 | The Italian sketch book |  |
MISCELLANY.
No scene of life but has contributed
Much to remember;—
And if it stir the heart, if aught be there
That may hereafter in a thoughtful hour
Wake but a sigh, 'tis treasured up among
The things most precious; and the day it came,
Is noted as a white day in our lives.”
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.
THE AMATEUR.
Her sculptured marbles, and her pictured walls;
And there are forms in which they both conspire
To whisper themes that know not how to tire:
The speaking ruins in that gentle clime
Have but been hallowed by the hand of Time,
And each can mutely prompt some thought of flame
—The meanest stone is not without a name.”
As the chief intellectual influence of Italy is that of
the fine arts, one of their prominent intellectual
results is to render us amateurs. Observation is
engrossed with forms and sounds; the eye and ear
evince a hitherto inexperienced capacity for enjoyment.
The music—the universal, metaphysical music
of the land—invites to the cultivation of the
hearing powers, and the ever-present forms of art
lead to a practised attention of the visual organs; so
that we find ourselves insensibly drawn from the
study of social circumstances, to that of influences
far more abstract, but from their intimate connexion
with humanity, with genius, taste and feeling, not
less rich in overpowering interest. It is indeed
remarkable under how many different aspects the
to mental gratification. They may be regarded
with the eye of an artist, solely as illustrative of the
various schools, or as embodying the true principles
of his profession; or, by the student of human
nature, as affording a beautiful exposition of the
several epochs in the history of the development of
mind; while the tasteful votary of letters delights
in comparing their distinctive characteristics with
those of the master-spirits of our race, whose
thoughts are embodied in literature. The bold and
sublime efforts of M. Angelo, the beautiful expressiveness
of Raphael, the mellow and rich pencillings
of Claude, the wild genius of Salvator, and the
highly finished style of Leonardo, present to him
striking and interesting analogies with what is
familiar in the sister art of writing. It has been
well observed, that the bases of these arts touch
each other.
The genuine amateur, won by the attractions,
and attached by a spontaneous and intelligent sympathy
with the delicate dependencies and distinctions
which enter into the composition of external
symmetry, beauty and grandeur, gives himself to
the study and enjoyment of the abstract and embodied
principles of art. In such an one, the first emotions
of simple pleasure have expanded into profound
and inspiring interest, and the lights of
acquired knowledge and improving judgment have
redoubled the primitive sentiment of pleasure, derived
according to which all physical grace and beauty
exist, accustomed to find pleasure in every object
which developes these, and ever quick to detect
them wherever existent, the world is to him full of
enjoyment. Art's most glorious products are as
cherished friends, ever awakening satisfaction, and
affording consolation; blest with innumerable visions
of beauty, garnered from imagination's pencillings,
under nature's tuition, and glowing with a deliberate
enthusiasm, which has become an instinctive
principle, himself is his greatest resource. Nor are
such enjoyments without a favourable moral, as well
as intellectual benefit. The student and admirer of
the noblest human productions, who has become
such from native sentiment and discriminating taste,
is allied to his race by a new and interesting bond;
he may be said, with peculiar truth, to love in humanity,
what is truly worthy of devoted affection—
her capacity of exalted effort. And however vague
and ill-sustained such a feeling may be abstractly,
no regard can be more intelligent and vivid, when
cherished through the medium of mind's most hallowed
fruits. These give life to and sustain, in the
devoted mind, a free and grateful respect, the legitimate
spring of genuine philanthropy.
The true amateur, then, least of all men, deserves
the charge of unworthy selfishness; few obtain their
ends with less expense to their fellow beings, or in
the process of self-gratification diffuse happier influences.
are universal, and if uncorrupted, whatever be their
peculiarities, co-exist with a high and pure moral
sense.
Every magnanimous spirit is rendered happy by
the just appreciation of the results of mind, whatever
be their character or origin. A mere general
sentiment of approbation or censure in relation to
remarkable works of human art, is unworthy a good
understanding; and while we rejoice in liberal
judgments on such subjects, discriminating views
are alone satisfactory. Hence the acknowledged
moral beauty of just criticism; it is the only true
praise, the only improving censure. Happy, therefore,
is it, that there are men so constituted as to
find much of their happiness in the noble duties of a
genuine amateur; men who rejoice in the deliberate
indulgence of their intellectual tastes more than in
devoting them, with a fatal exclusiveness, to the purposes
of ambition; who become, as it were, the high
priests of art, and in their studious and sincere devotion,
waft the most acceptable incense to the
spirit of genius.
A GLIMPSE AT BASIL HALL.
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.”
At the palace of the prince Borghese in Rome,
several young English and American artists were
engaged in copying the renowned productions of
the old masters. Portray to yourself, kind reader,
two large halls, the walls of which are lined
with paintings, and intercommunicating by a side-door,
now thrown open for the benefit of the parties.
In the first of these apartments are erected
three easels—before which, in the attitude of painters,
stand—first, a Virginian, intent upon the exquisite
Magdalen of Correggio,—opposite, the native
of a country-town of Great Britain, transferring, as
nearly as possible, the Prodigal Son, of the great
Venetian,—while, within a few feet of the former, a
Londoner is travailing for the inspiration of Titian,
by contemplating his `Sacred and Profane Loves.'
The artists may thus be said to occupy, relatively,
the three points of an isosceles-triangle. Gaze now,
through the above-mentioned passage, and behold,
figure of a Baltimorean—fancying, perchance, the
surprise of the natives when they see his copy of
the inimitable Cupid beside him.
These worthy followers of the rainbow art were
wont to amuse themselves, and beguile the time,
with conversations upon the merits and manners of
their respective countries; and occasionally, by a
very natural process, such amicable debates would
assume not a little of the earnest spirit of controversy.
