In a word, the _festa_ of the vegetables, at which they
do not eat, but are eaten, and the Carnival of the kitchen-garden have
come.
But--a thousand, thousand pardons, O mighty Cavolo!--how have I dared
omit thy august name? On my knees, O potentest of vegetables, I crave
forgiveness! I will burn at thy shrine ten waxen candles, in penance,
if thou wilt pardon the sin and shame of my forgetfulness! The smoke of
thy altar-fires, the steam of thy incense, and the odors of thy
sanctity rise from every hypaethral shrine in Rome. Out-doors and
in-doors, wherever the foot wanders, on palatial stairs or in the hut
of poverty, in the convent pottage and the _Lepre_ soup, in the wooden
platter of the beggar and the silver tureen of the prince, thou fillest
our nostrils, thou satisfiest our stomach. Thou hast no false pride;
great as thou art, thou condescendest to be exchanged for a _baiocco_.
Dear enchantress! to thee, and to thy glorious cousin Broccoli, that
tender-hearted, efflorescent nymph, the Egeria of the _osteria con
cucina_, the peerless maid that goes with the steak and accepts
martyrdom without moan, to drive away the demon of Hunger from her
devoted followers,--all honor! Far away, whenever I inhale thy odor, I
shall think of "Roman Joys"; a whiff from thine altar in a foreign land
will bear me back to the Eternal City, "the City of the Soul," the City
of the Cabbage, the home of the Dioscuri, _Cavolo_ and _Broccoli!_ Yes,
as Paris is recalled by the odor of chocolate, and London by the damp
steam of malt, so shall Rome come back when my nostrils are filled with
thy penetrative fragrance!
Saunter out at any of the city-gates, or lean over the wall at San
Giovanni, (and where will you find a more charming spot?) or look down
from the windows of the Villa Negroni, and your eye will surely fall on
one of the Roman kitchen-gardens, patterned out in even rows and
squares of green.
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