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must have been excommunicated and are damned to all eternity for being concerned in the work of demolition, since at the present moment I can count but four, and these are in a very sorry plight. I fear that in those more outrageous, as in these less credulous days, a Bull of Excommunication was not the terrible thing that some historians are inclined to consider it. Men in hot mood reck little of torments that they do not see; and the denunciations of Sixtus IV. were heeded about as much as a "pestilential free press" has heeded censures of a more recent date.

But it must not be supposed that these Umbrians have not invariably been a devout and readily believing people. One of the curiosities of Perugia is the wedding-ring of the Virgin kept in the Cappella del Santo Anello, a little chapel to the left as you enter the cathedral dedicated to San Lorenzo. For most people the chapel has lost its interest, now that it no longer possesses the altarpiece of the Sposalizio by Perugino, which Orsini, in his "Guide to the City of Perugia," published in 1784, speaks of as one of that artist's most beautiful works, and which Mariotti plausibly guesses to have been painted in 1495, on the strength of his discovery that on the 22nd day of February of that year, the Compagnia di San Guiseppe obtained from the Magistracy a subsidy for a picture that was to be painted for the chapel, then called of Saint Joseph, in the church of Saint Laurence. French rapacity carried it off at the same period that French soldiers turned their victories to the purpose of ekeing out their own artistic poverty by robbing other more gifted countries; and the beautiful Sposalizio is now in the Museum of Caen. Nor should I here refer to the chapel or its reputed treasure, were it not that in 1736 Giacinto Vincioli, before mentioned, a voluminous Perugian writer, even still not disregarded by the learned, proposed to dedicate to Muratori a work in defence of the authenticity of the sacred relic; and so wrung from the historian a letter which has more interest for the modern reader than all the reliquaries in Christendom. This letter does not appear in Lazzari's collection of Muratori's correspondence, published at Venice in 1801; nor have I met with it anywhere save in the Bibliographia Storico-Perugina, compiled and annotated by Vermiglioli, in whose possession lies the original. It bears the date of August, 1736, and runs as follows:

"It is my habit to speak frankly with all people, especially with my friends, among the chief of whom I count you. You wish to defend this sacred ring. Now it seems to me a very difficult enterprise, and one, I will say further, from which little credit is to be reaped. There is not a single writer of antiquity to show us that rings were used in Hebrew nuptials, nor one that speaks of the ring in question. You will be reduced, then, for your entire defence, to citing Papal Bulls of recent centuries, indulgences, feasts, and such-like. But the learned are already accustomed to count such acts for nothing, and Padre Papebrochio, together with his fellow Bollandists, and Launojo and others,

have shown as much in numerous instances. The Popes, in conceding their approbation in such form, have never formally examined the matter, nor has anybody ever proved to them on solid authority that this was the wedding-ring of the Blessed Virgin. They have done nothing more than accommodate themselves to the credulity of the people, which represents this supposed relic as having been revered from time immemorial, a fact which nowise injures religion, seeing that religion is founded not upon any individual matters, but upon the Divine Scriptures. All that can be gained from an array of such-like Bulls, and by citing a host of modern authors, is to show that this ring has been venerated and esteemed as a notable relic for some centuries; but that does not prove that in barbarous and ignorant ages it was properly so received and esteemed, seeing that we know how an infinity of other things were then introduced, and how their worship is now tolerated, because they have a sufficient weight of antiquity and tradition, though of but few centuries. I hope you will reflect upon what little I have thus sincerely said, and then take your own course. Meanwhile I warmly thank you for your kind intention of dedicating to me the result of your labours, and sending you the assurance of my unalterable regard, I sign myself, L. ANTONIO MURATORI."