Then would the brush fall less frequently
upon the canvass, the eye linger less devotedly upon
the great originals around, and, ever and anon,
the disputants would step a pace or two from the
object of their labours, raise aloft their pencils—
as if, like the styles of the ancients, they subserved
equally the purposes of art and of warfare,
or wave their mottled pallets as shields against the
arrows of argument. A full history of these discussions—hallowed
by the scene of the combat, diversified
by the characters of the combatants, and dignified
by the nature of the points contested—would
doubtless be a valuable accession to our literature.
The great topics of national policy, domestic manners,
republicanism, aristocracy, slavery, corn laws,
&c., as unfolded in the elegant and discerning disputations
of the absentees in a Roman palace, would
prove something new, vivid, and seasonable. But
to me falls the humbler task of narrating one scene
of the drama, as illustrative of the wisdom and safety
of the advice of Polonious.
On a day when the war of words had run unusually
high, there was a momentary, and, as it were, a
spontaneous quietude. After the manner of their
predecessors in the same city, years by-gone, the
gladiators rested upon their arms. There was an
interlude of silence. They gradually reassumed the
appropriate occupations of the hour; and a few unusually
fine touches were bestowed upon the slowly-progressing
copies, when the aspiring portrayer of
the beautiful parable thus opened a new cannonade:
`Well, smooth over, as you may, the blot of slavery,
and deny or palliate, as you best can, the
charge of non-refinement, the world will never admit
the existence of true civilization in a country
where so barbaric a practice as gouging prevails.'
At the commencement of this speech, the pencil
of the Virginian had stopped transfixed within an
inch of the pensive countenance on his canvass; and
with nerves braced in expectancy, he awaited the
issue. And when the orator, like a second Brutus,
paused for a reply, his adversary was mute—perhaps
from indignation, probably in the absorption consequent
upon preparing to refute and chastise. The
Londoner wheeled around, and, with a nod of congratulation
to his brother-islander, and a provoking
and triumphant smile upon the Virginian, begged to
be informed `of the origin and nature of the American
custom of gouging?' When, lo! there were
heard quick steps along the polished floors, and as
the eyes of the artists followed their direction, the
hall. His painter's stick, pallet, and brush, were
grasped convulsively in his left hand, as with energetic
strides he reached the centre of the arena, and
gazed meaningly upon the disputants.
`You would know, sir,' he exclaimed, eyeing
fiercely the hero of the British capital, `what is
gouging? Go, sir, to Basil Hall—your literary countryman;
when ascending the Mississippi, he was put
on shore by the captain of a steamboat for ungentlemanly
deportment—and on the banks of that river,
sir, he was gouged!' As the last emphatic words
exploded, a gentleman, who had been viewing the
paintings, abruptly left the room. The Londoner
looked wonders, his compatriot tittered, the Cupidlimner
wiped his brow. `Who was that?' inquired
the Virginian. `That, sir, was Captain Hall!'
THE OPERA.
“Can it be said, that there is such an art as that of music for
those who cannot feel enthusiasm? Habit may render harmonious
sounds, as it were, a necessary gratification to them, and they enjoy
them as they admire the flavour of fruits or the ornament of
colours; but has their whole being vibrated and trembled responsively,
like a lyre, if, at any time, the midnight silence has been
broken by the song, or by any of those instruments which resemble
the human voice? Have they in that moment felt the mystery
of their existence, in that softening emotion which re-unites our
separate natures, and blends in the same enjoyment the senses and
the soul?”
Were it only that the opera, like every national
entertainment, is typical of the general taste, and in
Italy affords the most free arena for talent, to an
observant traveller it must be highly important;
but it is by the strong constraint of earnest sympathy
that I dwell upon its character and influences. In
point of excellence, simply as a popular diversion,
it is unrivalled; and the chief, if not the only exception,
which can be made to its detriment, springs
from the deficiencies, not of the amusement, but of
those to whose good it is designed to minister. For
the want alike of that physical organization upon
which the pleasure derivable from music depends,
that pleasure is bounded, must equally be denominated
deficiencies, since they bar a species of gratification
as refined as it is rich and absorbing.
But it were indeed unjust to truth and human
nature, to regard the opera, in its genuineness, solely
as one of those means which the selfish ingenuity of
man has contrived for occupying or even solacing
the intervals of active existence. Its origin and
legitimate intent are far higher and better; and
although many may avail themselves of it for purposes
of convenience, or at the suggestion of that
restless craving for fashionable baubles, which is the
besetting sin of the thoughtless, there are, and must
ever be, better spirits to whom justice will refer its
claims.
As a subject merely of speculation, the opera
might be deemed an unphilosophical representation
of humanity. As her master passions are ever
developed at once and fervently, the idea of exhibiting
them through the regular and measured medium
of song, would seem essentially unnatural. Yet, as
it is impossible in the drama to render the illusion
complete; as in the most perfect efforts of the dramatist,
and the actor, the unreal is palpably evident;
in adopting a more deliberate and pre-determined
form of expression, nothing of imitative excellence
is lost, while, in general effect, much is gained. In
the opera, art and nature unite in their highest excellence.
There is all the power of stage effect, the
paraphernalia of the theatre, with the superadded
power of the most expressive melody—that of the
human voice exerted to the highest point of its
natural capacity, and cultivated by the intervention
of one of the most scientific and arduous of studies,
to a degree almost incredible.
