It was but a few days before that the carriage of Alderman
Popkins had driven up to the inn of Terracina. Those who have
seen an English family carriage on the continent, must know the
sensation it produces. It is an epitome of England; a little
morsel of the old island rolling about the world—every thing so
compact, so snug, so finished and fitting. The wheels that roll
on patent axles without rattling; the body that hangs so well on
its springs, yielding to every motion, yet proof against every
shock. The ruddy faces gaping out of the windows; sometimes of a
portly old citizen, sometimes of a voluminous dowager, and
sometimes of a fine fresh hoyden, just from boarding school. And
then the dickeys loaded with well-dressed servants, beef-fed and
bluff; looking down from their heights with contempt on all the
world around; profoundly ignorant of the country and the people,
and devoutly certain that every thing not English must be wrong.
Such was the carriage of Alderman Popkins, as it made its
appearance at Terracina. The courier who had preceded it, to
order horses, and who was a Neapolitan, had given a magnificent
account of the riches and greatness of his master, blundering
with all an Italian’s splendor of imagination about the
alderman’s titles and dignities; the host had added his usual
share of exaggeration, so that by the time the alderman drove up
to the door, he was Milor—Magnifico—Principe—the Lord knows what!
The alderman was advised to take an escort to Fondi and Itri, but
he refused. It was as much as a man’s life was worth, he said, to
stop him on the king’s highway; he would complain of it to the
ambassador at Naples; he would make a national affair of it. The
principezza Popkins, a fresh, motherly dame, seemed perfectly
secure in the protection of her husband, so omnipotent a man in
the city. The signorini Popkins, two fine bouncing girls, looked
to their brother Tom, who had taken lessons in boxing; and as to
the dandy himself, he was sure no scaramouch of an Italian robber
would dare to meddle with an Englishman. The landlord shrugged
his shoulders and turned out the palms of his hands with a true
Italian grimace, and the carriage of Milor Popkins rolled on.
They passed through several very suspicious places without any
molestation. The Misses Popkins, who were very romantic, and had
learnt to draw in water colors, were enchanted with the savage
scenery around; it was so like what they had read in Mrs.
Radcliffe’s romances, they should like of all things to make
sketches. At length, the carriage arrived at a place where the
road wound up a long hill. Mrs. Popkins had sunk into a sleep;
the young ladies were reading the last works of Sir Walter Scott
and Lord Byron, and the dandy was hectoring the postilions from
the coach box. The Alderman got out, as he said, to stretch his
legs up the hill. It was a long winding ascent, and obliged him
every now and then to stop and blow and wipe his forehead with
many a pish! and phew! being rather pursy and short of wind. As
the carriage, however, was far behind him, and toiling slowly
under the weight of so many well-stuffed trunks and well-stuffed
travellers, he had plenty of time to walk at leisure.
On a jutting point of rock that overhung the road nearly at the
summit of the hill, just where the route began again to descend,
he saw a solitary man seated, who appeared to be tending goats.
Alderman Popkins was one of your shrewd travellers that always
like to be picking up small information along the road, so he
thought he’d just scramble up to the honest man, and have a
little talk with him by way of learning the news and getting a
lesson in Italian. As he drew near to the peasant he did not half
like his looks. He was partly reclining on the rocks wrapped in
the usual long mantle, which, with his slouched hat, only left a
part of a swarthy visage, with a keen black eye, a beetle brow,
and a fierce moustache to be seen. He had whistled several times
to his dog which was roving about the side of the hill. As the
Alderman approached he rose and greeted him. When standing erect
he seemed almost gigantic, at least in the eyes of Alderman
Popkins; who, however, being a short man, might be deceived.
The latter would gladly now have been back in the carriage, or
even on ’change in London, for he was by no means well pleased
with his company. However, he determined to put the best face on
matters, and was beginning a conversation about the state of the
weather, the baddishness of the crops, and the price of goats in
that part of the country, when he heard a violent screaming. He
ran to the edge of the rock, and, looking over, saw away down the
road his carriage surrounded by robbers. One held down the fat
footman, another had the dandy by his starched cravat, with a
pistol to his head; one was rummaging a portmanteau, another
rummaging the principezza’s pockets, while the two Misses Popkins
were screaming from each window of the carriage, and their
waiting maid squalling from the dickey.
