 | Rambles and reveries |  |
SKETCHES.
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.
THE CHOLERA IN SICILY
Which close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wall its stroke.”
Halleck.
In the modern history of pestilence, there are few
records which can parallel, for scenes of horror and ceaseless
havoc, the course of the cholera in Sicily during the
summer of 1837. For many months previous to the
outbreak of the disease, the commerce of the country had
been essentially diminished, by a series of rigid and absurd
quarantines; and so obstinate are the people in
their belief that the complaint is contagious, that they
still persist in ascribing its appearance in their capital
to the introduction of contraband goods from Naples,
where it was then raging. Notwithstanding these precautionary
measures, no preparation was made in case
they should prove unavailing, so that when the dreaded
enemy arrived, the ignorance and poverty of the lower
orders, and the utter absence of remedial arrangements
awful energies. A still more shameful cause of the fatal
triumph which it subsequently achieved, is to be found in
the pusillanimous conduct of the physicians and agents
of police, many of whom fled at the first announcement
of danger. For weeks the multitudinous precincts of
the city presented naught but the trophies of disease and
death. In many instances the bodies were thrown into
the streets; and not unfrequently from the carts which
removed them, might be heard the groans of some poor
wretch prematurely numbered among the dead. As a
last resort, the galley slaves were offered their liberty upon
condition of burying the victims; but few survived to
enjoy the dearly purchased boon. The strength of the
poor nuns finally became inadequate to transporting the
rapidly increasing bodies to the gates of the convents,
and these asylums were necessarily broken open by the
becci. These wretches nightly made the circuit of the
deserted streets, by the light of numerous fires of
pitch, kept burning at long intervals, with a view of
purifying the air. They sat upon the heap of livid
corses piled up in their carts, stopping at each house
where a light glimmering in the balcony indicated that
their services were required. Entering without ceremony,
they hastily stripped the body, and placing it on
the cart, resumed their progress, generally singing as
they went, under the influence of intoxication or unnatural
excitement. Arrived at the Campo Santo, their
burdens were quickly deposited in huge pits, and the
same course repeated until sunrise. It is remarkable, that
in this way, but three fell victims to the cholera.
The low situation of Palermo, surrounded as it is by
high mountains, and built nearly on a level with the sea
doubtless augmented the virulence of the disease. During
several days in July, a strong sirocco wind prevailed;
and no one who has not experienced the suffocating and
dry heat of this formidable atmosphere, can realize the
complete lassitude it brings, both upon mind and body.
Engendered amid the burning sands of Africa, even its
flight across the sea chastens not the intensity of its heat.
It broods over the fertile valley in which the Sicilian
capital stands, with the still and scorching intensity of
noon-day in the desert. The laborers crouch beneath
the shadow of the walls in weary listlessness. The
nobility take refuge on the couch or in the bath. The
paper on the escritoir curls in its breath like the sensitive
plant at the human touch; and vases of water are constantly
filled beneath the piano-forte, that the thin case of
the instrument may not crack asunder. The fresh verdure
of the fields withers before it, and the solitary streets,
at the meridian hour, proclaim its fearful presence. The
occurrence of a sirocco soon after the advent of the
cholera, greatly augmented its ravages. Literally might
it be said, that the pestilence came on the wings of the
wind; and, unlike its course in other countries, it primarily
attacked foreigners and the higher class of natives.
But a few days prior to its appearance, I left Palermo
for the other side of the island. The spring had been
unusually fine. Daily excursions, at that luxurious
had made me familiar with the rich scenery of the `golden
shell.' The same friends whose society enlivened these
excursions, brightened the conversazione with pleasant
intercourse and kindly interchange of feeling. It was
with something of a heavy heart that, on a brilliant day,
I gazed on the fast-fading outline of a prospect interesting
from its intrinsic beauty, and endeared by habit and
association. A young countryman, who had been my
companion for many months, bade me farewell at the
mole. We parted with many assurances of a pleasant
meeting in a few weeks on the same spot, to enjoy
together the festivities of St. Rosalia—the great national
festival of the Palermitans, and one of the most splendid
in Europe. As we glided out of the beautiful bay, my
eye ranged along the palaces which line the Marina, till
it rested instinctively upon the hospitable mansion of the
American Consul—a gentleman whose home taught probity
and application, and whose attachment to the principles
of his country and the persons of his countrymen
never swerved during more than twenty years' residence
amid the enervating influences of the South. I knew
that in that mansion, there was at that hour a gathering
of social spirits, and remembered the kindly pleasantry
with which the host had interposed his consular authority
to prevent my departure, in order that I might make one
of the guests. I turned to Monreale, perched so picturesquely
on the mountain range above the town, and
gazed upon the bold promontory of Mount Pelegrino,
rising like the guardian genius of the scene, in solitary
could trace the neat promenade upon which I had so
often walked, unconscious of the passage of time, as the
tones of friendly converse soothed my ear, or the passing
glance of beauty cheered my sight. And as we were
rounding the last point and fast losing sight of every
familiar object, I caught a glimpse of the ancient and
noble dome of St. Guiseppe, beneath whose shadow was
the dwelling of one whose melody had often stirred my
weary pulse, and still rang sweetly in my memory. At
length the distant mountains covered with mist, alone
met my eager view. The night wind rose with a solemn
wildness, and the gloomy roar of the sea chimed in with
the shadowy tenor of my parting thoughts. But the idea
of soon revisiting the pleasant friends and favorite haunts
I was quitting, soon solaced me; and the next morning,
when I ascended to the deck, and found our gallant vessel
cleaving the blue waters before an exhilarating breeze
and beneath a summer sky, cheering anticipations
soon usurped the place of unavailing regret.
A few long summer days, and what a change came
over that scene of tranquil fertility and busy life! They
whose smiling adieus seemed so significant of a speedy
reunion, were no more. The youth whose manly
beauty and buoyant spirits I had so often noted on the
promenade and in the ball-room—the leader in every
plan of social amusement, the first to start the humorous
thought, and the last to prolong the joyous laugh; he
whose prime found every energy at the height of action,
and life's plan widening with success; and the fair
sweetest impress of woman's dignity, as her voice was
attuned to the softest and most intelligent expression of
woman's mind—all, as it were, struck out from the face
of the earth—gone from the freshest presence of Nature
and the thoughtful scenes of an absorbing being, to the
dark and solitary grave!
Of a population of one hundred and seventy thousand,
according to the last census of Palermo, within the space
of two months, thirty-seven thousand were swept off:
and within the city, the number of interments in a single
day, when the disease was at its height, amounted to
three thousand five hundred. Appalling as is the bare
mention of such details, they are less calculated to shock
the imagination and sicken the heart, than many of the
subordinate and contingent scenes attending the pestilence.
