It is a bare old church, and the paintings in the roof are sadly
defaced by time and damp weather; but the sun was shining in,
splendidly, through the red curtains of the windows, and glittering
on the altar furniture; and it looked as bright and cheerful as
need be.
Going apart, in this church, to see some painting which was being
executed in fresco by a French artist and his pupil, I was led to
observe more closely than I might otherwise have done, a great
number of votive offerings with which the walls of the different
chapels were profusely hung. I will not say decorated, for they
were very roughly and comically got up; most likely by poor sign-
painters, who eke out their living in that way. They were all
little pictures: each representing some sickness or calamity from
which the person placing it there, had escaped, through the
interposition of his or her patron saint, or of the Madonna; and I
may refer to them as good specimens of the class generally. They
are abundant in Italy.
In a grotesque squareness of outline, and impossibility of
perspective, they are not unlike the woodcuts in old books; but
they were oil-paintings, and the artist, like the painter of the
Primrose family, had not been sparing of his colours.
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