 | Rambles and reveries |  |
1. A DAY AT RAVENNA.
Shall we go see the reliques of this town?
Twelfth Night
On a gloomy evening, I found myself crossing the
broad plains contiguous to the ancient city of Ravenna.
These extensive fields serve chiefly for pasturage, and
their monotonous aspect is only diversified by a few
stunted trees and patches of rice. Nearer the Adriatic,
however, the eye is relieved by the appearance of a noble
forest of pines, which extends for the space of several
miles along the shore. The branches of these trees, as
is common in Italy, have been, by repeated trimmings,
concentrated at the top; and most of them being lofty,
a complete canopy is formed, beneath which one walks
in that woodland twilight so peculiar and impressive.
The effect is enhanced here, by the vicinity of the sea,
whose mournful anthem or soothing music mingles with
the wind-hymns of the forest aisles. As we emerged
from a magnificent church that stands in the midst of this
solitude, the interior columns of which were transported
from Constantinople, no living object: disturbed the profound
instinctively obeying the intimations of nature, and slowly
returning to their domiciles. I found no difficulty in
realizing that this scenery, when arrayed in the dreamy
influences of such an hour, should prove congenial to the
poetic mood, and wondered not that Byron, during his
long residence at Ravenna, found so much pleasure in
coursing through this quiet country, and along the adjacent
shore.
The old city, like Venice, to whose triumphant arms,
after so many fierce wars, it was at last subjected, rose
from the marshes, and, although apparently at a considerable
distance from the sea, presents, even at the present
day, abundant indications of its marine foundation; and
among them, the traveller observes with regret, the
obliterating traces of a humid air, in the discolored and
corroded frescos of the churches. One of the most
valuable of these, however, has been singularly well preserved,
considering that it has withstood the combined
effects of dampness and removal from its original position—a
process involving no little risk. This beautiful
specimen is at present fixed in the sacristy of the cathedral.
It represents the angel visiting Elijah in the
desert; and dimmed as are its tints by time and moisture,
no one can gaze upon the sweet face of the angel, radiant
with youth, and contrast it with the calm, aged countenance
and gray locks of the sleeping prophet, without
recognizing that peculiar grace which marks the creations
of Guido. Happily, some of the most ancient vestiges
of art discoverable at Ravenna, exist in the more durable
the baptistry, and the sepulchral chamber of Galla
Placida, are completely lined with this curious species of
painting, evidently of the most primitive order.
But by far the finest antiquity, is the edifice called the
Rotunda, which, like almost every similar relic in Italy,
with equal disregard to taste and propriety, is fitted up as
a modern church. This building is the mausoleum of
Theodoric. It is without the walls, and approached
through an avenue of poplars, whose yellow leaves rustled
beneath our feet, or whirled in wild eddies over the
grass. The cloudy sky and the solitude of the spot were
also favorable to the associations of the scene. The form
of the structure is circular, and the dome is considered a
curiosity, being constructed from a single piece of marble.
It is likewise remarkable, that all attempts to drain the
water which has collected beneath the building, have
proved fruitless. A flight of steps leads to the interior,
which has long since been denuded of its ornaments;
and the porphyry sarcophagus which surmounted the
structure, and contained the ashes of Theodoric, has
been removed, and imbedded in the walls of the old
building supposed to have been his palace. I could not
but remark, as I afterward noted this ancient urn, the
singular combination which seems to attend memorials
of past greatness. The side presented to view, was
covered with the notices of public sales and amusements,
a purpose which it had evidently long subserved, while
the mansion itself has been converted into a wine
magazine.
The fortifications of Ravenna, which were obviously
constructed on no ordinary scale, have fallen into decay.
Traces of but two of the many towers designated on the old
charts, are discoverable; and a city, whose obstinate and
prolonged conflicts with the Venitian republic are alone
sufficient to vindicate the warlike character of its ancient
inhabitants, now furnishes the most meagre evidences of
former activity and prowess. The few soldiers now seen
in its deserted streets, serve not, alas! to defend the town
or enlarge its possessions, but minister to the ignoble
purpose of draining its wretched inhabitants of their
scanty resources. About three miles from one of the
gates, a column commemorates the fate of Gaston De
Foix. This brave knight, notwithstanding his extreme
youth, had won so high a reputation for invincible courage
and address, that he was intrusted with the command of
the French troops, then struggling for the possession of
Italy. When De Foix attacked Ravenna, it was vigorously
defended by Antonio Colonna, who, in anticipation
of his design, had entrenched himself with an effective
force within the walls. After a warm conflict on the
ramparts, the crumbling remnants of which still attest
their former extent and massive workmanship, during
which not less than fifteen hundred men perished in the
space of four hours, the invaders were compelled to withdraw.