If speech is the readiest means of moral expression,
and what has been termed the natural language
the most unstudied and apposite, music, the breathing
forth of the spirit in song, is the most spiritual,
and therefore, more beautifully and delicately typical
of the varying emotions which inspire it. To
this form of expression we turn not, indeed, in the
most passionate moments of experience, but when
to these the calmer mood has succeeded, when love
begins to assume the settled and deep character of a
passion, when the shock of grief has given way to
its calm sadness, and kindling hope slowly lessens
the early heaviness of disappointment; when the
quiverings of indecision have become composed
into clear fixedness of purpose, and the sense of
overwhelming joy is fast losing itself in the deep
peace of conscious happiness;—in such ultimate
stages of the passions, when their restless elements
have become, in a measure, tranquillized, and their
language more deliberate, then is it wont to pour
itself forth in measured, but moving song. And if,
in the opera, the limits of this natural order are occasionally
exceeded, what is it but an exercise of
must contentedly smile?
The opera is the grand result of a general and
discriminating passion for music. Without such a
proximate cause its existence is truly impossible.
It is this which gives rise to and sustains, not only
the institution, but that remarkable and scarcely
appreciated talent, which is its vital principle. It
has ever been more or less the custom, even in the
most civilized communities, to regard those individuals,
whose lives are devoted, and whose present
happiness is involved, in thus ministering to the
general pleasure, with any sentiment rather than
that of grateful respect; the evidence of this is to be
found in the actual moral rank assigned to such a
profession, and its cause is too often, doubtless,
attributable to want of character in the members,
and to that proverbial capriciousness which society
ever evinces in relation to those professedly devoted
to its diversion. The actual sympathy and respectful
consideration cherished and manifested by the
Italians for their favourite entertainment, and its
worthy children, is most interestingly obvious to a
stranger. It is, too, delightful to observe the conduct,
the effect, all the phenomena of an Italian
opera. Evening after evening we behold the same
countenances intently studious of the performance,
the same votaries luxuriating in melody, criticising
intonations—Epicureans at the banquet of Euterpe.
So well regulated is the police, and so genuine and
and quiet are effectually secured. The audience,
indeed, go thither to partake of an habitual gratification.
No sound but a brava spoken, as by one
deep voice, during a momentary pause, or the full
burst of general approval, interrupts the pervading
silence.
And what the general will of a people supports,
equally in the way of amusement as in the graver
concerns of life, must bear the impress of national
character, and for this, if for no other reason, should
merit respect. This is singularly true in relation to
the opera. Happy is that people whose taste has
induced, whose discrimination has improved, and
whose characteristic interest well sustains this morally
beautiful entertainment.
To define justly the surpassing charms of Italian
vocal music is indeed impossible; and yet, if in so
entrancing a pleasure as that derivable from this
source, self-analysis be practicable, perhaps it will
be discovered that in this, above most other species
of melody, all the faculties are gratified. The ingenious
combinations and intricate art delight the
mental perceptions, its unanticipated variations and
undiscernible power and facility of development
captivate the imagination, while passion is excited
by the imperceptible encroachments of its enchanting
harmony over the empire of the heart. There
is indeed a kind of universality in this singular, this
unequalled vocalism. The heart often beats with
swell upon the air, an elevating sense of grandeur is
awakened by the deep tones of a sacred choir, and a
national air or household stave, by the force of association,
will electrify the auditor. Yet something
of all these effects, and something beyond and above
all of them, can faithful introspection detect in the
bosom agitated, soothed, inspired by the higher
efforts of an Italian professor.
To the susceptible student of its influences, the
opera, in its perfection, is a poetical representation
of the deep things of life; of those passions which
operate most powerfully and universally in the human
heart, of that mysterious and intricate connexion
between motive and action, sentiment and thought,
imagination and truth, which, in its development,
constitutes the living poetry of our being. Such an
one understands the mental experience of Alfieri,
who says that the plots of some of his best tragedies
were conceived while listening to the grand opera.
And what medium like music—music with all its
depth and pathos, all its subtlety and infinity of expression,
all its spiritual magnetism, for portraying
to the heart its own indescribable capacity of feeling?
And what an order of talent is that, which can successfully
wield the power of expression requisite
for a genuine opera-performer!
The votary of imaginative and intellectual happiness
finds in this pleasure a satisfaction similar in
kind, though much more exalted, to that which the
combining the elements of matter. There is the
same eager delight, which springs from the vivid
knowledge acquired only by searching and successful
experiment; but it is experiment upon self, not
that which developes the anatomical relations of the
body, but that which lays open, by a beautiful process
of excitation, the delicate machinery of the
inner and unseen being; it is the yielding up of
one's native sentiment to the heavenly sway of the
deepest melody, till its elements dissolve and combine
in all the purest and most perfect forms of
emotion. How palpable to the heart becomes its
capacity of love, in all its endless modifications, and
how keenly brilliant to the imagination shine its
own magic energies, when both are bathed, excited,
dissolved within the limitless scope of deeply undulating
music!
MY HOME ABROAD.
For all around without, and all within,
Nothing save what delightful was and kind,
Of goodness favouring and a tender mind
E'er rose to view.”
How much to be commiserated is he to whom not a
line of the poetry of human nature has been directly
revealed; who has never been lured from the sterile
pathway of isolated pursuit, by a flower that smiled
up to him, or a murmur that fell soothingly upon
his ear; whose mind has never been charmed into
blessed self-forgetfulness, by the consoling activity
of native sentiment. It was but the impulse of inalienable
human feeling which led Sterne to say, that
if he were in a desert, he would love some cypress;
and baffled, indeed, must be his spirit who has wandered
to and fro in a peopled world, and found no
child of humanity whose companionship and affection
could recall the simple joyousness of early and
unsophisticated being. How much does the pleasure
of a sojourner in the fairest lands depend upon
upon the immediate social influences by which
he is surrounded, upon his home abroad! How different
will be the aspect of external nature and the
impressions of social or moral phenomena, to the
wanderer who looks forth from his own solitary
consciousness, and to him who views them through
the loop-holes of a domestic retreat! This is not a
merely speculative suggestion, as I propose to illustrate,
if the reader will but pass, in fancy, to the favourite
city of Italy, once the scene, and at present
the witness of Lorenzo de Medici's authority and
enterprise.