There is such a mystery and superhuman destructiveness
in the rise and progress of a fell contagion,
that the mind is awed as at the solemn fulfilment of a
divine ordination. But when the unrestrained and
savage play of human passions mingles with the tragic
spectacle of disease and death, absolute horror usurps the
place of every milder sentiment, and we are ready to believe
that the pestilence has maddened the very soul, and
despoiled humanity of her true attributes. To understand
the scenes of violence and atrocity which were
almost of daily occurrence during the existence of the
cholera in Sicily, it is necessary to remember the circumstances
and temperament of the people. Perhaps in no
spot of earth do the extremes of civilized and savage life
island. Scattered over the kingdom, there are countless
beings in a state of ignorance and poverty which, but
for ocular proof, we should suppose could not co-exist
with the indications of social refinement observable in
the principal cities. These unhappy victims of want and
superstition possess passions which, like the fires of ætna,
break forth with exhaustless energy, and when once
aroused, lead to consequences which it is impossible to
foresee or imagine. Crushed to the earth by exorbitant
taxation, and every national feeling insulted by the
galling presence of a foreign military, it is scarcely a
matter of surprise that when the long-dreaded cholera
appeared among them, aggravated in its symptoms by
the climate, and every moment presenting the most harrowing
spectacles in the streets and by the way-side, they
should readily adopt the idea that their oppressors had
resorted to poison, as a means of ridding themselves of a
superfluous and burdensome population. Nor are there
ever wanting in every country, designing men, who,
from the basest motives of self-aggrandizement, are ready
and willing to inflame the popular mind even to frenzy,
if, in its tumultuous outbreak, their own purposes are
likely to be subserved. Such men are neither restrained
by an idea of the awful machinery they are putting in motion,
or the thought of their eventual danger; desperate
in their fortunes, they re-enact the scenes of Cataline,
and few are the epochs or the communities which can
furnish a Cicero to lay bare their mock-patriotism and
bring speedy ruin upon their projects, by exposing their
outrages which took place in Sicily in the summer of
1837, it would scarcely be credited as a true record of
events which actually transpired in the nineteenth century;
and while indignation would be deeply aroused
against the acts themselves, a new and more earnest protest
would be entered in every enlightened mind against
the barbarous abuses of political authority—the long, dark,
and incalculable evils for which despotism is accountable
to humanity.
In many places, the cry of “a poisoner!” was sufficient
to gather an infuriated mob around any person
attached to the municipal government, or upon whom the
absurd suspicions of the populace could with the slightest
plausibility, fix. The unfortunate and innocent individual
thus attacked, immediately found himself at the
mercy of a lawless crowd, in whose excited faces, flushed
with a stern and ferocious purpose, no hope of escape
was to be read; he was frequently struck to the earth,
pinioned, and dragged, by means of a long cord, through
the streets, the revengeful throng rushing behind with
taunts and imprecations. In more than one instance,
the heart of the poor wretch was torn out before
the eyes of his friends. The fate of one of these
unhappy victims to popular fury was singularly awful.
He was one of the middle order of citizens—a class
among whom was manifested more firmness and mutual
fidelity, during the pestilence, than in any other; for the
nobility, pampered by indulgence into habits of intense
selfishness, and the lowest order, driven to despair by the
ties of parentage and the claims of natural affection, children
abandoning parents, and husbands wives, with the
most remorseless indifference. But among that industrious
class, in which the domestic virtues seem always to
take the deepest root and to flourish with the greatest
luxuriance, there were numberless unknown and unrecorded
instances of the noblest self-devotion. It was to
this rank that the unfortunate man belonged, and his
only daughter to whom he was tenderly attached, having
been carried off by the cholera, in the hope of saving his
own life and that of his two sons, they left the city and
fled towards Grazia, a town in the interior. Before they
reached their destination, the father was attacked by the
disease, and it became necessary to seek refuge in the
first convent. Here his sons nursed him for several days,
until, being slightly affected with symptoms of the malady,
the elder returned to Palermo in order to procure medicine
and other necessaries. During his absence, an old
woman whom they employed as a laundress, discovered
in the pocket of one of their garments several pills composed
of Rhubarb and other simple substances, which had
been procured in the city to be used in case of emergency.
She immediately displayed them to the peasants in the
vicinity, declaring her conviction that the invalid was a
poisoner. This evidence was sufficient. They rushed
to the convent, drew the sick man from his bed, and beat
him unmercifully. Meantime some of the party collected
a quantity of straw and wood, and binding the younger son
upon the pile, set fire to it before the father's eyes, whom,
and burned them both alive. Soon after, the elder son
returned, having received medical advice in Palermo
which entirely restored him. Surprised at finding his
father's room vacant, he inquired for his brother of a little
boy, who replied by leading him to the spot where the
charred remains lay; his violent demonstrations of grief
soon attracted attention; his relationship to the two victims
was discovered, and nought but the timely interference
of an influential individual residing near, saved him
from sharing their fate.
The cholera appeared in Syracuse early in July.
About the middle of that month, strong indications were
manifested on the part of the people of a disposition to
revolt; and the public authorities were convened to
deliberate on the subject. There is no question that in
this place the fears of the multitude were excited by designing
men. The shop of a bread-seller was forcibly
entered, and several loaves paraded about the streets as
poisoned, doubtless with the express purpose of collecting
a mob. This was soon accomplished, and the disaffected
throng next proceeded to the residence of an
apothecary, upon whom their suspicions fell, and, having
taken him to the public square, murdered him. The
Commissary of Police next fell a victim to their fury.
The Intendant, hearing that the mob were approaching,
made his escape by a by-lane, and applied to a boatman
to convey him beneath the walls of the citadel. The
boatman refused, and he was obliged to fly to the country.
His pursuers, however, soon discovered the direction he
to a cavern called the Grotto, whence he was drawn and
dragged into the city, where, after suffering many outrages,
he was murdered before the image of the patron saint.
The next morning the Inspector of Police, his son, and
several other citizens, lost their lives. An old blind man
was seized upon, and threatened with death if he did not
give up the names of his accomplices. To save his life,
and doubtless prompted by some malicious persons, he
gave a list of respectable citizens, most of whom were
instantly seized and put to death. Meanwhile, similar
sanguinary proceedings were making many of the minor
towns of the island scenes of outrage and blood; and as
the populace of Syracuse grew emboldened by success,
they published and circulated a proclamation addressed to
their countrymen, commencing “Sicilians! The cholera,
that dreadful disease, which has so long been the terror
of Europe, has at length found its grave in the city of
Archimedes,” &c. going on to attribute it to poison, and
calling upon their countrymen to eradicate it by removing
the government which introduced it.
Towards the last of July, a report was spread in Catania,
that Major Simoneschi, of the gendarmerie, had taken refuge
in the monastery of the Benedictines, and that he
was a distributor of the poisons which had desolated Naples
and Palermo. A crowd collected under the direction
of several individuals of the rank of lawyers, brokers and
mechanics, who assaulted the monastery, but not finding
the person they sought, soon dispersed. As no notice
was taken of these proceedings by the civil authorities,
days, attacked the police and other public offices, in order
to possess themselves of the weapons there deposited.
On the same day, the manifesto of the Syracusans arrived,
was immediately reprinted by the rebel Catanese and sent
off to Messina with a band to excite a mob there also.
The town, however, was then under the protection of a
civic guard; and all attempts to excite disturbances were
vain. On the same evening, the Catanese arrested the
Intendente, Procuratore Generale, and the commander of
the gendarmerie, as persons suspected of distributing poison,
and confined them under guard in the house of one
of their nobility. They then formed a Council of Security,
and raised the yellow flag in token of Sicilian Independence.
