At last the
mountains in the neighborhood of Frascati. A convent crowned the highest
point; there, in olden days, the first Italian temple to Jupiter had
stood, and there Hannibal had camped. Underneath, in a hollow, like an
eagle's nest, lay Rocca di Papa. By the roadside, fruit-trees with
violet clusters of blossoms against a background of stone-pines,
cypresses, and olive-groves.
I reached Frascati station. There was no carriage to be had up to the
town, so I was obliged to ascend the hill slowly on foot, a test which
my leg stood most creditably. In the pretty market-place of Frascati,
with its large fountain which, like Acqua Paola, was divided into three
and flung out a tremendous quantity of water, I went into an
_osteria_ and asked for roast goat with salad and Frascati wine,
then sat down outside, as it was too close within. Hundreds of people in
gay costumes, with artificial flowers and silver feathers in their
headgear, filled the square in front of me, crowded the space behind me,
laughed and shouted.
The people seemed to be of a grander type, more lively, animated and
exuberant, than at the fair at Fiesole. The women were like Junos or
Venuses, the men, even when clad in abominable rags, looked like
Vulcans, blackened in their forges; they were all of larger proportions
than Northern men and women.
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