The high and dark buildings which line the narrow
and flag-paved street, running from the Piazza
di Colonna to the Mercato Nuovo, render its general
aspect peculiarly sombre; yet at the season when
the fiery solar influence is at its height, it is truly
refreshing to turn from the dazzling heat of the open
squares into these shady by-streets, so characteristic
of the cities of southern Europe. The second range
of apartments of one of these edifices was occupied
by a family whose fortunes received their downfall
under the Napoleon dynasty. The comfortable and
quiet seclusion adapted to their condition, succeeded
a more brilliant, but perhaps less happy establishment.
At the close of a winter's day spent in the
delectable employment of inspecting `lodgings for
single gentlemen,' I found myself settled in one of
the front rooms of this building—the domicile I had
As I sat musingly before a cheerful wood fire, my
reverie was interrupted by a gentle tap at the door;
and scarcely had the entrate passed my lips, when
it quietly opened, and the presiding goddess of that
little world was before me. The countenance of
Antoinetta exhibited features so beautifully regular,
that even when in perfect repose, they would bear
the most critical persual. But it was when lit up
by a cheering smile, playing over and enlivening
their bland expression, such as they wore when she
thus broke in like sun-light upon my misty daydreaming,
that the witchery of her eye and the pleasantry
of her air, exerted their full power. In the
sweet accents of her native tongue, she bade me good
evening, adding that she had thought the Signor
might feel solitary, and had brought in her muslin
work to sit an hour with him. How thankfully he
accepted the proposition need not be related. The
converse of that evening sufficed for our mutual understanding.
For, be it known to you, kind reader,
that the social, like the physical atmosphere of Italy,
is wonderfully insinuating; one discovers his adaptation
at once. The Italians seem to know intuitively
the latent points of sympathy between themselves
and those with whom they come in contact;
a short time serves, either to convince them that
their acquaintance never can become a friend, or to
make him so almost immediately. Nor is this all.
Let a genuine Italian discern but the glimmerings of
and, if there be aught noble within you, the very
alacrity with which you are trusted, will secure it
from abuse. My fair padrona was betrothed to a
countryman then in Britain, and her mother had
resigned to her the duties of housewife, while she,
Italian-like, devoted her more mature years to the
exercises of religion, and to basking in the sunshine
of imaginative enjoyment.
The Countess was a genuine specimen of a Tuscan
lady of the old school. She still retained sufficient
matronly comeliness to attest her youthful
beauty, and her habits and conversation clearly evidenced
the cultivation of a naturally good mind, and
the urbanity of a kindly spirit; yet withal was there
the strict devotion of the Catholic, and the never
absent enthusiasm of the Italian. There was a dignified
earnestness and grace in her manners, which
almost insensibly inspired respect and interest. I
could not but mark the different results of a convent
education upon the mother and daughter. The faith
of the former was fixed thereby, while the latter
used to tell me that, until her twelfth year, having
lived chiefly in a nunnery, she was truly una angiola;
`but,' she added, `when I came into the world,
I saw that much of what I had been made to believe,
was una bagatella; I saw I had been imposed upon,
and so I don't think much of the whole matter.' A
commentary this upon any thing like hood-winking
in early education! The mother earnestly sympathised
remnant of former days, was her much-loved and
constant theme. Her early and affectionate interest
in me was at first unaccountable, until I learned the
romantic sentiments with which the very name of
American was associated in her mind. Her ideas
on the subject were derived, in no small degree, from
the novels of the Seconda Valter Scott, as she called
Cooper, the translations of which she had eagerly
pondered; and prejudice not a little strengthened her
partiality, for she declared that the Italians were
abused by the French and despised by the English.
But there was yet another cause for the good lady's
maternal regard:—for I was ever spoken of as nostra
Enrichino and bambino di case, epithets, as the Italian
scholar is aware, of no small endearment—she had
conceived the idea of making me a Catholic; and if
she failed, I was learned a beautiful lesson in the art of
proselyting, worthy of the pure spirit of Christianity.
Methinks I see her now, that ardent votary of the
church, as, her eye lighted up with fervent feeling, she
poured forth, in measured and liquid accents, her elo-quentappeals.
Nor can I recall but one instance when
zeal betrayed her into an impatient expression. A
Capuchin friar drew crowds to the cathedral, for
many days of the holy week, and his harangues were
the subject of general eulogium. His whole appearance
betokened the practical devotee of the Romish
faith. His coarse robe was girded about his waist
by a rope, and the cowl being thrown far back, displayed
in withering lines, the marks of premature age; the
hair fell thinly over high temples which shaded a
face incessantly wearing an expression of anxious
despondency. He would walk to and fro, in the
marble pulpit, ever and anon prostrating himself
before a crucifix, and imploring inspiration, or lean
over and earnestly address his audience. To this
priest the Countess would fain persuade me to repair,
that I might inquire and be enlightened. She
described his benignant spirit, his self-sacrificing
piety, and finally his literary attainments. To evade
the suggestion, I spoke of my comparatively slight
acquaintance with the language, and my consequent indisposition
to attempt controversy with so finished a
scholar. She surveyed me intently, and, at length,
half-mournfully, half-reproachfully, exclaimed, ecco
il diavolo. But the usual tenor of her efforts was
so disinterested, and marked by such delicate consideration,
that I respected, spontaneously, her advocacy
of the views she deemed so vitally true and
important. Indeed I loved to listen to the voice of
so gentle a controversialist, modulated by the true
spirit of human kindness, and inspired by an unaffected
interest in a stranger's welfare.