The Intendente and Procuratore were forced
to swear allegiance to the new government, and were
then set at liberty—although their freedom was all but
nominal, as they were kept under the strictest surveillance.
The garrison, being small and inefficient, was soon disarmed.
An original manifesto was published, declarative
of the good deeds and purposes of the rebels. The bells
of the churches were taken from their towers to be moulded
into cannon. The pictures of the royal family were
collected from the various public edifices and demolished,
the statue of Francesco torn from its pedestal, destroyed
by order of the government, and the revolutionary standard
displayed in its place.
The slight opposition with which these movements in
Sicily were met by the representatives of the government,
indicates the frail tenure by which Naples holds dominion
adopted to quell the disturbances, new scenes of horror
succeeded. The Marquis Del Carretto was commissioned
by the King to make the circuit of the island and inflict
summary justice upon all implicated in the recent transactions.
This officer appears to have been singularly
fitted for his sanguiary vocation. Had the victims to
martial law whom he caused to be sacrificed, been confined
to the conspicuous among the mob, or even to such as
had openly identified themselves with the violent deeds of
the populace, we might consider him in some measure
justified by the circumstances and occasion, in making
such an example as would prevent the farther effusion of
human blood.—But many an act of the most aggravated
tyranny and cruel proscription perpetrated by Del Carretto,
under the pretence of restoring public order, will long
be remembered with indignation.
There is a class of educated Sicilians, and chivalrous
youth, who have cherished the hope of effecting the independence
of their country, by means and at a period altogether
different from those, into which the pestilence precipitated
the fiery hearts of the less informed and the deluded.
In the midst of the various and contending revolutionary
elements then convulsing Sicily, there were not
a few noble, ardent, and truly patriotic spirits who saw in
the course of events consequent upon the cholera, a still
longer postponement of their dearest hopes—a still wider
chasm yawning between anticipated and realized freedom.
The unfitness of the mass for the boon of self-government
was made appallingly obvious. The gradual, healthy
The government, long jealous and anxious for an occasion
to inspire the people with fear, seized upon this moment
to remove the most influential advocates of free
principles from the pathway of liberty. If the revolutionists
availed themselves of the cholera to excite the multitude
against the government, the latter took no small advantages
of the excesses of the people to revenge themselves
upon the daring, intelligent and quiet promulgators
of those truths which lie at the foundation of all successful
innovation. Many a gifted young man was sentenced
to die in two hours, upon the bare evidence of having uttered
or written some expression indicating his hostility
to foreign dominion; and not a small portion of the flower
of the Sicilian youth were chased by a Neapolitan vessel
of war beyond Elba—rending the air, as they flew
before the breeze, with the glad strains of the Marsellaise.
One of the King's manifestos threatened with death all
who should believe in poisoning as the cause of the pestilence;
and his indefatigable deputy, who had volunteered
to avenge his cause upon the wretched Sicilians, passed
rapidly from city to city, holding levees for the adherents
of the crown, giving balls to the loyal ladies, confiscating
the estates of the refugees, and shooting, after the merest
mockery of a trial, all recognized ring leaders of rebellion
and every one who could, under any pretence, be suspected
of being a liberal.
One poor youth escaped death only by flight who had
been seen to applaud some patriotic sentiment rather vehemently
in the theatre; and the name of one of the best
on the bloody list merely on the dying testimony of one
of the victims, wrung from him by the hope of a reprieve.
After the lapse of a few weeks, public order was re-established.
The pestilence ceased. Del Carretto returned
to Naples. But it will be long before the melancholy
traces of these calamities will pass away from the island,
or the solitary places be filled. The King has since visited
his subjects, and a reconciliation has been effected.
Neither have their sufferings been wholly without political
benefit to the Sicilians. Many privileges have been acceded
to the different communities. New commercial
facilities have been afforded, onerous regulations abolished,
and the quarantine system revised. Nor can the
conduct of a part of the inhabitants have failed so as to
impress the government as shall henceforth command for
them more respect, and cause their just rights to be more
readily recognized.[1] One scene of which I was a witness,
was alone calculated to produce no transient impression.
As the news of the afflicting events which were desolating
the other parts of Sicily, reached Messina, it threw
the whole city into mourning. The arrival of the Palermo
post was expected with an eager and painful interest visibly
depicted upon the face of almost every passer; and at
all hours of the day, the Marina was studded with groups
whose auxious countenances indicated the one absorbing
subject they were discussing. But on one occasion,
the spectacle presented from the balconies, was by no
Health Office, which rises directly from the water's edge,
and were clamoring to the deputies sitting within, to send
instantly away a brig of war which had that moment entered
the port from Naples, where the cholera was then
raging, having been sent by the King, with clothing for
the troops, then quartered at Messina. The circle immediately
around the building consisted of the lower orders
of the Messinese—porters, boatmen and mechanics—
their disordered vestments, shaggy beards and fierce expressions,
giving them not a little of a genuine revolutionary
aspect. Behind these foremost actors in the
scene, stood a multitude of the better class, regarding the
movements of the rabble with simple curiosity or secret
approbation. The members of the Board of Health thus
found themselves in an awkward predicament. On the
one hand, they feared to disobey the royal order to receive
the clothing, and on the other they were threatened
with the vengeance of an exasperated populace. Their
reply, however, was indecisive; and so deep and vindictive
a murmur followed its annunciation, that the frightened
deputies deemed it best to effect their escape. With
this view, they sprang from the back door and crowded
into the boats which were drawn up on the beach, urging
their owners to push off, and promising their adversaries
in the rear that the obnoxious vessel should be forthwith
sent away. It was ludicrous to see with what a compromise
of dignity their escape was effected. Many of these
worthies rushed into the water above their middle, in order
to gain the boats. Their assurance of immediately complying
of triumph, and the crowd eagerly watched their progress
as they glided on towards the quarantine harbor. When
about midway, however, they suddenly veered and moved
rapidly towards the citadel, within whose protecting walls
they were soon safely ensconced. The rage of the people
when they found themselves thus deceived, was beyond
measure. They instantly attacked the deserted
Health Office with clubs, stones and every obtainable missile,
and in a few moments it presented a ruinous and
shattered appearance. Scores of boys, half clad urchins,
sprang through the windows like bees from a hive, bearing
the records, account-books and files of papers connected
with the establishment, which they deliberately tore into
fragments, scattered to the winds or threw into the sea,
which was soon whitened for yards around with the floating
masses. In the midst of the destruction, it was curious
to observe the behavior of the leaders of the tumult.
One of them carefully conveyed away several of the most
valuable articles, and deposited them in the hands of a
highly respectable and popular citizen among the bystanders.
Another took a silver lamp and threw it far
out into the water, that it might be evident that their object
was not to pilfer. One climbed to the front of the building,
and having calmly cut to pieces the inscribed marble
tablet, touched several times the king's arms which were
inscribed above and then kissed his hand, amid the responsive
shouts of the multitude; by this salutation implying
that they recognised the allegiance due to their
sovereign, and aimed vengeance only at the deputies.
place of the marble slab, thereby indicating that for the
preservation of the public health, they trusted wholly to
Heaven. Meanwhile, another leading spirit had raised
the royal banner at half-mast, at the opposite corner, to
suggest that the king mourned over the mal-administration
of his officers. At length the municipal authorities
fearing the consequences of further opposition to the public
will, ordered the brig to depart, and presently she stood
gallantly out of the harbor before a strong breeze. The
exultation of the populace at the sight of this movement
was without bounds. They abandoned the work of destruction
upon which but a moment previous they had
been so sagely intent, and ran along the shore beside the
ship, brandishing their sticks and shouting fuore! (away!)
until she had doubled the adjacent cape and disappeared.
