on of oil-paintings, in massive
gilt frames, with which the walls were closely covered. Of many, the
colours were too darkened by time, or they were hung too high, to
enable me to make out their subjects; but, judging from those I could
more easily distinguish, I concluded the collection related either to
the martyrdoms of saints, in their most varied form of suffering—one
picture especially quite disturbed me, St Apollonia kneeling, a tray
full of bleeding teeth in one outstretched hand, while she clasps the
instrument employed in their extraction to her breast with the other—or
to scenes from mythology, singularly inappropriate—all evidently
belonging to the school of Bologna, which, diffused by the numerous
pupils of the Caracci, is the predominant one in the Marche.

The meagreness of the lavatory arrangements, I confess, however, no
pictorial embellishments could redeem; and I made interest with the
good-humoured girl who speedily came to offer her services, to bring me
that British desideratum, a tub, which for the period of my stay should
be considered exclusively as mine. She was much puzzled at first at
this request.

“Is the signorina ill?—has she taken cold, that she wishes, _con
rispetto parlando_, to have a foot-bath?”

It is a curious but authentic fact, that in the middle and south
of Italy feet or foot gear are never spoken of without a prefatory
apologetic expression, such as, “saving your presence,” “with all
respect,” and so forth. The most inadmissible topics, to our way of
thinking, are unblushingly discussed, but an Italian will pause in a
story to ask your pardon for mentioning his boots.

“No, I am not ill,” I said, laughing; “but it is the custom of the
English to be very fond of washing.”

“Madonna mia! signorina! Be careful. Too much may disagree with you.
Shall I bring you a little white wine to mix with the water? The
Marchesa Silvia always does so when the children require to be washed.
The baby is sometimes bathed in broth.”

I was so amused I could s