There was a delightful characteristic in these specimens
of woman in Italy; taste was subordinate to
sympathy. With all their love of the beautiful—
the idea of suffering most immediately and permanently
awakened their affections. They were never
of their apartments; and I soon discovered
that it was the view of his tears shed over a letter,
which revealed to them the cause of his prevailing
sadness, that first drew forth their kind regard. My
quondam friend was one of that most curious species
of the genus homo, found in Italy—an artist,
who had nurtured a natural propensity to silent musing
by three years of loitering in the sunny air of
Italia. Inexplicable to them was what they called
his melanconia, and vain my asseverations
that it was merely a constitutional habit; no; children
of emotion as they were, it was confidently referred
to some disappointment of the affections, and
all their kindly energies were bent to win my
moody amico to hilarity. Nor were their efforts in
vain. My lodgings soon became his favourite resort;
and few things drew him so effectually from his
abstraction as the vivacious chat of my affable
hostesses.
I have ever taken a kind of Epicurean delight in
the observation of my species; but here, it was intellectual
character which had been prominently displayed;
there, I learned many a beautiful lesson in
the chapter of human sentiment and feeling. The
icy partition of cautious reserve through which one
is frequently obliged to mark the heart's workings
in colder latitudes, is, in that genial region, dissolved
by their very intensity. I could sometimes almost
fancy myself gazing through the vista of years upon
of feeling vibrating so directly to the spell
of music, the eloquence of art, or the impulse of
poetic sentiment. I recognised, as never before,
Which 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies
Of nature, 'mid her plants and weeds and flowers,
And silent overgrowings, still survives.”
Happily, then, was I located for experimenting in
a new field of my favourite study. The Countess
instructed me in the enthusiasm of faith; the Contessina
in the poetry of life; to the one I expressed
my impressions of Italy as she is; and my reverence
for her as she was; to the other I spoke of her
absent betrothed, and brought votive offerings gleaned
from the bouquets of the flower-girl. How have
I seen them start, and pale as the solemn chant of
the morté, or the toll of the Campanile—broke indistinctly
upon the ear, amid the cheerfulness of our
evening coteries;—how have I read the varying
scenes of a drama typified in the meaning and rapid
changes of their expression! Under their espionage
did I wander through the verdant precincts of
the palace garden, and gaze upon the ceremonial and
the féte, and they interpreted to me the local characteristics
of the place and people. And so weeks
and months glided on; how swiftly! Twice, in
preparation for departure, was my portmanteau taken
Countess started back when she beheld it with a sorrowful
exclamation, and it was consigned to its former
repose. At length the spring had fairly opened, and
there was no excuse for delay. And shall I attempt
to describe the feelings with which I left `my
home abroad?' No, it were a vain endeavour—for
it would require a full delineation, with more than a
painter's fidelity, of the several elements which
combined to render it a home; but, while all this is
waived in detail, it is embalmed in an affectionate
memory; yet not altogether in vain, gentle reader,
will you have taken this glimpse, if it serve to
brighten in your mind, severer portraitures of the
Florentines of the nineteenth century.
A SICILIAN POET.
When youth is most attractive—with a look
He won my favour.'
I had threaded the ever-bustling street of the Toledo,
in the city of Naples, and satiated, for the time
being, my passion for observation, in glancing at the
motley specimens of humanity so characteristic of
the over-populated cities of Europe. The splendid
equipages of wealth, hard pressed by the low carts
of the market venders; the gaily-accoutred exquisites
of the metropolis; the coarsely clad peasant;
the maimed and wo-begone mendicant; the buffoons
and the soldiery; the dark-robed priest and the bewildered
stranger, combine to render this a scene
unequalled for the contrasts it presents, and the
sounds of which it is redolent. These contrasts I
had gazed upon till the eye and the heart were alike
weary; these sounds I had endured till their deafening
noise was insupportable; and entering the
Coronna di Ferro, a tratoria, renowned for its
to discuss mine, and eschew, for a while, the
ceaseless confusion of the grand strada.
My neighbour at the table proffered a kindly
word, and I turned to mark him. He was a young
man of graceful mien, with the dark eloquent eye of
the country, and his pale complexion and expression
of thoughtful intelligence betokened an intellectual
character. `Voi siete Inglese, Signor? he
inquired. `No,' I replied, `Sono Americano;'—at
the word his eye brightened, and a sentiment of
romantic interest seemed to excite him. He spoke
enthusiastically of Washington and Franklin, and
insisted upon an adjournment to his lodgings. I
found him to be a Sicilian by birth, and a poet by
profession. He was very curious to learn the extent
of the liberty of the press in America—and
when informed, was in alternate raptures and dejection;
the idea of such freedom transported him, but
the thought of his own political relations soon subdued
and saddened his spirit. He struck his hand
despondingly upon a pile of manuscripts, the publication
of which the censors had prohibited, on the
ground of their liberality of sentiment. Pacing the
room, and exclaiming enthusiastically at my descriptions,
the poor bard seemed ready to throw himself
into the first vessel which could convey him from a
land so favourable to the inspiration, and inimical to
the development of the divine art. I was interested
restricted muse. He was deep in the study of Natural
History, and was devoting himself to the poetical
illustration of this subject, reserving visions of
liberty for the especial subjects of his unwritten
poetry. Upon parting, I gave him a volume of
selections from Byron, as he was studying the English
tongue: he pressed the bello regalo to his
heart, and promising to write, embraced me, and we
parted.