It was a scene of no ordinary excitement; the steady and
swift course of the armed vessel silently gliding from the
bay under a cloud of canvass, and the eager crowd with
victory gleaming from their eyes, rushing on to hail her
exit. Never was a popular triumph more complete.
Later accounts however indicate but too plainly a renewal of
the most despotic and baneful policy.
THE CAPUCHIN OF PISA.
“Grey was his hair, but not with age.”
Anon.
For one inclined to a studious life, there is no more
desirable residence, in Italy, than Pisa. The calls of pleasure
and society which so constantly assail the student
in the capital cities, are far less numerous and exciting
here. Boasting the oldest university in Tuscany, Pisa,
with the downfall of her commercial importance, lost not
the attractiveness which belongs to an ancient seat of
learning. The reputation for military prowess, gained
by her brave citizens in the crusades, and the maritime
consequence she enjoyed in the primitive era, when small
vessels only were in use, are distinctions which have
long since ceased to exist. She sends forth no fleets of
galleys, as of old, armed with bold mariners panting to
destroy the Saracenic pirates. The Islands in the Mediterranean,
once tributary to her arms, now acknowledge
another master. Bloody feuds no longer divide her citizens;
nor has she ventured to dispute the empire of the
a memorable defeat in a naval combat with the Genoese,
under Admiral Doria. So great was the number
of her distinguished people who, in this and previous battles,
fell into the power of her formidable rival, that it was
a common saying in that age, that, `whoever whould see
Pisa, must go to Genoa.'
The edifices upon the right bank of the Arno, many of
them rich in architectural decorations, are built in the form
of a sweeping curve admirably exposed to the sun. In
these buildings are the best winter lodgings; and the
broad street forms a delightful promenade. Here the invalids
stroll at noon or evening, completely sheltered
from the wind; while about the adjacent bookstores the
literati lounge in the sun, to con a new publication, or
discuss some mooted point in science or belles lettres.
Sometimes on an autumn evening, when nature is in her
balmiest mood, and the walk filled with students, the several
bridges reflected in the river, and the avè Maria stealing
on the breeze, the scene is delightfully significant of
calm enjoyment. On a pleasant afternoon, as I noted
this picture from beneath an awning which surmounted
the door of a caffé, my eyes encountered those of a Capuchin
friar, who was sitting on the parapet opposite, occasionally
enjoying the same pastime, but more frequently
engaged in turning over the leaves of an old folio. The
members of this fraternity, usually seen in Italy, are very
unprepossessing in their appearance. Their brown robes
generally envelope a portly person, and the rough hood
falls back from a face whose coarse features bedaubed
than sanctity. This Capuchin, however, had an eye
which, at the first glance, seemed beaming with intelligence;
but, upon inspection, betrayed an unsettled expression,
such as might pertain to an apprehensive or
disordered mind. But the most striking peculiarity in the
monk's appearance, as he sat with his cowl thrown back
to enjoy the evening air, was the remarkable contrast between
a face decidedly youthful, and hair that exhibited
the grey of sixty winters. An effect was thus produced
similar to that observed on the stage, when a juvenile performer
is invested with one of the heavy powdered wigs
of the last century. It was as if youth and age were
miraculously conjoined in one person. The adolescent
play of the mouth, the freshness of the complexion, and
the careless air, bespoke early manhood, and were in
startling contradiction to the thick locks blanched almost
to snowy whiteness. The friar noticed my gaze of curiosity,
and advancing towards me with a good-natured
courtesy, proffered the curious volume for my inspection.
It was truly a feast for a connoisseur in black-letter
and primitive engravings—one of those parchment-bound
church chronicles which are sometimes met with in Italy,
filled with the most grotesque representations of saints
and devils. The Capuchin it appeared, was an amateur
in such lore; and this his last prize, had just been bought
of a broker in similar matters, who had long watched for
him on the promenade as a sure purchaser of the worm-eaten
relic. Most patiently did he initiate me into the
mysteries of the volume, apparently delighted to find so
and especially on account of the pictures, that he prized
the book; and my wonder was increased by the general
knowledge and worldly wisdom displayed by this member
of a brotherhood noted for their ignorance. Perhaps he
interpreted my curiosity aright, for when we had turned
over the last leaf, he proposed an adjournment to his convent,
that I might view his collection of ancient tomes,
an invitation I was not slow to accept. His cell was at
the corner of the monastery, and commanded a fine view
of the surrounding country on the one side, and of the
river and city on the other. It was neatly furnished, and
not without ornament. He pointed out several bookshelves,
and evidently enjoyed the surprise with which I
read the titles of works usually found in the libraries
of men of taste, but seldom known in the dormitory of the
priest. At length, he raised them en masse, and what I
had deemed a little library, proved but an ingenious imitation.
Beneath the painted boards was disclosed the veritable
collection of the poor Capuchin—a few vellumbound
volumes, chiefly refering to the theology of his
sect. I was not a little interested in the quiet humor thus
displayed by this singular brother of a gloomy fraternity.
His cheerful eye was at variance with the dark, rough
robe, and coarse rope which bound him. His little room
was furnished with a view to the enjoyment of the occupant;
and, judging by the fine old Malaga with which he
entertained me, not without the means of indulgence. I
could not but fancy the feelings which must sometimes
visit him as he gazed from his secluded nook upon the
one of the many equipages start from the adjacent square,
bearing hearts intent upon re-union with the loved in the
place of its destination, or youthful spirits eager for the
excitement and adventure of a distant tour, has he not
sighed for a share in the blessed ministry of the affections,
or panted to throw himself into a more expanded sphere
of experience? or, if sincerely deeming all earthly friendship
vain, and all knowledge of the world unholy, in musing
at sunset over the richness, the silent and varying
beauty of that lovely landscape, has he not momently
caught the inspiration of nature's freedom, and felt that
the breezes of heaven are not less chainless, by Heaven's
ordination, than the spirit within him? The Capuchin
understood and interrupted my reverie.
“Signor,” said he, “I perceive you are surprised at
the obvious want of harmony between my character and
my destiny. You think the friar's garb does not altogether
become me, and wonder how it is that so youthful a
brow should be shaded by hoary locks. I will endeavor
to explain the apparent anomaly, if you are disposed to
listen to a brief recital. A Corsican by birth, I reached
the age of sixteen without clearly understanding the word—
responsibility. My life had flown on beneath the paternal
roof, unmarked by vicissitude, unembittered by sorrow.
