
discussions. But these are generally settled peacefully by the
bystanders, who act as umpires,--and the excitement goes off in talk.
The question arises almost invariably upon the number of fingers flashed
out; for an unscrupulous player has great opportunities of cheating, by
holding a finger half extended, so as to be able to close or open it
afterwards according to circumstances; but sometimes the losing party
will dispute as to the number called out. The thumb is the father of all
evil at _Mora_, it being often impossible to say whether it was intended
to be closed or not, and an unskilful player is easily deceived in this
matter by a clever one. When "_Tutti_" is called, all the fingers, thumb
and all, must be extended, and then it is an even chance that a
discussion will take place as to whether the thumb was out. Sometimes,
when the blood is hot, and one of the parties has been losing, violent
quarrels will arise, which the umpires cannot decide, and, in very rare
cases, knives are drawn and blood is spilled. Generally these disputes
end in nothing, and, often as I have seen this game, I have never been a
spectator of any quarrel, though discussions numberless I have heard.
But, beyond vague stories by foreigners, in which I put no confidence,
the vivacity of the Italians easily leading persons unacquainted with
their characters to mistake a very peaceable talk for a violent quarrel,
I know of only one case that ended tragically. There a savage quarrel,
begun at _Mora_, was with difficulty pacified by the bystanders, and one
of the parties withdrew to an _osteria_ to drink with his companions.
But while he was there, the rage which had been smothered, but not
extinguished, in the breast of his antagonist, blazed out anew. Rushing
at the other, as he sat by the table of the _osteria_, he attacked him
fiercely with his knife. The friends of both parties started at once to
their feet, to interpose and tear them apart; but before they could
reach them, one of the combatants dropped bleeding and dying on the
floor, and the other fled like a maniac from the room.

This readiness of the Italians to use the knife, for the settlement of
every dispute, is generally attributed by foreigners to the
passionateness of their nature; but I am inclined to believe that it
also results from their entire distrust of the possibility of legal
redress in the courts. Where courts are organized as they are in Naples,
who but a fool would trust to them? Open tribunals, where justice should
be impartially administered, would soon check private assassinations;
and were there more honest and efficient police courts, there would be
far fewer knives drawn. The Englishman invokes the aid of the law,
knowing that he can count upon prompt justice; take that belief from
him, he, too, like Harry Gow, would "fight for his own hand." In the
half-organized society of the less civilized parts of the United States,
the pistol and bowie-knife are as frequent arbiters of disputes as the
stiletto is among the Italians. But it would be a gross error to argue
from this, that the Americans are violent and passionate by nature; for,
among the same people in the older States, where justice is cheaply and
strictly administered, the pistol and bowie-knife are almost unknown.
Despotism and slavery nurse the passions of men; and wherever law is
loose, or courts are venal, public justice assumes the shape of private
vengeance. The farther south one goes in Italy, the more frequent is
violence and the more unrepressed are the passions. Compare Piedmont
with Naples, and the difference is immense. The dregs of vice and
violence settle to the south. Rome is worse than Tuscany, and Naples
worse than Rome,--not so much because of the nature of the people, as of
the government and the laws.

But to return to _Mora_. As I was walking out beyond the Porta San
Giovanni the other day, I heard the most ingenious and consolatory
periphrasis for a defeat that it was ever my good-fortune to hear; and,
as it shows the peculiar humor of the Romans, it may here have a place.
Two of a party of _contadini_ had been playing at _Mora_, the stakes
being, as usual, a bottle of wine, and each, in turn, had lost and won.
A lively and jocose discussion now arose between the friends on the one
side and the players on the other,--the former claiming that each of the
latter was to pay his bottle of wine for the game he lost, (to be drunk,
of course, by all,) and the latter insisting, that, as one loss offset
the other, nothing was to be paid by either. As I passed, one of the
players was speaking. "_Il primo partito_," he said, "_ho guadagnato io;
e poi, nel secondo_,"--here a pause,--"_ho perso la vittoria_": "The
first game, I won; the second, I----_lost the victory_." And with this
happy periphrasis, our friend admitted his defeat. I could not but think
how much better it would have been for the French, if this ingenious
mode of adjusting with the English the Battle of Waterloo had ever
occurred to them. To admit that they were defeated was of course
impossible; but to acknowledge that they "lost the victory" would by no
means have been humiliating. This would have soothed their irritable
national vanity, prevented many heart-burnings, saved long and idle
arguments and terrible "kicking against the pricks," and rendered a
friendly alliance possible.