MODERN ITALY.
As we admire the beautiful in death.
But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already;
Twice shone among the nations of the world
As the sun shines among the lesser lights
Of heaven; and shalt again.”
The manners and morals of Italy, like the same
characteristics of other countries, are sometimes condemned,
without discrimination, even by intelligent
as well as virtuous men. Yet not only should the
general fact, that the intercourse of travellers is usually
limited to the extreme exemplars of the population
of a country, be kept in view, in judging of
character in Italy; let it be also borne in mind that the
choicest spirits of a nation, in such a political condition,
are often found only in the shades of retirement
at home, or enduring voluntary exile in a foreign
land. `Character,' says a distinguished authoress
`is an instinct; it is more allied with nature than the
understanding; and yet circumstances alone give men
the opportunity of developing it.' And to the sojourner
in Italy, who marks the unfolding of this
in that inner tabernacle of life which we
call home, will be revealed such qualities of humanity
as are rarely, if ever, known in equal freshness
and beauty. The modern Italian character is
far more intimately associated, in my mind, with
the memory of acts and sympathies of rare urbanity
and friendliness, than with the by-way specimens
of imposition and mendicity, with which travellers
seem to delight in interlarding their journals. He
who, in estimating character, attaches due importance
to what have been philosophically denominated
the affective powers, will scarcely dwell despairingly
upon the characteristics even of the present
inhabitants of Italy. They are, in truth, the children
of feeling. And hence we find the uneducated
peasantry and artisans appreciating and relishing,
often most enthusiastically, the poetry and music of
their country. The modification of Petrarch's sonnets,
and their becoming popular simply in an oral
form, is a phenomenon explicable only on the ground
of a national taste and enthusiasm. Nor have these
general features ceased to be. Although `silent
rows the songless gondolier,' the stanzas of Tasso
are not forgotten in Venice, nor does Ariosto cease
to amuse the crowd on the Mole at Naples. If,
therefore, one who mixes with the multitude, adapting
himself sufficiently to their temperament and
modes of expression, who goes with them to the
opera and the festival, and, especially, is brought
a remarkable degree of the pure spirit of human
brotherhood, such as shall impress his heart and win
him from his prejudices, we think his experience
must be singularly unfortunate.
Certain it is, indeed, that the intellectual charms,
the religious graces, the native modesty, which are
the glory of the American female character, are
sometimes wanting; and yet, in frequent instances,
one cannot but feel baffled in an attempt to point
out their opposites. There is often a rich and perfect
susceptibility without any great depth of sentiment;
there is a spirit of affectionate kindness, but
its extension is seemingly a kind of constitutional
habit; there is a pride without true dignity, and an
open, playful, genuine nature, which yet we are almost
persuaded, but for undoubted evidence, to brand
as habitual affectation. Let one imagine loveliness
combined with unrestrained and unrestrainable spirit,
illumined with passionate feeling, and seconded
by a language whose very accents are poetic, and a
manner frank, and from its intrinsic peculiarities,
interesting, and he may have a faint conception of
an Italian beauty. Let him portray to himself a
vivid and restless imagination, over whose magic-working
energies no moral control presides, and into
whose brilliant images no meditative colouring enters,
an intellect too active and inconstant for intense
or elevated action, a heart exquisitely alive to every
faint impression of sympathy and love; in a word, a
of religion, unnerved by the holy sinews of christian
principle, and yet glowing, restless and energetic,
and he may arrive at an inadequate but not
incorrect idea of a species of female character in
Italy.
General manners and morals are, indeed, proverbially
too loose, not to merit the condemnation of
the just observer. How far this is ascribable to the
political and physical peculiarities of the country,
an unprejudiced man cannot easily declare, while
candour compels him to confess that these palliating
causes exist. I have remarked, as a striking proof
of the want of intellectual resources among the Italians,
their sympathy for one who, from choice or
necessity, is even temporarily solitary. And the
importance which the mere conventional acts of life,
and the occasional intervention of amusement, have
acquired in their estimation, evinces the mournful
absence of more worthy and truly valuable employments
both for the time and intellect.
Let it ever be remembered, in view of the present
moral and social condition of Italy, how early the
`fatal gift of beauty' provoked those predatory incursions
which have so despoiled her shores, and
neutralized her nationality. How often have the
glittering ranks of an invading host gleamed, like a
meteor of ill omen, amid the mists of that mountain
barrier, which nature has interposed between her
favourite land and the surrounding nations!
The history of Italy, in the middle ages, is a detail
of successive contests, internal and foreign, the only
result of which seems to have been the settling down
of the political being of the whole country into a
kind of hydra-despotism—a government shared by
foreign princes, ecclesiastical rulers, the inhabitants
(and their representatives) of the several states.
During the long twenty years of Napoleon's domination,
whether enduring the horrors of famine in besieged
Genoa, sacrificing to the Moloch of war upon
the plains of Lombardy, or sending the flower of
her army to perish amid Russian snows, she was
courting martyrdom only to secure a change of masters,
or minister to the ambition of the ascendant.
It is perhaps impossible for a visitor of the present
day, to realize that this land has indeed been the
scene of such constant, severe, and unsuccessful warfare.
The peace which has been enjoyed by other
countries of the globe—a peace no less fruitful of
general prosperity and general intellectual growth,
than void of the ever active causes of commotion—
with such a tranquillity Italy seems never to have
been blessed.