My education was intended to prepare me for a naval life,
and, as far as theoretical knowledge is important, perhaps
it was not valueless. I had acquired, too, some dexterity
in the management of such small craft as ply about the
Mediterranean coast. But no duty had ever been imposed
and if at times, I was deep in mathematical
studies, or intent upon displaying my nautical skill when
a storm had lashed our bay into a foam, it was my native
love of excitement rather than any settled principle of action,
which prompted my exertions. I was regarded as a
spoiled child, and the rebukes to which I was, in consequence,
subjected, aroused my indignation more deeply
than corporeal punishment often does that of less ardent
beings. On one occasion, when smarting inwardly from
a taunting reproach my father had bestowed, I suddenly
resolved to flee, if it were only to prove that I could depend
upon myself, and be indeed a man. Such resolutions
doubtless abound at that age, and are not unfrequently
acted upon. With a few louis-d'ors in my purse,
I embarked for Marseilles, and after a few weeks' stay in
that city, found myself without money or friends, and prevented
by pride from revealing myself or my situation to
any one. Want, however, was fast undermining my resolution;
and one bright morning I walked towards the
quay, hoping to discover some Corsican captain who would
convey me home. As I stood near one of the docks,
glancing over the shipping, I observed a man whose vestments
were those of a dandy mariner, rapidly pacing the
wharf. His keen gaze soon fell upon my person, and, at
the next turn in his promenade, he abruptly clapped me
on the shoulder, and, pointing to a neat brig with Sardinian
colors in the offing, asked my opinion of her build
and appearance. As I had been an observer of vessels
from early boyhood, I answered him with frankness, introducing
him that I was no novice in such matters. When I had
concluded; `my lad,' said he, `I am the supercargo of that
craft. Ask no questions, navigate her to Corsica,
and this is your's,' shaking a purse before my eyes.
Without hesitation I accepted the proposal. Mindful of
my immediate necessities, and elated at the idea of entering
our harbor the recognised commander of so fine a
vessel, I banished all doubts of my capacity, trusted to fortune
to carry me safely through the enterprise, and springing
with alacrity after the supercargo, into a boat, soon
stood with all the pride of youth mantling in my cheek,
upon the quarter deck of the Maria Teresa. Several
Jews were clustered about the mainmast, awaiting our
arrival to secure their passage. They offered to make
up what was deficient in the cargo, by shipping several
cases of liqueurs, and agreeing to pay liberally, the bargain
was soon closed. It was arranged that we should
sail at sunset; and leaving the supercargo at his desk in
the cabin, I hastened on shore to atone for my recent abstinence.
The commencement of our voyage was highly
prosperous. After several days, having been blest with
clear weather, and favorable, though light breezes, I began
to congratulate myself upon my success, when, one
afternoon, there appeared along the horizon, indubitable
tokens of a coming storm. I knew not precisely where
we were, though I had concealed my doubts on the subject;
and as night approached, a strange feeling of melancholy
came over me. I leaned over the bulwarks, watching the
ominous masses of clouds, and listening to the heavy and
I was under, began to oppress me. Misgivings
crowded upon my hitherto resolute mind; and, at
length, a presentiment of evil took entire possession of
my fancy. Inexperienced, and prevented by false pride
from exposing my fears, I bitterly repented of the task I
had undertaken. I felt, however, that it was now too late
to retreat, and observing an old sailor casting an eye of
curiosity upon my anxious countenance, I suddenly determined
at all hazards, to maintain the character I had assumed.
The wind increasing, before dark every thing was
snug on board, and at midnight it blew a tempest. The
brig, heavily laden as she was, ploughed wearily through
the waves, every timber creaking as she flew before the
wind. Sometimes it seemed impossible she should rise
after a plunge so convulsive, and a pause so awful. My
heart beat with agonizing suspense, till I felt the quivering
fabric slowly lifted again on the billow, to dive once more
madly on her way. The mast fell with an awful crash,
and for a second, the crew stood astounded, as if the vessel
herself had burst asunder; but, when the extent of the
mischief was discovered, they worked on assiduously as
before. We were scudding under a reefed jib, and I
stood braced against the companion-way, awaiting, with
mingled feelings of awe, perplexity, and hope, the crisis
of the storm. Encouraged by the firm bearing of our
gallant bark, I began to think all would eventuate happily,
when a flash of lightning revealed to me the old mariner
on his knees by the forecastle, the other sailors standing
in terror and dismay about him, and the Jews huddled together
even the raging elements seemed not to divert. At the
same moment a strong smell of sulphur filled the atmosphere.
Conceiving a thunderbolt had struck the brig,
and scarce knowing what I did, I rushed forward, and
seizing the foremost Jew with a savage grasp, `base Israelite!'
cried I, `are you the Jonah?' Trembling, he
sunk upon his knees, and implored me for the love of
Abraham, to spare his life, confessing they had stowed
a quantity of aqua fortis in the hold. The mystery was
explained. The jars of sulphuric acid had broken in the
heavings of the vessel, and their contents mingling
with the silks and woollen stuffs, produced combustion.
The sailors already abandoned themselves to despair. In
vain I ordered, supplicated and reviled. They lay in supine
misery, calling upon the Virgin, and giving themselves
up as lost. O the excitement of that hour! Years
appeared concentrated in moments. I seemed endowed
with an almost supernatural energy, and firmly resolved
to stretch every nerve and sinew for preservation. With
no assistance but that of the cabin boy, who alone listened
to my orders, I threw off the hatches. A tremendous
cloud of steam rolled up in thick volumes. Half suffocated,
we proceeded to throw boxes and bales into the sea;
saturated with the acid, they fumed and hissed as they
struck the water. Our hands and clothes were soon terribly
scorched; yet with breathless haste we tailed on,
while the lightning flashed with two-fold vividness, and
the gale raged with unabated fury. The sailors finally
came to our aid; and after many hours of incessant exertion,
on the deck. The darkness was intense, and as
we lay, still tossed by the tempest, a new and horrible
fear entered our minds. We apprehended that we were
drifting towards the Barbary coast, and should be thrown
on shore only to be cruelly murdered. The horrors of
such a fate we could too easily imagine, and with torturing
anxiety, awaited the dawn. It was then that I vowed,
if my life was spared, to dedicate it to St. Francis. The
horrible scene of that night had revolutionized my nature.
The danger passed like a hot iron over my soul. My
previous life had been a pastime. This first adventure was
replete with the terrible, and its awful excitement penetrated
my heart. An age seemed to exhaust itself in every
passing moment of our painful vigil. We gazed in silent
suspense towards the east. There an ebon mass of vapor
hung, like a wall of black marble. At length, a short,
deep, crimson gush, glowed through its edge. Slowly the
sun arose, and displayed to our astonished and gladdened
eyes the farthest point of Sardinia. How we entered
the harbor unpiloted, was a mystery to us as well as the
hospitable inhabitants. From the vessel we hurried to
the church, to render thanks to the Virgin for our deliverance.
I threw my cap upon the pavement, and knelt at
the first shrine. My companions uttered an exclamation
of surprise. The intense care and apprehension of that
night of terrors, had sprinkled the snow of age amid my
locks of jet.”
SAN MARINO.
And watches from the shore the lofty ship
Stranded amid the storm.”
Wallenstern.