Here we have the voice of the instructed, thoughtful, and tolerant modern philosopher in answer to that of the erudite, but unquestioning and narrow, child of the past. I said that Vincioli had written largely; and among his other works I find the lives of twenty-four Perugian cardinals, of whom Vermiglioli says, "Perugia non può glorificarsi," Perugia has no call to be proud. This will, perhaps, be enough to show what manner of man the worthy Hyacinth was. But is it not refreshing to stumble upon such a letter as this in the year 1736, and especially in Italy? Englishmen are far too prone to conclude that up to the date of the French Revolution, free and bold thought had been the exclusive product and possession of Protestant countries; the only difference really being that in Protestant countries free thought had at first a small audience, but in Roman Catholic countries none at all. Indeed there would be no difficulty in showing that the birth of free thought, as understood in these days, preceded in the latter the birth of free thought in the former, though, from favourable circumstances arising purely out of political causes, in Protestant countries it earlier arrived at maturity. At the time that Muratori penned the above letter, which breathes the very air necessary for the philosophic historian, Bolingbroke was a suspected atheist; Hume was only just about to excite a howl of terror and abuse; and Gibbon, who forty years later frightened all the ecclesiastics of England out of their senses and decent behaviour, was yet too young even to frighten his nurse. Signor Vincioli was deterred by this letter from his intention of dedicating his work to Muratori, but not from writing it. In the following year it saw the light. It is, however, a very diminutive work, and had probably shrunk from its original proportions in consequence of the caution which it had thus received. Nevertheless, the prodigies which the Sacred Ring has wrought are relied upon as forcible arguments in

favour of its authenticity. A decent sized library might be collected out of the books, pamphlets, and panegyrics published upon this subject at Perugia.

Indeed, Perugia can boast of books and collections of books innumerable; and I think I have never come across anything funnier than the history of the foundation of the library which, in contradistinction to the one belonging to the Cathedral, to that of the University, and others, is called the Public Library. In the year 1582 there lived at Perugia one Prospero Podiani, who must have been one of the queerest of all the queer old fellows who have so often taken it into their heads to make collections of dusty tomes. Prospero had got together some seven thousand of these, and one fine morning announced that at his death he would bequeath them to the city, which was meanwhile to enjoy the free use of them. They were accordingly carted to the Palazzo Communale. But the patriotic old Podiani was not going to be robbed of his reward even in this life. He followed his books to the Palazzo, where, in consideration of his munificence, he was not only housed, but was granted by the Decemvirs an honourable place at their own table, and an annuity of one hundred and fifty ducats. In 1592, however, this annuity was taken from him by pontifical decree. Forthwith the indignant Podiani revoked his gift, and made the authorities carry all the books back again to his own house. He had lived rent-free for ten years; he had eaten, we may be sure, ten times three hundred and sixty-five good dinners at the public expense, and always sitting in "an honourable place at table;" he had received fifteen hundred ducats. But the outraged Prospero took no heed of these. His books should go back, and back they went. One can readily understand how he would then become surrounded by a crowd of legacy-hunters, most of them monks and religious, eager to get all these seven thousand volumes for their respective communities. He made a succession of bequests. First, he gave them to the Dominicans, then to the Cassinesi, then to the Duke of Altemps, then to the Augustinians, then to the Cathedral, then to the Seminary, then to the Bishop, then to the Cappucins, then to the Vatican, then to one Æneas Baldeschi, and finally to the Jesuits. These last having got a bequest made in their favour, there was a pause in the struggle and in the bibliomaniac's will-making. Probably, with their wonted skill, they locked the door and mounted guard, and let nobody else come near him. Jesuits are cunning, if you like; but women are more cunning still, and a woman got through the keyhole somehow, and tripped up even the followers of Loyola. If the old fellow in 1600 did not actually marry! He married, and had two sons, and this was more than enough to invalidate and revoke each and every prior bequest.