There are, indeed, few problems more difficult to
solve satisfactorily than the prospects of this country,
as regards its vital interests. The several states,
if united and penetrated by a just revolutionary
sentiment, would advance towards independence as
rapidly and certainly as the moral circumstances of
the people would permit. But this is very far from
aspect of the present most clearly indicate. There
is Austria, on one side, jealous of her foothold in
this devoted land, and, perhaps, of all their political
sufferings, none is more galling to the Italians, than
the insulting presence of Austrian soldiery, an evil
which the Pope, as a measure of self-defence, is continually
encouraging. Then the corroding internal
divisions, which seem stronger and more baneful in
proportion to the motives for union, are an awful
barrier to the enfranchisement of the whole country.
Such, too, is the power of the priesthood, and their
influence over the women, that through them the
existence of any liberal sentiment is almost immediately
made known, and its extension prevented.
Indeed, this mutual conspiracy, for, viewed in reference
to its operation, it merits no lighter name,
between the two classes of community from which,
according to nature and truth, the chief purifying influence
should proceed, constitutes the spring which
embitters and undermines all excellence, individual
and political.
But a deeper cause, and one involving every
other, is discoverable in the want of intelligence
and moral sentiment among the people. In short,
while the liberalizing spirit and improving influences
of the age, have to some extent become diffused
in Italy, while we see distinct indications of
the decline of ecclesiastical power and ignorant superstition,
the English and French courts to gain experience
in the art of good government, we cannot but feel
that Italy is not yet virtuous enough to maintain the
forms or evolve the moral glory of genuine national
freedom.
There are times when the American visitor is
simultaneously impressed with the social and moral
pre-eminence of his native land and the local attractions
of this; and is thus led to think of them in
comparison with each other. In such a view it is
impossible to lose sight of the several causes which
have combined to form the present moral atmosphere
and intellectual spirit of the two countries.
In Italy, ages of barbarism and warfare, gradually
changing to a more refined existence, produced a
brilliant period of chivalry and art, and then, amid
despotic influences, acting upon a national constitution,
and in a country peculiarly exposed to their
worst effects, brought in the present form of society.
With us the bracing air of freedom, alive with the
higher impulses to action, teeming with moral motive,
elevating knowledge and religious enthusiasm,
naturally created a moral constitution presenting almost
a complete contrast. What cause for wonder,
if, destitute of a free arena, the ambition of a young
Italian of the present day is merged in a frivolous
passion for amusement? If, when the sublime motive
of a national spirit is wanting, men think within
women, looked upon as the victims, and not aspired
to as the honours of the other sex, cease to value the
virtues which are their highest, but most unappreciated
ornaments?
THE LAST SOJOURN.
Forever! Yet, methinks, I could not go,
I could not leave it, were it mine to say
Farewell forever!”
Milano! why is thy very name suggestive of so
many and such affecting associations? The luxuriance
and fertility amid which Napoli is reared, the
mellow air of antiquity that broods over the Eternal
city, Firenze's picturesque beauty, Venezia's unique
aspect—these attractions are not thine. Assuredly
in thy sister cities there is more to interest, more to
admire, more to delight a retrospective ideality.
True, at the coming on of evening, one may gaze
unweariedly upon the equipages of thy nobility and
the beauty of thy daughters, as they pass in dazzling
succession along the Corso, and wonder not that
thy modern conqueror called thee his second Paris.
True, thy splendid marmoreal cathedral, with its
clustering spires, its countless statuary adornments,
its magnificent proportions and Gothic solemnity—
true, thy cathedral is a tabernacle wherein to linger,
with the corse of Carlo Borromeo, in its crystal
coffin, is a marvellously gorgeous sepulchre, and
the broad white roof above, whence the eye glances
over the blue range of distant mountains and verdant
plains of Lombardy, is no ordinary observatory.
And then, again, one who loves to lose himself in
mystic musings, may stand in the bare and deserted
refectory of Santa Maria della Grazia, and ponder
the mouldering remnant of Leonardo's genius,—
tracing the fretted outlines of the forms and faces
revered, that are clustered around the `Last Supper;'
and if it rejoice one to behold the very poetry of
physical life radiated from inanimate matter, he may
note the sinewy forms, nervous limbs, distended
nostrils, and arching necks of the bronze steeds at the
Simplon Gate; ay, and one may beguile an hour at
the Gallery of Art, were it only in perusing the
countenance of Hagar, as she turns away from her
home at the bidding of Abraham, as depicted by the
pencil of Guercino; or study the relics preserved
in the Ambrosian Library; or sit, on a festa day, beneath
the spreading chestnuts of the public gardens,
surrounded by fair forms and gay costumes, while
the air is rife with the inspiring instrumental harmony
of the Austrian band. But is it the memory
of such ministrations alone that makes the thought
of thee, Milano, what it is to me? No: I revert with
fondness to thy level precincts and mountain-bound
environs, because there the air of Italia was last
there was my last sojourn in Italy.
The lapse of a few hours in Milan, sufficed to
indicate that something unusual was occupying and
interesting the public mind. The caffés echoed the
tones of earnest discussion; shrugs, nods, and expressive
gesticulations were lavished with even more
than Italian prodigality; dark eyes beamed with
expectancy; the favoured votaries of amusement
had something like a business air about them; the
tradesmen loitered longer in by-way converse; the
journals teemed with eloquent and controversial articles;
pamphlets were distributed, and placards
posted. You might have deemed that the period so
vividly described by Manzoni when the Milanese
were agitated by the factions which contended so
long and warmly, years gone by, about the price
of bread, had returned, but that the prevailing
language of the present popular feeling was that of
pleasure—of enthusiasm, rather than passion—of
common anticipation, rather than discordant interests.