The ancient Via Emilia is still designated by an excellent
road which crosses Romagna in the direction of
the Adriatic. It traverses an extensive tract of fertile
land, chiefly laid out in vineyards. As we passed through
this rich and level country, the occasional appearance of
a team drawn by a pair of beautiful grey oxen and loaded
with a reeking butt of new wine, proclaimed that it
was the season of vintage. But autumn was not less pleasingly
indicated, by the clusters of purple grapes suspended
from cane-poles at almost every cottage-window, and by
the yellow and crimson leaves of the vines, that waved
gorgeously in the sun as far as the eye could reach, like
garlands with which departing summer had decorated the
fields in commemoration of the rich harvest she had
yielded. The single companion who shared with me the
open carriage so well adapted for such a jaunt, was a
being quite familiar with every nook and feature of the
surrounding country, he endeavored to amuse me by
pointing out all objects of interest with which we came
in view. Here was a little chapel under whose walls a
notorious thief concealed an immense treasure, and when
the term of his imprisonment had expired, returned and
disinterred it. There was the Devil's bridge, so called
because it is said to have been built in a single night.
This veteran beggar, distinguished from the mendicant
group of the village by the erect air of his emaciated
figure, was a soldier under Napoleon, and has now roamed
back to his native town, to live on the casual alms of
the passing traveller; while that stout and well-clad man
who succeeded, with the loss of a thumb, in arresting a
formidable bandit, is living snugly on a pension. The
shallow stream over which we are now passing is believed
to be the Rubicon. You gay contadina with large silver
ear-rings, whose laugh we hear from the chaise behind, is
a bride on her way from church; and that white and
flower-decked crib which a peasant is carrying into his
cottage, is the bier of a child. It was only at long intervals
that the agreeable though monotonous scenery was
varied to the view, and within the precincts of the towns
scarcely a single pleasing object could the eye detect, to
counteract the too obvious evidences of human misery.
In all the Papal villages, indeed, the same scene is presented.
At every gate the traveller is dunned for his
passport by an Austrian guard, whose mustaches and cold
northern visage are as out of place in so sunny a region,
Cod, or annoyed by the wretched inheritor of one of
the noblest of ancient titles—a Roman soldier, clad in a
loose, brown, shaggy coat, who after keeping him an hour
to spell out credentials which have been read a score of
times since he entered the territory, has the effrontery to
ask for a few biocchi to drink his health at the nearest
wine-shop. When, at length, one is allowed to enter and
hurry through the dark, muddy streets, no sign of enterprize
meets the gaze, but a barber's basin dangling from
some doorway, a crowd collected around a dealer in vegetables,
or, if it be a festa, a company of strolling circus-riders,
decked out in tawdry finery, cantering round to
collect an audience for the evening. No activity is
manifested, except by the vetturini who run after the carriage,
vociferating for employment, and the paupers who
collect in a dense crowd to impede its progress. In the
midst of such tokens of degradation, planted in the centre
the square, rises a statue of some pope or archbishop in
bronze or marble, with tall mitre and outstretched arm;
and, as if to demonstrate the imbecility of the weakest
and most oppressive of Italian governments, around the
very pedestal are grouped more improvidents than would
fill a hospital, and idle, reckless characters enough to corrupt
an entire community. There is something peculiarly
provoking in the appearance of these ugly, graceless
statues, which are so ostentatiously stuck up in every
town throughout the Pontifical states—the emblem of a
ruinous and draining system, which has reduced these
naturally fertile localities to their present wretchedness,
The inclined head, and arm extended as if in the act of
blessing, is a benignant, humble posture, in ridiculous
contrast to the surly soldiery and countless mendicants,
who seem to constitnte the legitimate subjects of Papal
favor. Rimini is one of the most ancient of these appendages
to the Roman states, and boasts of a few antiquities,
with which the traveller can beguile an hour,
while some of the excellent fish fromthe adjacent bay, are
preparing for his supper. Upon the principal piazza, a
large palace, which presents nothing without but a broad
front of mutilated brick-work, and within is newly fitted
up in modern style, is pointed out as the former dwelling
of Francesca di Rimini, whose singularly melancholy story
constitutes the most beautiful episode of Dante's Inferno,
has been dramatized by Silvio Pellico, and forms the subject
of one of Leigh Hunt's most graphic poems. If the
visitor endeavors to recall to his mind the knightly splendor
which, at that epoch, the scene before him presented,
and a strain of martial music swell upon the air as if to
aid his fancy, the illusion is quickly dispelled when, instead
of a company of gallant courtiers, an Austrian regiment
in plain uniform winds in view, marching from
the parade ground to their quarters. On a fine October
morning, I resolved to escape awhile from scenes thus
darkened by despotism, and make an excursion to a spot
still hallowed by the presence of freedom. The approach
to San Marino is through a pleasant and fertile country,
and a small bridge indicates the line which divides the
republican territory from Rimini. After crossing this
the surrounding fields more variegated, displaying numerous
small oaks and elms, clumps of olive trees, and
patches of yellow cane. In many spots, well clad and
hardy looking women were breaking the glebes in the
newly-ploughed land, to prepare it for the reception of
grain or vines. Nothing can be more picturesque than
the site of the town. It is built upon the summit of a
hill which presents an almost perpendicular cliff to the approaching
traveller, the rocky face of which is relieved by
a grove of chesnuts whose autumn-tinted leaves waved in
umbrageous masses among the grey stones. As we
draw near, it struck me as a most appropriate eyry for the
“mountain nymph, sweet liberty.” The very air seemed
instinct with freedom, and every step along the winding
road to bring us to a region of more elevated and
bracing influences. As we thus approach, let us trace
the history of a spot which, amid the countless vicissitudes
that involved in ruin every other community in
Italy, preserved through so many centuries, the name and
privileges of a republic.
The remarkable mountain upon which the town of San
Marino is built, was anciently called Titano, perhaps in
reference to certain gigantic bones found buried there,
but more probably in allusion to its isolated position
as if thrown on the plain by one the fabulous giants
of antiquity. It retained this primitive appellation until
the ninth century. On one side, it presents a beautiful
line of hills rising in picturesque gradation, and on the
other, a dissevered cliff surmounted by an abrupt wall of
petrified shells and valuable mineral springs, some of
which enjoy considerable celebrity for their sanative qualities
among the inhabitants of the surrounding districts.
This spot thus favored by nature, might have remained
unknown to fame, had not a certain Dalmatian by the
name of Marino, a lapidary, come to Rimini, and having
occasion to visit Titano, where he discovered abundant
materials for his art, found it no less adapted to afford a
retreat from persecution and a fit retirement for a tranquil,
free, and religious life. Favored by the archbishop of
Rimini, he established himself on the mountain, and was
resorted to on account of his benevolence and piety, till
the number of the faithful who became attached to the
place induced the formation of a settlement and the erection
of a church. Marino was believed to work miracles,
and soon became renowned. By the eleventh century,
agreeable to the universal system of defensive structures
forming throughout Italy, the republic was in a measure
fortified by the rearing of a castle. The zeal of the people
in effecting this object is no small evidence of their attachment
to freedom, which is not less signally indicated
by the remarkable and at that period unique inscription
placed upon their church—DIVO. MARINO. PATRONO. ET
LIBERTATIS AUCTORI. During the succeeding age, in
consequence of the increasing population, the inhabitants
of Il Castello, as the summit was called, divided, a portion
descending to the first table land now called Il Borgo.