No game has a better pedigree than _Mora_. It was played by the
Egyptians more than two thousand years before the Christian era. In the
paintings at Thebes and in the temples of Beni-Hassan, seated figures
may be seen playing it,--some keeping their reckoning with the left hand
uplifted,--some striking off the game with both hands, to show that it
was won,--and, in a word, using the same gestures as the modern Romans.
From Egypt it was introduced into Greece. The Romans brought it from
Greece at an early period, and it has existed among them ever since,
having suffered apparently no alteration. Its ancient Roman name was
_Micatio_, and to play it was called _micare digitis_,--"to flash the
fingers,"--the modern name _Mora_ being merely a corruption of the verb
_micare_. Varro describes it precisely as it is now played; and Cicero,
in the first book of his treatise "De Divinatione," thus alludes to
it:--"_Quid enim est sors? Idem propemodum quod_ micare, _quod talos
jacere, quod tesseras; quibus in rebus temeritas et casus, non ratio et
consilium valent._" So common was it, that it became the basis of an
admirable proverb, to denote the honesty of a person:--"_Dignus est
quicum in tenebris mices_": "So trustworthy, that one may play _Mora_
with him in the dark." At one period they carried their love of it so
far, that they used to settle by _micatio_ the sales of merchandise and
meat in the Forum, until Apronius, prefect of the city, prohibited the
practice in the following terms, as appears by an old inscription, which
is particularly interesting as containing an admirable pun: "_Sub exagio
potius pecora vendere quam digitis concludentibus tradere_": "Sell your
sheep by the balance, and do not bargain or deceive" (_tradere_ having
both these meanings) "by opening and shutting your fingers at _Mora_."

One of the various kinds of the old Roman game of _Pila_ still survives
under the modern name of _Pallone_. It is played between two sides, each
numbering from five to eight persons. Each of the players is armed with
a _bracciale_, or gantlet of wood, covering the hand and extending
nearly up to the elbow, with which a heavy ball is beaten backwards and
forwards, high into the air, from one side to the other. The object of
the game is to keep the ball in constant flight, and whoever suffers it
to fall dead within his bounds loses. It may, however, be struck in its
rebound, though the best strokes are before it touches the ground. The
_bracciali_ are hollow tubes of wood, thickly studded outside with
pointed bosses, projecting an inch and a half, and having inside, across
the end, a transverse bar, which is grasped by the hand, so as to render
them manageable to the wearer. The balls, which are of the size of a
large cricket-ball, are made of leather, and are so heavy, that, when
well played, they are capable of breaking the arm, unless properly
received on the _bracciale_. They are inflated with air, which is pumped
into them with a long syringe, through a small aperture closed by a
valve inside. The game is played on an oblong figure, marked out on the
ground, or designated by the wall around the sunken platform on which it
is played; across the centre is drawn a transverse line, dividing
equally the two sides. Whenever a ball either falls outside the lateral
boundary or is not struck over the central line, it counts against the
party playing it. When it flies over the extreme limits, it is called a
_volata_, and is reckoned the best stroke that can be made. At the end
of the lists is a spring-board, on which the principal player stands.
The best batter is always selected for this post; the others are
distributed about. Near him stands the _pallonaio_, whose office is to
keep the balls well inflated with air, and he is busy nearly all the
time. Facing him, at a short distance, is the _mandarino_, who gives
ball. As soon as the ball leaves the _mandarino's_ hand, the chief
batter runs forward to meet it, and strikes it as far and high as he
can, with the _bracciale_. Four times in succession have I seen a good
player strike a _volata_, with the loud applause of the spectators. When
this does not occur, the two sides bat the ball backwards and forwards,
from one to the other, sometimes fifteen or twenty times before the
point is won; and as it falls here and there, now flying high in the air
and caught at once on the _bracciale_ before touching the ground, now
glancing back from the wall which generally forms one side of the lists,
the players rush eagerly to hit it, calling loudly to each other, and
often displaying great agility, skill, and strength. The interest now
becomes very exciting; the bystanders shout when a good stroke is made,
and groan and hiss at a miss, until, finally, the ball is struck over
the lists, or lost within them. The points of the game are fifty,--the
first two strokes counting fifteen each, and the others ten each. When
one side makes the fifty before the other has made anything, it is
called a _marcio_, and counts double. As each point is made, it is
shouted by the caller, who stands in the middle and keeps the count, and
proclaims the bets of the spectators.

This game is as national to the Italians as cricket to the English; it
is not only, as it seems to me, much more interesting than the latter,
but requires vastly more strength, agility, and dexterity, to play it
well. The Italians give themselves to it with all the enthusiasm of
their nature, and many a young fellow injures himself for life by the
fierceness of his batting. After the excitement and stir of this game,
which only the young and athletic can play well, cricket seems a very
dull affair.

