Year: 1878

How Charles Warren stoddard Broke His
Arm on the Roman Campaign.


We debated over black coffee until
the last number of the concert in the
piazza had ended in flourish of trum-
pets, and then, without further hesita-
tion, we ordered steeds and swore we
would cross the 'campagna at midnight,
through fever and damp, spite of the
brigands and the sheep-dogs and the
black holes that line the solitary road to
Rome.


1t was twelve midnight when we
mounted. The bell of some convent
in the hills was calling the monks from
sleep to prayer; the piazza was de-
serted; a few friends who had supped
with us stood by us to the last, and we
turned from them as they stood in the
warm light of the cafe-the only light
visible at that hour-and departed un-
der thick shower of benedictions.
The long road wound down the hill
between high walls and terraced gar
dens. From time to time we pissed
the way-side shrines so common in
Catholic countries; broad bars of light
fell across our path, for there was ever
o lamp lit by some faithful hand and
burning brightly at the feet of the Ma
donna. The way grew lonely. We set
forth with songs, but our voices were
lost in the immense, the eternal silence
of the vast and vacant land.


It came at last-a low growl, away off
in the Slackness of darkness; a long,
low, wolfsh growl that ended in a sharp
and vicious yelp, which was followed by
a chorus of howls and barks that chill
ed the very marrow in our bones.
"Avanti I" cried our guide, as he
plunged the spurs into his horses
TANKS and dashed forward into the
night. We followed as best We could;
followed madly, knowing not whittier
we went, but seeking to keep within
sound of the hoofs that now thundered
upon the road like hail.


The wolf-dogs were upon us-mon-
sters that guard the focks in the cam
pagna and are the terror of all pedes-
TRANS, for in their case escape is impos-
sible, and more than one mangled corpse
has been found by the wayside in the
morning, the partially devoured re-
mains of some belated pilgrim, whose
only memorial is one of the small black
crosses that are so frequent in some
parts of Italy, and mark the spot where
blood has been accidentally or unlaw-
fully shed. The air was filed with
hideous yelps of the infuriated pack,
and the whole campagna seemed alive
with monsters clamoring for blood.
Weplunged into the darkness, relying
upon the instinct of our horses to keep
the road. Once off it we must fall into
one of the bitches that follow it at in
| tervals, or have driven full speed
against the low walls that border some
of the meadow lands, and in either case
our destruction was inevitable. was
following the party, bringing up the
rear of the procession-Indian file
when suddenly everything went from
under me, and in the next moment I
was groveling among loose stones, with
my horse vainly striving to regain his
feet at my side. The whole earth sank
at that moment, and out of the chaos
that followed came fearful voices asking
il was hurt. 1 thought not, but be-
fore I could render this verdict two
edged agony went corkscrew fashion
through my arm, from the shoulder to
the wrist, and then returned to the
elbow, where it threw out thousand
red-hot tendrils and struck root forever
and ever.


Meanwhile pack of dogs, awakened
by the clamor, bore down upon our
quarter, and we were in danger of being
intercepted, but with desperate haste
we passed them just as they leaped the
wayside wall and struck into the road,
gnashing their teeth with rage at the
very feet of our horses. 1t was mar
row escape; one poor devil was struck
by the flying heels of my horse and
knocked endwise, and then we saw dim
ly the gray shadowy forms slackening
their pace. Gradually the whole tribe
retreated, the noise subsided, and there
came the gratefullest season of silence
that ever crept into my life.-Letter in
San Frdnctsco Chronicle.


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