She must have been a clever woman, for we hear of no more will

making in favour of monks, or cities, or Jesuits, till 1615, when Giacomo Baldeschi, some relation probably of Æneas, got round him and induced him to make a formal bequest to the city. Perhaps Mrs. Prospero Podiani had grown incautious from excessive confidence, or had begun to lose her first influence. Be this as it may, in 1615, I say, he again left his library to the city of Perugia. I cannot think but that the struggle would have commenced afresh, and that there would have been another series of codicils, had not Prospero, luckily for the city, suddenly died in the November of that year, and left books, and children, and friars, and decemvirs to settle the affair amongst themselves as best they might. For, despite his last formal bequest, there was yet a good deal to settle. The authorities immediately carted his books back again once more to the Palazzo. Litigation forthwith began. The sons of the deceased put in their claim, and the Jesuits followed by asserting theirs. Everybody else stood aside, content to watch the issue as tried between these great contending parties. Not many monks, however, not many Dominicans, Augustinians, Cassinesi, or Cappucini, I guess,-lived to see the result, which was not declared for two-and-fifty years. In 1667, not before, was the city of Perugia declared to be the rightful heir of the Prospero Podiani who had died in 1615. I confess that in the whole range of comedy I meet with no such comic figure as this old fellow, making and unmaking testaments. Not in Plautus, not in Terence, not in Molière-and where else should I look ?-do I meet with this whimsical book-collector's equal. I never pass the Palazzo Communale but I fancy Prospero Podiani is within, sitting in an honourable place, and eating his dinner for nothing. I laughed at him at first, and I laugh at him still. But I have a liking for him also. For see! He left his books to none of the above. He left them all to me. Morning after morning have I spent in that library, and nobody came to keep me company. Only a door-keeper, who

handed me down what books I could not reach, and sat near the doorway cobbling shoes in the interval.

But even in 1667 Perugia had not done with Prospero Podiani. Fifty years later his bequest had been succeeded by so many others that it was necessary to transfer all the volumes, thus become the property of the city, from the Palazzo to a more convenient locality. This was accordingly done in 1717; and on the staircase of the library, as I daily mount, I read in print on a marble tablet, the Latin assurance that Prosper Podianus is deemed to be worthy of on no account yielding to the chief personages of our age in nobility and greatness of mind, as principally manifested in his foundation of this library. Bravo, Prospero Podiani! You bought your immortality more cheaply than anybody I ever heard of. You behaved very oddly about some seven thousand volumes, ate three thousand six

hundred and fifty dinners at the expense of your fellow-citizens, and are solemnly pronounced by them one of the great men of the age. Who shall say after this that the world is ungrateful?

The library, I say, is little frequented. But a time of fierce political and patriotic excitement is not favourable to erudition. Even as I write, the students of the University of Perugia are flinging down their books and offering themselves to their country as volunteers in the war which they and all of us believe to be on the point of breaking out. They wish to rid their land, once and for all, of the hand of the stranger: Austrian and Frenchman, imperious Hapsburg and furtive Bonaparte, must alike be driven beyond the Alps. This time they will have no treacherous Gallic help. I think of Byron's

lines:

"Trust not for freedom to the Franks!

They have a king who buys and sells."

I wish them God-speed in their resolve, to liberate themselves from insidious friends, no less than from open foes. The new levies are crowding in. "Evviva Italia!" shouts the boy. "Evviva sempre!" answers him the greybeard. In that prayer the most sedentary student, if he have but studied aright, must perforce heartily join. ALFRED AUSTIN.

COTTAGE PROPERTY IN LONDON.

THE subject of dwellings for the poor is attracting so much attention, that an account of a small attempt to improve them may be interesting to many readers, especially as the plan adopted is one which has answered pecuniarily, and which, while it might be undertaken by private individuals without much risk, would bring them into close and healthy communication with their hard-working neighbours.

Two years ago I first had an opportunity of carrying out the plan I had long contemplated, that of obtaining possession of houses to be let in weekly tenements to the poor. That the spiritual elevation of a large class depended to a considerable extent on sanitary reform was I considered proved, but I was equally certain that sanitary improvement itself depended upon educational work among grown-up people; that they must be urged to rouse themselves from the lethargy and indolent habits into which they have fallen, and freed from all that hinders them from doing so. I further believed that any lady who would help them to obtain things, the need of which they felt themselves, and would sympathise with them in their desire

(1) This article was sent to the Review about six months ago.

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