At the instant the young commander was rallying
his troops for a second assault, he was informed of the
approach of the general army. They were soon fortified
about three miles from the town, and the French warrior
found himself in a situation sufficiently critical to damp
enemy, of whose prowess he had just received the most
signal proof, and near by, a fresh and vigorous army,
while his position was utterly destitute of those accommodations
requisite to recruit his forces, or afford the necessary
provisions either for men or horses. In this exigency,
he formed the resolution to force the army to a
general conflict. Unfortunately for the Italians, the
leader of their Spanish allies differed from the other officers
as to the course expedient to be adopted; the one party
wishing to remain within the entrenchments, the other
advocating a general rally and open attack. The former
prevailed. The adverse armies continued to cannonade
each other for a considerable time, and the balance of
success was evidently in favor of the allied army, when
the Duke of Ferrara brought his highly efficient artillery
to bear from a very advantageous position in flank. So
unremitted and annoying was the fire, that the allies
were at length obliged to rush from their entrenchements,
according to the sanguine wishes of De Foix, and try
the fate of an open battle. On that memorable day, the
eleventh of April, 1512, occurred the most tremendous
action which for a long period had taken place on the
war-tried soil of Italy. As one wanders over the
mouldering bastions and solitary campagna of Ravenna,
and pictures the spectacle which on that occasion was
here beheld, the contrast between the retrospect and the
reality is singularly impressive. The shock of the meeting
of those two mighty bodies is described by the historian
of the period, as abounding in the awfully sublime.
that soon laid the flower of both armies in the dust.
More than once, the impetuous valor of the Spanish infantry
threatened to decide the fortune of the day; but
the Italian forces were at length compelled to fly, leaving
Cardinal de Medici, other illustrious prisoners, and all
their artillery and equipages, in the hands of the enemy,
besides nine thousand of their number dead upon the
field. The French loss was computed as still greater.
But the most lamentable event of the occasion, was
the fate of their gallant leader. Flushed with victory, he
pursued the panting squadrons of the fugitives with unremitted
ardor, when, as he flew over the hard fought field,
at the head of a thousand horse, he was surrounded and
killed. There is something peculiarly touching in the
fate of this young chieftain. He had scarcely attained
the age of manhood, and was already regarded as the
flower of the French chivalry. Glowing with the enthusiastic,
though mistaken zeal of the period, he had just
led his soldiers to a victory eminently fitted to increase
the fame of his arms. After a season of suspense, which
must have appeared an age to his impatient spirit, he had
met the opposing forces on the open field. Long, desperate,
and dubious was the contest; but at length his
gladdened eye saw through the smoke of battle, the retreating
ranks of the enemy; his enraptured ear caught,
above the din of war, the victorious shouts of his soldiers.
What visions of glory must have gleamed before his imagination,
as he spurred his charger over the conquered
field! How sweet must have been the gratulations of
of valorous renown were already won, and he was
but in the morning of life. The wreath of chivalric
honor, which his early ambition had pictured as a far-off
boon, was already his. Yet, in that moment of triumphant
emotion, when he felt the wreath of victory pressing
his flushed brow, and heard, perhaps, the greeting of her
whose smile would be the sweetest flower in his garland
of renown, the fatal rally was made, and the gorgeous
visions of gratified ambition were suddenly obscured by
the mists of death! He fell, not at the fearful onset,
when despair of success might have reconciled him to
such a fate; nor in the midst of the struggle, when the
influence of his example, or the desire of revenge, might
have urged on his followers to yet fiercer effort; but at
the close of the fight, when the day was won, at the instant
when the clouds of doubt broke asunder, and the
joyful beams of success blessed his sight. At such a
moment, fell the young and valiant Gaston de Foix.
In the academy at Ravenna, there is the statue of a
warrior carved in white marble. The name of the sculptor
is not well authenticated; but the work seemed to me
remarkably well calculated to deepen the associations
which environ the memory of the French knight. The
figure is completely encased in armor, and sketched in
the solemn repose of death. The visor of the helmet is
raised, and the face presents that rigid expression, which
we cannot look upon without awe. The very eye-lids are
cut with such a lifeless distinctness, as to be eloquent of
death. Thus, thought I, fell the veil of dissolution over
How affecting, with the story of his valorous energy
fresh in the memory, to gaze upon such an image, and
to feel that thus he became in the very hour of his
triumph! Erroneous as were then the ends of youthful
ambition, yet is there enough of nobleness in the associations
of that epoch, to hallow its ornaments to our imagination.
Comparing them with the selfish and narrow
ideas which too often mark the manners and demean the
characters of our day, we must sometimes lament, that if
the ignorance and barbarism of more warlike times have
departed, so has also much of their high and almost universal
spirit of honor, gallantry and disinterestedness.
Like most secondary Italian cities, Ravenna wears the
semblance of desertion. At noonday, the stranger may
often walk through streets deficient neither in spaciousness
nor noble dwellings, and yet encounter no being, nor hear
a sound indicative of life, far less of active prosperity.