About this time, rose into power some of those mighty
families who so long and fiercely tyrannized over Italy.
these despotic rivals, especially the Feltreschi, Malatesti
and Faggiuoli, and, although frequently involved in
the most trying dilemmas, preserved its love of liberty
and its actual independence. In the twelfth century, when
the warfare between the adherents of the Emperor and the
Pope, convulsed the Italian states, although San Marino
was in a much happier condition to enjoy the benefits for
which some contended in the struggle, it was long before
the demon of faction invaded the peaceful precincts of
the republic. The archbishop Ugolino gave the spirit of
party, birth. He was a violent Ghibelline. His ardor in
the cause attached many to him, and when the people
subsequently purchased of the neighboring barons land to
accommodate their increasing population, he succeeded
by means of priestly influence, in becoming a distinct
party in the contract, evidently with a view to obtain
some feudal authority and join temporal to spiritual power.
Thesame attempt was made, on a similar occasion, by his
successor. The inhabitants were well identified with the
Ghibelline party, and when it was overthrown in Romagna,
afforded a secure asylum to its members and most
illustrious leader in that region. Toward the close of
the century, while Hildebrand reigned, Teodorico, the
bishop, proceeded to levy certain church tributes upon all
the provinces, including San Marino. Upon the republicans
asserting their independence, an examination of
their claims to the distinction resulted in his withdrawing
the demand, and acknowledging by a public decree, the
entire liberty of the republic. This is one of the earliest
and is the more remarkable from having occurred at a
period when the authority of the church was so profoundedly
reverenced, and her officers so unwearied and importunate
in their exactions. A like attempt to impose taxes
was made soon after by the neighboring podestas, and
upon a similar refusal being returned by the republic, the
subject was referred to a solemn trial, according to the
practice of the times. At this examination, it appears
that not only were the facts of their history questioned,
but the leading men catechized even upon the metaphysical
basis of their rights, being asked “what is liberty?” and
sundry other abstract problems; but their historian, with
characteristic partiality perhaps, declares that the honest
republicans were not in the least puzzled or confounded,
but exhibited an extraordinary strength and clearness of
purpose, as well as a singular unanimity of feeling, on
this memorable occasion. The result, however, was a
declaration against them, and a formal assertion of the
right to tax on the part of the church and other authorities.
Whether this right was ever enforced is very doubtful, but
from the endeavor never being repeated, the inference is
that the parties either from respect to the people or from
motives of policy, were content with merely asserting
their claims. The simple majesty of its political character
seems to have proved remarkably efficacious, even at
this early period, in securing for San Marino a degree of
consideration wholly disproportionate to its diminutive
size.
Early in the fourteenth century, the supreme magistrate's
Defender, and because of the abuse of the latter in Italy,
the former was ultimately alone retained. At this period
commenced a series of difficulties with Rimini, induced
by clashing interests and rival jealousies. The
annalist of the epoch is at great pains to show, that the
connection between the various powerful families of the
neighboring territory and the republic, was simply a mutual
league implying no subjection. This assertion is
confirmed by the singular fidelity manifested by the
people towards friendly barons. The threat of excommunication
failed to make them abandon a certain feudal
lord, who fled to their citadel to escape the vengeance of
Pope John. It is proved also, by several existing documents,
that their relations with the Feltreschi and other
distinguished families who have been supposed to have
exercised feudal authority over San Marino, were merely
those of friendly alliance. Thus they appear to have
been wholly exempt from temporal dominion, and as to
spiritual, the assumption of cardinal Andrimini, in 1368,
was withdrawn by solemn decree, and the bishop obliged
to disclaim publicly any intention of seeking authority.
Soon after, a more insidious enemy to the republic arose
in one of its own citizens, Giacomo Pelizzaro, who plotted
with the Podesta of Brescia and the archbishop of
Montefeltre; to deliver San Marino into their hands.
His plan was happily discovered before its execution.
He confessed and suffered death as a traitor.
During the succeeding era of private and bloody feuds,
San Marino, allied to Count Guido, was more fortunate
other alliances, by means of which, teachery or the exigencies
of the times could have so easily procured the republic's
ruin. A war with Sigismondi Pandolfo, Signore
of Rimini, ended in his downfall and an increase of their
territory, attested to them in 1463. Now, too, we find
the alliance of the little state sought by the larger and superior
principalities of Italy, a fact only to be accounted
for by the reputation it enjoyed for the character of its
institutions. In 1491, during one of those fitful intervals
of peace which occasionally blessed that age of war and
turbulence, among the meliorations of the civil code, we
find statues enforcing the immediate payment of public
debts, the proclamation of criminal sentences, the obligation
of the captains to procure as far as possible treaties
of peace and good fellowship, and prohibiting the flogging
of children under four years of age. At this time, some
of the warriors from San Marino gained much renown in
the battles of the age, and several men of distinguished
talents arose, among whom were two of the earliest commentators
of Dante. The republic appears to have been
singularly favored in her diplomatic agents. Her ambassadors
were most wisely selected, and to the firmness
and wisdom which marked their proceedings is to be ascribed
the almost miraculous escape of the state from embroilments
with other powers, and accounts, in no small
degree, for the remarkable esteem she gained in Italy.
A most dangerous era for San Marino was the time of the
infamous Cæsar Borgia, and for a limited space she
placed herself under the protection of the Duca del Valentino.
house of Urbino, she maintained to an almost
incredible extent, the favor of the church, and afforded a refuge,
often at great risk, to the many persecuted victims of
all parties. The spirit of faction and the priestly pretensions
which have ever been the bane of the Italian states,
too soon, however, induced a fatal dereliction from the
primitive patriotism and honest attachment to freedom.
Another cause of this decline, may be found in the influence
of some of those who sought an asylum within the limits
of San Marino. Refugees from all parties, they naturally
brought and disseminated much of the perverse and exciting
spirit of the times, among the less sophisticated inhabitants.
For these and other reasons, the commencement
of the seventeenth century found the people more
exposed than they had been to the subjection which the
agents of the Romish church so constantly and insidiously
endeavored to effect. An intriguer, according to history,
combining all the low cunning, ambition and ready
talent necessary to promote this object, soon appeared.
Alberoni being legate in Romagna, undertook to befriend
certain men who were suffering under the just awards of
the tribunal of San Marino. The republic, from the deep
conviction of the bad results produced by allowing justice
to be impeded by priestly intervention and commenditizie,
which custom had been grossly abused at that period,
made rigid enactments against it; notwithstanding which,
the haughty prelate insisted upon the privilege. The republicans
vainly explained and remonstrated; yet boldly
maintained their rights. Alberoni, by way of revenge,
and by cutting off their communication with the surrounding
country endeavored to produce a famine. At the
same time, his efforts were unremitted to seduce the most
ill-disposed of the citizens, and he succeeded in securing
the cöoperation of many traitorous abettors. Misrepresenting
them to the Pope and sacred college, and abusing
the authority vested in him by the pontiff, he artfully induced
that ruler to exert a special commission in his favor,
and under its shield endeavored to annex San Marino,
as forfeited, to the papal territory. At length, every
thing being prepared for the consummation of his vile
project, on the twenty-fourth of October, 1739, attended
by a band of his satellites, he passed through the Borgo,
and was even cheered by some of the infatuated citizens.
