 | ITALIAN JOURNEYING. The Italian sketch book |  |
ITALIAN JOURNEYING.
A thought which once was his; if on ye swell
A single recollection, not in vain
He wore the sandal shoon and scallop shell.”
Although called by the veturino, on a January
morning, at about half past two, I had cause, as
usual, to regret my ready attention to his summons,
for it was nearly six when I was actually moving
on in the cabriolet of the carriage by the side of my
campagnon de voyage. The thin scattered clouds
which dimmed the sky of early day gathered more
darkly as we proceeded, so that all means of avoiding
requisition. It was no small disappointment to me,
when arrived at our first stopping-place, Albano, to
find myself shivering at the scanty fire of the inn-kitchen,
instead of roaming over the hill and about
the lake which give so much celebrity to this village.
One of the passengers, more hale, though I
ween not more zealous than myself, made a hurried
visit to the spot, and returned quite wet to complain
of the littleness of the sheet of water dignified with
the title of lake. When we again set out, the rain
was pouring in torrents, and the utter gloominess of
the scenery, and comparatively comfortless state of
our feelings, made the slow riding of the few
remaining hours of light, uninteresting, to say the
least. How the miserable dinner, cold quarters,
and dreary aspect of our night's shelter were gone
through with, every old traveller can imagine.
Each bore the several privations according to his
humour, though the chief consolation seemed to be
derived from the idea of home-comfort which the
contrast suggested.
A seemingly long, and equally dark ride brought
us the ensuing morning to the borders of the Pontine
Marshes, renowned for the antiquated attempt
to drain them, and some circumstances of ancient
history in connexion with which they are mentioned.
The quality which has rendered them
somewhat formidable in modern times—their pestiferous
exhalations, was imperceptible, either from
atmosphere. We ran with great rapidity over the
fine road which crosses them, extending twenty-four
miles, and reached the Terracina Hotel, just as a
little interval of temporary sunshine occurred.
From a back window of this castle-like building, I
could gaze out upon the wide waters of the Mediterranean,
as they came rolling splendidly onward in
high waves, which were spurned backward by the
jutting rocks, or lost themselves moaningly upon
the sands. This most sublime object in nature I
viewed with something of the delight with which
we unexpectedly encounter an old friend, as well as
with much of the imaginative satisfaction it must
ever inspire.
The bright waters of a sea like this! They
brought to mind the fearful acts they had consummated,
the awful wrecks made by their treacherous
workings, the scenes enacted on their shores, the
men by whose writings they have been hallowed.
But they suggested yet more tender and awakening
associations. It was by such a medium that I passed
with a dream-like rapidity from the new to the old
world; from influences more deeply operative than
art's most perfect witchery; from my home to a
strange land. Were these waters as living messengers,
could one breath of my most native sentiment,
one gush of my heart's best feelings enter and roll
on within a wave, seemingly pure enough to embody
something spiritual, until it was poured upon my
and greeting!
We soon crossed the pass formed by the sea on
the one side, and high hills on the other, where
Maximius posted his troops to resist the onward
march of Hannibal. This pass, like all of nature's
strong holds, is apparently invulnerable when in any
wise fortified, and in the season of flowers and verdure,
must present a very beautiful appearance.
We next reached Fondi, in which beggarly village
we were long detained for the examination of our
baggage. I regretted that night prevented my
having a glimpse of the building, supposed to be the
tomb of Cicero, erected on the spot where he met
so undeserved a fate. Our night at Mola was somewhat
better than the previous one, and yet sufficiently
dull. The moaning of the sea beneath the
windows and the splashing of the rain made most
unpromising music, while the cold stone floors and
scanty accommodations did not much counteract
its influence. The most cheering object which
met our eyes the next morning, after several miles'
ride, was the sun, who succeeded this time in pushing
his fiery course through the cloudy crowd
which surrounded, as a troop of pressing retainers,
his imperial out-going. Some very antique-looking
aqueducts, and an admirable new bridge which
crosses the Garigliano, (anciently the Liris,) next
occupied our notice. The noon rest was at the
miserable village of modern Capua, the inn and
had yet seen. The remainder of our ride lay over a
very dirty though level road. It was surprising to
observe that a highway so near a great city was no
more travelled or better kept than this appeared to
be. Nihght fell sometime before we reached Naples,
and we observed a fire, apparently burning in
a narrow and long streak upon a hill side, which
seen thus through a misty atmosphere and a long
vista of trees, was quite remarkable. It was the
distant looming of Vesuvius!
It was long before day-break, and during damp
and cloudy weather, that we entered the old coach
which was to convey us to Rome. A young Dominican
monk, with his white habiliments, within,
and two German youths, without, completed the
party, and we moved tardily along, after our passports
had been inspected at the gate. The air and
aspect, during the long day, continued to wear a
November cast, and a lonely and cold ride at night,
contributed to render our journey, at its outset, one
of those dismal experiences, so often described in
the traveller's tale. The following day proved much
clearer and colder, and toward its close, our interest
became excited by coming in view of the ground
where Hannibal obtained his signal victory over Flaminius.