The game of _Pallone_ has always been a favorite one in Rome; and near
the summit of the Quattro Fontane, in the Barberini grounds, there is a
circus, which used to be specially devoted to public exhibitions during
the summer afternoons. At these representations, the most renowned
players were engaged by an _impresario_. The audience was generally
large, and the entrance-fee was one paul. Wonderful feats were sometimes
performed here; and on the wall are marked the heights of some
remarkable _volate_. The players were clothed in a thin, tight dress,
like _saltimbanchi_. One side wore a blue, and the other a red ribbon,
on the arm. The contests, generally, were fiercely disputed,--the
spectators betting heavily, and shouting, as good or bad strokes were
made. Sometimes a line was extended across the amphitheatre, from wall
to wall, over which it was necessary to strike the ball, a point being
lost in case it passed below. But this is a variation from the game as
ordinarily played, and can be ventured on only when the players are of
the first force. The games here, however, are now suspended; for the
French, since their occupation, have not only seized the post-office, to
convert it into a club-room, and the _piano nobile_ of some of the
richest palaces, to serve as barracks for their soldiers, but have also
driven the Romans from their amphitheatre, where _Pallone_ was played,
to make it into _ateliers de genie_. Still, one may see the game played
by ordinary players, towards the twilight of any summer day, in the
Piazza di Termini, or near the Tempio della Pace, or the Colosseo. The
boys from the studios and shops also play in the streets a sort of
mongrel game called _Pillotta_, beating a small ball back and forth,
with a round bat, shaped like a small _tamburello_ and covered with
parchment. But the real game, played by skilful players, may be seen
almost every summer night outside the Porta a Pinti, in Florence; and I
have also seen it admirably played under the fortress-wall at Siena, the
players being dressed entirely in white, with loose ruffled jackets,
breeches, long stockings, and shoes of undressed leather, and the
audience sitting round on the stone benches, or leaning over the lofty
wall, cheering on the game, while they ate the cherries or _zucca_-seeds
which were hawked about among them by itinerant peddlers. Here, towards
twilight, one could lounge away an hour pleasantly under the shadow of
the fortress, looking now at the game and now at the rolling country
beyond, where olives and long battalions of vines marched knee-deep
through the golden grain, until the purple splendors of sunset had
ceased to transfigure the distant hills, and the crickets chirped louder
under the deepening gray of the sky.

In the walls of the amphitheatre at Florence is a bust in colored marble
of one of the most famous players of his day, whose battered face seems
still to preside over the game, getting now and then a smart blow from
the _Pallone_ itself, which, in its inflation, is no respecter of
persons. The honorable inscription beneath the bust, celebrating the
powers of this champion, who rejoiced in the surname of Earthquake, is
as follows:--

_"Josephus Barnius, Petiolensis, vir in jactando repercutiendoque folle
singularis, qui ob robur ingens maximamque artis peritiam, et collusores
ubique devictos, Terraemotus formidabili cognomento dictus est."_

Another favorite game of ball among the Romans is _Bocce_ or _Boccette_.
It is played between two sides, consisting of any number of persons,
each of whom has two large wooden balls of about the size of an average
American nine-pin ball. Beside these, there is a little ball called the
_lecco_. This is rolled first by one of the winning party to any
distance he pleases, and the object is to roll or pitch the _boccette_
or large balls so as to place them beside the _lecco_. Every ball of one
side nearer to the _lecco_ than any ball of the other counts one point
in the game,--the number of points depending on the agreement of the
parties. The game is played on the ground, and not upon any smooth or
prepared plane; and as the _lecco_ often runs into hollows, or poises
itself on some uneven declivity, it is sometimes a matter of no small
difficulty to play the other balls near to it. The great skill of the
game consists, however, in displacing the balls of the adverse party so
as to make the balls of the playing party count, and a clever player
will often change the whole aspect of affairs by one well-directed
throw. The balls are thrown alternately,--first by a player on one side,
and then by a player on the other. As the game advances, the interest
increases, and there is a constant variety. However good a throw is
made, it may be ruined by the next. Sometimes the ball is pitched with
great accuracy, so as to strike a close-counting ball far into the
distance, while the new ball takes its place. Sometimes the _lecco_
itself is suddenly transplanted into a new position, which entirely
reverses all the previous counting. It is the last ball which decides
the game, and, of course, it is eagerly watched. In the Piazza di
Termini numerous parties may be seen every bright day in summer or
spring playing this game under the locust-trees, surrounded by idlers,
who stand by to approve or condemn, and to give their advice. The French
soldiers, once free from drill or guard or from practising trumpet-calls
on the old Agger of Servius Tullius near by, are sure to be rolling
balls in this fascinating game. Having heated their blood sufficiently
at it, they adjourn to a little _osteria_ in the Piazza to refresh
themselves with a glass of _asciutto_ wine, after which they sit on a
bench outside the door, or stretch themselves under the trees, and take
a _siesta_, with their handkerchiefs over their eyes, while other
parties take their turn at the _bocce_. Meanwhile, from the Agger beyond
are heard the distressing trumpets struggling with false notes and
wheezing and shrieking in ludicrous discord, while now and then the
solemn bell of Santa Maria Maggiore tolls from the neighboring hill.

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