This was the case, to a remarkable degree, on the day of
my visit, as it occurred during the month of October, when,
according to the Italian custom, most of the nobility were
at their villas; and the sanitary restrictions established
on account of the cholera then raging in some parts of the
country, had greatly diminished the usual numbers of passing
travellers. In the piazza, at some hours of the day,
there is a little life like appearance, from the assemblage
of buyers and sellers, and, at early evening, the principal
caffè exhibits the usual motley company collected to
smoke and talk scandal, or to pore over the few journals
which the jealousy of the government permits to find their
consist of little else than an epitome from
the French journals, of the most important political and
other passing events, collected and arranged with as little
reference to order and connection, as can well be imagined.
It is owing to the garbled and confused notions
derived from these paltry gazettes, to which many
even of the better class of Italians confine their reading,
that there prevails in this country such profound ignorance
of the most familiar places and facts. Some of the
ideas existing in regard to the United States, afford good
illustration of this remark. A retired merchant, who was
travelling in very genteel style; once asked me if Joseph
Bonaparte was still king of America. A monk of
Genoa, who was my companion in a voiture in Lombardy,
opened his eyes in astonishment when informed
that it was more than half a century since we had ceased
to be an English colony; and another friar, whose ideas
of geography were in rather a confused state, observed
that he considered mine a very aristocratic country, judging
from what he had read of our president, Santa Anna.
A young Tuscan, of respectable standing, inquired if one
could go from Italy to America, without passing through
Madagascar; and a signora of some pretensions begged
in a very pathetic voice, to know if we were much annoyed
with tigers!
Life, for the most part in these reduced towns, accords
with the limited scope of the prevailing ideas. The
morning is lounged away in listlessness; the ride after
dinner, and the conversazione in the evening, being the
when some theatrical or other entertainment is generally
provided. Those of the resident nobility who can
afford it, usually travel half the year, and economize the
remainder. And if, among the better class, there are
those whose range of knowledge is more extensive, or
whose views are nobler, the greater part soon reconcile
themselves to a series of trifling pursuits, or idle dissipation,
as the appropriate offsets to their hopeless destiny.
Sometimes, indeed, a rare spirit is encountered, superior
to the mass, and incapable of compromising either principle
or opinions, however objectless it may seem to
cherish them; and there are few more interesting characters
than are such men, in the view of the thoughtful
philanthropist; beings superior to their associates, and
worthy of a better fate; men who, amid degrading political
and social circumstances, have the strength and elevation
of mind to think and feel nobly, and seek by communion
with the immortal spirits of the past, or by elevating
anticipations, consolation for the weariness and
gloom of the present. Occasionally, too, in such decayed
cities, the stranger meets with those who, cut off
from political advantages, and possessed of wealth, have
devoted themselves to the pursuits of taste, and their
palaces and gardens amply repay a visit. Such is the
case with the eccentric Ruspini, one of the Ravenese
nobility, whose gallery contains many valuable and interesting
productions of art.
At an angle of one of the by-streets of Ravenna, is a
small building by no means striking, either as regards
open iron-work, surmounted by a cardinal's hat—indicating
that the structure was raised or renovated by some
church dignitary, a class who appear invariably scrupulous
to memorialize, by inscriptions and emblems, whatever
public work they see fit to promote. A stranger
might pass this little edifice unheeded, standing as it does
at a lonely corner, and wearing an aspect of neglect;
but as the eye glances through the railing of the portal, it
instinctively rests on a small and time-stained bas-relief,
in the opposite wall, representing that sad, stern, and
emaciated countenance, which, in the form of busts, engravings,
frescos, and portraits, haunts the traveller in
every part of Italy. It is a face so strongly marked with
the sorrow of a noble and ideal mind, that there is no
need of the laurel wreath upon the head, to assure us that
we look upon the lineaments of a poet. And who could
fail to stay his feet, and still the current of his wandering
thoughts to a deeper flow, when he reads upon the entablature
of the little temple, `Sepulchrum Dantis Poetœ?'
It is not necessary that one should have solved the mysteries
of the Divina Commedia, in order to feel the solemn
interest which attaches to the spot where the bones of its
author repose. It is enough to know that we are standing
by the tomb of a man who, in early boyhood, loved;
and cherished the deep affection then born, after its object
was removed from the world, through a life of the
greatest vicissitude, danger, and grief, making it a fountain
of poetic inspiration, and a golden link which bound
him to the world of spirits; a quenchless sentiment,
sufficient to remember, that we are near the ashes of a
man who proved himself a patriot, and when made the
victim of political faction, and banished from his home,
wrapped himself in the mantle of silent endurance, and
suffered with a dignified heroism, that challenges universal
sympathy and respect. It is sufficient to reflect that
the people who had persecuted the gifted Florentine when
living, have long vainly petitioned those among whom he
died, for the privilege of transporting his revered remains
to the rich monument prepared for them; and that a
permanent professorship, to elucidate his immortal poem,
is founded by the very city from which he was ignobly
spurned. It is enough that we see before us the sepulchre
of a man who had the intellect and courage to think
beyond and above his age, who revived into pristine
beauty a splendid but desecrated language; who fully
vindicated his title to the character of a statesman, a soldier,
and a poet; and in a warlike and violent age, had
the magnanimity to conceive, and the genius to create,
an imperishable monument of intellectual revenge.
| Rambles and reveries | |