Alderman Popkins felt all the fury of the parent and the
magistrate Roused within him. He grasped his cane and was on the
point of scrambling down the rocks, either to assault the robbers
or to read the riot act, when he was suddenly grasped by the arm.
It was by his friend the goatherd, whose cloak, falling partly
off, discovered a belt stuck full of pistols and stilettos. In
short, he found himself in the clutches of the captain of the
band, who had stationed himself on the rock to look out for
travellers and to give notice to his men.
A sad ransacking took place. Trunks were turned inside out, and
all the finery and the frippery of the Popkins family scattered
about the road. Such a chaos of Venice beads and Roman mosaics;
and Paris bonnets of the young ladies, mingled with the
alderman’s night-caps and lamb’s wool stockings, and the dandy’s
hair-brushes, stays, and starched cravats.
The gentlemen were eased of their purses and their watches; the
ladies of their jewels, and the whole party were on the point of
being carried up into the mountain, when fortunately the
appearance of soldiery at a distance obliged the robbers to make
off with the spoils they had secured, and leave the Popkins
family to gather together the remnants of their effects, and make
the best of their way to Fondi.
When safe arrived, the alderman made a terrible blustering at the
inn; threatened to complain to the ambassador at Naples, and was
ready to shake his cane at the whole country. The dandy had many
stories to tell of his scuffles with the brigands, who
overpowered him merely by numbers. As to the Misses Popkins, they
were quite delighted with the adventure, and were occupied the
whole evening in writing it in their journals. They declared the
captain of the band to be a most romantic-looking man; they dared
to say some unfortunate lover, or exiled nobleman: and several of
the band to be very handsome young men—“quite picturesque!”
“In verity,” said mine host of Terracina, “they say the captain
of the band is _un galant uomo_.”
“A gallant man!” said the Englishman. “I’d have your gallant man
hang’d like a dog!”
“To dare to meddle with Englishmen!” said Mr. Hobbs.
“And such a family as the Popkinses!” said Mr. Dobbs.
“They ought to come upon the country for damages!” said Mr.
Hobbs.
“Our ambassador should make a complaint to the government of
Naples,” said Mr. Dobbs.
“They should be requested to drive these rascals out of the
country,” said Hobbs.
“If they did not, we should declare war against them!” said
Dobbs.
The Englishman was a little wearied by this story, and by the
ultra zeal of his countrymen, and was glad when a summons to
their supper relieved him from a crowd of travellers. He walked
out with his Venetian friends and a young Frenchman of an
interesting demeanor, who had become sociable with them in the
course of the conversation. They directed their steps toward the
sea, which was lit up by the rising moon. The Venetian, out of
politeness, left his beautiful wife to be escorted by the
Englishman. The latter, however, either from shyness or reserve,
did not avail himself of the civility, but walked on without
offering his arm. The fair Venetian, with all her devotion to her
husband, was a little nettled at a want of gallantry to which her
charms had rendered her unaccustomed, and took the proffered arm
of the Frenchman with a pretty air of pique, which, however, was
entirely lost upon the phlegmatic delinquent.
Not far distant from the inn they came to where there was a body
of soldiers on the beach, encircling and guarding a number of
galley slaves, who were permitted to refresh themselves in the
evening breeze, and to sport and roll upon the sand.
“It was difficult,” the Frenchman observed, “to conceive a more
frightful mass of crime than was here collected. The parricide,
the fratricide, the infanticide, who had first fled from justice
and turned mountain bandit, and then, by betraying his brother
desperadoes, had bought a commutation of punishment, and the
privilege of wallowing on the shore for an hour a day, with this
wretched crew of miscreants!”
The remark of the Frenchman had a strong effect upon the company,
particularly upon the Venetian lady, who shuddered as she cast a
timid look at this horde of wretches at their evening relaxation.
“They seemed,” she said, “like so many serpents, wreathing and
twisting together.”
The Frenchman now adverted to the stories they had been listening
to at the inn, adding, that if they had any further curiosity on
the subject, he could recount an adventure which happened to
himself among the robbers and which might give them some idea of
the habits and manners of those beings. There was an air of
modesty and frankness about the Frenchman which had gained the
good-will of the whole party, not even excepting the Englishman.
They all gladly accepted his proposition; and as they strolled
slowly up and down the seashore, he related the following
adventure.