An American might have augured, from the
signs of the time, that a strongly contested election
was proceeding; and a Parisian would probably have
discerned the incipient elements of a revolution; but
the cause of the excitement was such as could produce
similar visible effects no where but in Italy;
and no one but an Italian, or a familiar denizen of
the land, could perfectly appreciate the phenomena.
The title-page of one of the newly issued publications
the bottom of the social agitation; `La Malibran
à Milano'—yes, the renowned Malibran had been
unexpectedly engaged to give three representations
of an opera, in which Pasta---the beloved of the Milanese,
had been performing with what they deemed
inimitable excellence. Long before the period designated,
the boxes of the Scala were secured; and
many an ardent sojourner, and unprovided native,
anxiously awaited the period when the other parts
of the house would be thrown open for general and
indiscriminate appropriation.
When at length the eventful evening arrived, the
descending chandelier revealed an impatient multitude
that, five hours previous, had taken possession of
the parterre. Maria Louisa was a prominent occupant
of the court box; and Pasta, in the intense interest
of the occasion, leaned over and followed with a
keen gaze, the form of her rival, till it disappeared
behind the scenes. Throughout the brilliant assemblage,
convened in that splendid edifice, there was
alternately profound silence or resounding acclamations;
and five times, at the close, did the bravissima
donina obey the call, and come forth to receive
their rapturous plaudits. It was with a melancholy
emotion, almost oppressive, that I remembered, on
leaving the house, at the close of the last evening,
that for me this beautiful magic was to cease. I felt
that harmony, such as never before blessed my ears,
was to enliven me no more; that, like a summer
wafted its odorous perfume, it had awakened its
note upon the harp of the spirit, and had flown on
to cheer some other and more distant sojourner.
Awhile before the Diligence started, I once more
entered the cathedral. The noon-day sun was streaming
through the stained glass of the windows, and a
few priests were chanting at the altar. Scating myself
beneath one of the lofty arches, and viewing again
the gothic grandeur and rich tressil-work around
me, I yielded to the overwhelming reveries of the
hour. I could not but feel that a few days of rapid
movement would take me, perhaps forever, from a
land which had calmly but deeply ministered to my
happiness, and gradually but surely gained upon my
love. There was an earnest reluctance, a rebellion
of the strong desires, a painful intermission in the
cherished train of emotion, at this renouncement of
objects endeared by taste and habit. But especially
did my thoughts cling sadly and tenaciously around
what previous ideas and native sentiment had prepared
me most readily and fervently to love—humanity.
I felt that if the social activity and predominance
of mental endeavour which characterize
my own country were wanting here, yet that I had
known and experienced much of the true spirit of
fraternity, much of intellectual enthusiasm and generous
sentiment. I thought of the many hours of
quiet and innocent enjoyment, the instances of social
kindness, the offices of sympathy, and the spiritstirring
of living joy in a young but anxious breast. I
realized in this hour of parting, how near and dear
the scenes and gratifications of Italy were to my
heart. The moral weaknesses and errors of the land
were not, indeed, absent from my mind; but, with
the thought of them, came also that of their causes,
their palliations, and hopes for their subjugation under
auspices fitted to cherish and develope the talent
and feeling worthy of human nature.
At about mid-day we departed, and were rapidly
carried along the rich plains, looking greener and
more fertile as we approached their termination.
Towards dusk the mountains rose sublimely in the
distance, and the beautiful and still surface of Lago
Maggiore was brilliantly revealed in the light of a
full moon; this landscape, indeed, feasted our eyes
during the early part of the night's ride, and fled
only when the broken slumbers obtainable in a Diligence,
veiled or rendered introspective our visions.
On leaving Domo d'Ossola, a scene was presented
in every respect a contrast with what the preceding
day's ride had displayed. Rugged mountains, snow-capt
and rock-bound, now rising abruptly, and now
gradually declining, here unclothed with aught umbrageous,
there supporting the clinging firs, sometimes
moist with dripping springs, and at others,
exhibiting a dry unbroken surface of granite. The
cold bleak points, hoary with snow, were ever above
us, the murmuring of falling water continually audible,
mountain, winding vale and chainless rock,
ever and anon, attracting the eye. Attention, too,
was often and irresistibly withdrawn from this chaotic
scenery to the immense product of human art,
of which we were so securely availing ourselves.
The precipices on either side, the rough-hewn grottoes
through which we passed, the ever-varying and
yet ever wild and solitary aspect of all around, evidenced
that we were upon the Simplon. For some
time after the moon had again arisen, the foaming
waters of the Rhone were seen glancing like molten
silver in her beams. After leaving Martigny, the
Pissevache fall was in view; its misty and graceful
form, even at that early hour, crowned with rainbow
hues; and beyond St. Maurice, another beautiful
object appeared—a long fleecy cloud, resting, spirit-like,
upon the centre brow of a lofty mountain. Ere
long, the broad and blue waters of Leman were in
sight, and our course lay along its shore, by the
castle of Chillon, and the villages of Vivey and
Lausanne. From the succeeding dawn until our
arrival at Geneva, we were riding in view of the
lake, rich and flower-decked meadows, beautiful villas,
and far-away, white and towering, the `awful and
sovran Blanc' met the eye, to kindle imaginative
visions of grandeur; to transport the beholder into
the beautiful valley at its base, within hearing of its
water-falls, and full in view of its congregated sublimity.
So magic-like did the versatile and effective
that it was not until the contrasted and magnificent
insignia of Switzerland thus completely
environed us, and the impressions thence derived
became continuous and absorbing, that I felt that
the staff of my pilgrimage was indeed reassumed,
and my sojourn in Italy ended.
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