The very tower to which the conqueror's
horse was tied, is still pointed out. The site of this
battle-ground, at the end of the lake of Trasimenus,
quite extensive enough, and sufficiently environed
with elevations, to afford ample scope for the manœuvering
and action of ancient warfare; and its
present solitary aspect must present a wonderful
contrast to the energy and effects once developed
there. Beside that lake, in a grim old inn, we rested
till dawn, and found the first stage of our early ride
exceedingly uncomfortable, from the cold.
It was about noon when we reached Perugia, and
after a slight repast, commenced peregrinating the
old town. I was amused to observe that the inhabitants,
even the meanest clad, wore their cloaks
somewhat after the Roman fashion, having the right
skirt thrown over the left shoulder. In the church
of St. Dominic, we found the large window of stained
glass, behind the altar, quite splendid, and from
its striking position and size, by far the most beautiful
ornament in the building. Hastening to the
church of St. Peter, we were impressed with its
admirable locality, being placed upon an elevation
without the immediate circle of houses, commanding
from behind a very extensive prospect, and having
in front an ample esplanade. The pictures it contains
are very interesting, not so much from actual
power, as on account of their authors. There are
several of Perugini, the master of Raphael, his own
master, and a few of Raphael's, which are obviously
first efforts. These evince that gradual but distinct
improvement in style and execution, by which every
Scarcely a square foot of wall is there in this
church which is not adorned with frescoes; and the
whole building, with its contents, is a pleasing little
antiquity.
On our way from this town we left the coach to
inspect another church by the road-side, which was
undergoing repairs, called the Madonna degli Angeli.
Here, scattered upon the cold pavement, were
some Franciscans, in their coarse habits of brown
stuff, looking more miserable in their ignorant dejection
than any of the Catholic priesthood we had
fallen in with. Evening found us at Foligno, where
we saw little to interest us, except the feats of some
children who were leaping in a shed, much to the
amusement of a vulgar audience, and a view of the
innumerable props by which many of the older
houses, shattered by a recent earthquake, seemed to
be mainly sustained.
The next morning we paused upon the post-road,
soon after recommencing our journey, to observe
the temple of Clitumnus, now a chapel, rendered
worthy of notice from its antiquity. At Spoleto, our
noon resting-place, we were not—strange to tell—
charged for attention to our passports. This was the
first town which appeared to me possessed of the
genuine characteristics of ancient interest. A timeworn
and quiet aspect was here immediately observable.
Passing through Hannibal's gate, so called from
an inscription thereon, setting forth the successful
attacks, we came in view of a grand aqueduct, supported
by long and remarkably narrow arches, and
quite massive in execution. The scenery immediately
contiguous is the finest of its class in the route;
the grand slope of the hill, and the vivid verdure of
the evergreen pine being very refreshing to the
eye. Indeed, the appearance of the country grew
far more picturesque about this period, the range of
the Apennines becoming more lofty and variegated.
At Terni, which we reached in the afternoon, we
found a guide, and made exertions to reach the
celebrated cascade in the vicinity, before sunset.
The hilly path was ascended by means of donkeys,
which we procured at its base. Embosomed in high
and verdant hills, over the brow of one of which it
descends, is the fall. It pours nobly down, being
of a milky whiteness, and moving with a grace and
music such as alone is evinced by these beautiful
phenomena in nature. There, its white form of
beauty amid a spacious and green amphitheatre, and
crowned with silvery mist, falls ever the glorious
cascade. As a vision too sweet long to linger, it
has passed from before me; but its memory is indelible,
more pleasing to recall than even the monuments
of ancient art or the peculiarities of olden
time.
Our stop the succeeding day was at the mean village
called Otriculum, without whose southern wall
we tarried some time, looking upon the adjacent
but beautifully meandering stream, trying to realize
that it was, in truth, the Tiber. We found, too, an old
castle, to beguile the time, until overtaken by our
carriage, which soon brought us to Civita Castelana.
On entering this town we dismounted, and lingered
to admire a very deep and umbrageous defile which
is spanned by the bridge. We noticed, as somewhat
remarkable, that the cathedral here, which is partly
composed of an ancient temple, has mosaic work
upon its outer front. A fine castle, which probably
gives the town its name, is the only other obvious
object of interest.
This journey, commenced on the third of November,
and concluded on the evening of the eighth,
would have been somewhat tedious, but for social
intercourse, and a few attendant subjects of reflection.
The almost total want of comfort at the miserable
inns, is indeed no small drawback; but my chief disappointment
resulted from the want of beauty and
interest in the appearance of nature. The only fine
tree which met our view was the small olive of
the country. Far more glorious are the variegated
hues of autumn in America, than the monotonous
colouring which here blends so much of the vegetative
aspect. Throughout the ride, it frequently required
effort to realize where we were; and only
when within an old church, or in sight of an antiquated
town, or once or twice at early morning, between
two remarkably fine Apennine hills, did we
of Italy.
Silently, and almost sadly, did I travel onward
from the Tuscan dominions towards new scenes. We
soon came upon the Apennine range, and thenceforward
were continually ascending and descending.
A dull, warm atmosphere constantly prevailed, with
occasional rain. The aspect of nature was consonant
with my feelings. The vapour wreathed itself
around the summits, and floated far down among
the long defiles which were ever before us. In the
evening we reached Bologna. Its arched sidewalks
give to the streets a very gloomy appearance; and
this impression was enhanced by the number of soldiery—the
minions of Austria, everywhere visible.
We visited the churches and public promenade; attentively
regarded the statue of Neptune, by Giovanni
di Bologna, in the principal piazza, and the leaning
tower. We also made an excursion of three miles
into the environs, and viewed the immense line of
arches, extending thence to the city. The Campo
Santo occupied us some time; and although some of
the monumental decorations are interesting, and the
great scale of the establishment striking, yet there
is little to create that impression which is perhaps
the only really excellent result of such institutions.
At the Academy of Fine Arts I found a higher
satisfaction, and dwelt long upon the Madonna,
Elizabeth, and the Infant Jesus, in the act of blessing
Slaughter of the Innocents, by Guido Reni; St. Cecilia
listening to a Choir of Angels, and surrounded
by St. Paul, St. John, St. Augustine, and the Magdalene,
particularly interested me, as being one of
Raphael's, and in his last style. An expression of
fervid enjoyment is singularly obvious in the beaming
countenance of St. Cecilia. Many pictures also,
by Francia, drew my attention, he being the contemporary
of Raphael, and remarkably developing his
style. There is, too, a fine work of art by Domenichino—the
Martyrdom of St. Agnes. Upon departing
for Ferrara, we were almost at once upon the
plains of Lombardy, and our remaining journey
formed a striking contrast with its preceding portions.
The poplar, peculiar to the country, bordered
the road, but in form it is not comparable with what
I had seen at home; the mulberry, too, prevailed,
and, as we learned, was cultivated wholly on account
of the silk manufacture to which it ministers;—an
extensive affair here. The solitude was striking, nor
was it diminished essentially when, shortly before
sunset, we reached Ferrara, the principal thoroughfare
of which city alone seemed well inhabited; many
broad streets presenting a perfectly destitute appearance.
I found Byron had not taken a poetical license
when he called them “grass-grown.”
The comparatively ordinary monument to Ariosto,
in the promenade, was the only object of interest
we crossed the Po, an apparently sluggish stream,
environed by an exceedingly flat country. After a
weary examination of our luggage, at this commencement
of the Austrian dominions, we continued our
route through such a quiet and dead plain, that the
sight of Monte Silece, and its three adjacent elevations,
was quite refreshing to the eye. At a village
at the foot of this mountain we passed the night,
and every previous hour of light was delightfully
spent in viewing the seemingly interminable plains
from various points of the hill.
As I stood upon the old terrace in front of a rough
grotto (containing full length figures of St. Frances,
the Madonna and Saviour), looking forth upon the
almost boundless prospect, and then wandered among
the ruins of a castle, upon the hill's summit—observed
the old towering broken palace, with no living
object about it but the figure of a withered crone,
knitting at the door; I thought I had never seen a
spot so in unison with the legends of the middle
ages, which romance has hallowed and adorned. As
we returned, the numerous cypresses attracted our
attention. We entered a little church, where was
a knot of village girls, with their white mantillas
and black eyes, engaged in their devotions. Upon
emerging we noted a youth, whose dress and manners
seemed too studied for accident, in such a spot;
we were not long in surmising his intentions, for
her head was tastefully adorned with flowers, and
her air somewhat sprightly and confident. I doubted
not she was the beauty of the village; and as the
young man smilingly glided along by her side, and
at the turn leading to the town, darted into a narrow
by-path, I read a tale of love, of love in its springtime,
and sighed as I thought what might be its harvest.
The next morning we arrived in Padua, and
the busy and cheerful aspect of the place, it being
fair-day, at once interested and pleased me. Two
or three hours were satisfactorily passed in viewing
the churches:—that of St. Antonio (the patron
saint of Padua) is a grand structure, and the Scuola
adjacent interesting. I admired the free, clean aspect,
and sculpture ornaments of St. Justin, but lingered
longest in the court and corridors of the old
university, where were assembled a finer collection
of young men than I had before seen in Italy, awaiting
the lecture hour. I entered one of the high,
dark chambers, where a professor, in his black and
ermine bound robe, was questioning a large number
of students in the subject of his prior discourse on
jurisprudence. There was something which brought
home forcibly to my mind, in the liberal, studious,
christian aspect of this institution, and indeed of the
whole city.
After dining at the Acquila d'Ora, three hours'
riding brought us to the shore, whence we embarked
her line of building tranquilly upon the still waters.
In an hour we were in the main canal. I
looked up to the antiquated and decayed buildings,
the time-worn, yet rich architecture of the palaces;
I felt the deep silence, the eloquent decay, and long
before the gondola touched the steps of the hotel, I
realized that I was in Venice.
| ITALIAN JOURNEYING. The Italian sketch book | |