He entered the sacred temple dedicated to Liberty and
their Saint, where he smoothed over with subtle words
the nefariousness of his scheme; and Capitano Giangi
thus acknowledged his concurrence: “Nel dì primo di
Ottobre giurai fedeltà al mio legittimo principe della Republica
di San Marino; quel giuramento confermo e cosi
giuro.” Giuseppe Onofri repeated the same oath; but, Girolamo
Gori using the words of the Saviour—“let this cup
pass from me”—protested that he had not made one mark
of shame upon the face of the protecting saint, but would ever
exclaim “Evviva San Marino, evviva la Liberta!” These
words uttered with enthusiasm, were caught and repeated,
until they resounded through the holy edifice, re-awakening
the dormant patriotism of the people and striking fear into
the heart of the usurper. The functions were abruptly
left the church, he threatened the rebellious with death.
The faithful remained to concert measures for the safety
of their country. Perceiving that an immediate appeal
to force would be useless, they determined to represent the
case to the Pope and calmly await the result, meantime
using every means to reanimate the drooping spirit of
their fellow-citizens. Notwithstanding the age and imbecility
of Clement XII., he was just and benevolent,
and upon being informed of the facts, indignantly declared
that he had vested no authority in the legate to attempt obtaining
any ascendancy over the people of San Marino,
nor to interfere with their rights—but simply to exert a
spiritual influence and protection. To contravene the
base assumption of Alberoni, he despatched Monsignor
Napolitano, afterwards Cardinal, with power to re-establish
the good fame of the papal court, and secure justice to the
people. Between the usurpation of Alberoni and the restitution
of the republic, there was, however, an interregnum
of three months and a half. San Marino was restored
on the fifth of February, the day of the sacred virgin
Agatha. Shouts, prayers, tears of joy, and jubilee
in every form, announced the happy event; and the day
has since been observed as a festival. Alberoni's defence
of his conduct gave rise to some curious literary discussion.
The event redounded to the improvement of
the people, operating as an effectual check upon the passion
for intrigue, and to the honor of Clement, to whom
a monument was erected by the grateful republicans.
When the modern conqueror of Europe drew near the
liberties. Receiving most graciously the ambassadors
from San Marino, in an elegant address, he alluded to the
singular preservation of their freedom, and promised his
protection; at the same time offering to enlarge their possessions,
and tendering, as an indication of his respect
and good will, a present of two field-pieces. Monge, the
ambassador, made an eloquent reply, gratefully acknowledging
the courtesy of Napoleon and applauding his forbearance.
The people declined his offers and present;
but in commemoration of the occasion, added the 12th of
February, 1797, as another joyous anniversary, to the republic's
calendar.
The original government was simply paternal. The
laws sprang from necessity, were improved by experience,
and modified from time to time, according to the circumstances
and wants of the people. Two captains, one from
the signors and one from the citizens at large, are elected
every six months. No individual can be re-elected
oftener than once in three years. Thus all deserving the
honor, serve in turn. No prejudice exists with respect
to age, very young men being frequently chosen when of
great promise or proved worth. It is only indispensable
that the captains should be natives of the republic. The
legislative body consists of a council of seventy and
another of twelve. A judicial magistrate is also elected
triennially by the council. The state includes a circuit
of twenty-five miles, and its present population is between
six and seven thousand.
Such is a brief sketch of the history of San Marino.
remarkable perpetuity of its institutions, are doubtless
owing, in no small measure, to its insignificant size and
almost impregnable position. Still the place cannot but
possess a singular interest in the view of a pilgrim from
the New World, especially when its present condition is
contrasted with that of the rest of Italy, and more particularly
of the surrounding territory. A few humble domiciles
scattered along the lower ridge of the mountain,
and separated by a narrow and rugged street, constitute
“Il Borgo.” Thence, ascending by a circuitous path,
we soon arrived at a larger collection of houses which
form the capital of the republic. It differs not essentially
from similar Italian towns, except that the streets are narrower
and more straggling. The new church, just completed,
is a pretty edifice built of travertina, excavated
near by, after the design of Antonio Sara. The twelve
apostles in stucco, placed in niches, ornament the interior,
and near the altar is a handsome marble statue of
Saint Marino, recently executed by a Roman Sculptor.
He is represented holding a scroll, upon which the arms
of the republic (three towers surmounted by as many pens,
significant of the union of strength and wisdom) are
sculptured in bronze, with the word Libertas. This
edifice continues as in ancient times, the place of
elections as well as of worship. There is a little
theatre where dilletanti occasionally perform. I was at
some pains to enter this miniature temple of Thespis,
for the sake of standing in the only theatre in Italy
exempt from censorship, and where, although the audience
given to any sentiment or opinion which the people
choose to utter or applaud. Crossing a grass-grown
and solitary court near the walls, where four or five
cisterns alone gave signs of the vicinity of man, we
entered a small and time-worn building ornamented
by an old tower and clock, and ascending a narrow
flight of steps, were ushered into the council-room. A
few wooden seats scattered over the brick floor, upon
the back of which are rudely painted the arms of the republic,
surround an ancient chair covered with crimson
velvet, placed beneath a canopy of the same hue. A mutilated
picture of the Holy Family by Giulio Romano,
and a bust of their favorite ambassador, Antonio Honuphrio,
are the only ornaments of which the apartment
boasts. I had lingered, but a day or two previous, in the
magnificent halls of some of the Bolognese nobility, where
the silken drapery, rich marbles and splendid works of
art, weary the gaze. But this plain and unadorned chamber
possessed an interest which their profuse decorations
failed to inspire. It bespoke narrower resources
but a richer spirit. The presence of freedom seemed to
hallow every sunbeam that played upon the undecked
walls. Nor have mightier principalities disdained, in
our day, to recognize the little republic. Among its
archives are many communications from the several Italian
governments, the late king of Spain, and the present
king of France. Not long since, a prior being discovered
manifesting a disposition to intrigue beyond his appropriate
sphere, was bound, conducted to the confines
who are bound to second the executive and judicial magistrates.
The people, however, are distinguished for their
probity and peaceful habits. Most of them are engaged
in agriculture. The only peculiar trait observable among
them, is an inflexible attachment to their peculiar institutions
and an earnest spirit of freedom. But recently,
an archbishop whose province of duty properly embraced
two towns, one of which was San Marino, abandoned the
latter in disgust, because he could not induce the people,
on public ocasions, to salute him before their own rulers.
Every half-year, they go in a body to the church, and deposite
their vote for captains in a silvervase. The result
of the election is made known at evening, and they accompany
the successful candidate home, with torches.
Before leaving the town, I ascended to the old castle.
The walls command a most extensive and beautiful prospect,
embracing the plains of Lombardy, a broad sweep
of wild, undulating hills, the mountain of Ancona and the
waters of the Adriatic. It was a delightful pastime to sit
in the pleasant sunshine of autumn, and gazing from this
little spot of free earth over such a landscape, let the
imagination luxuriate amid the thrilling associations of
the scene. We found but one occupant of the prison.
The gate was opened by a pretty blue-eyed woman, the
wife of the gaoler, who follows the trade of a cobbler in
the belfry of one of the three towers. There is one horrid
dungeon where a traitor priest suffered a long imprisonment;
but the number of available cells is only three—
which speaks well for the general character of the people.
divides the republican territory from Rimini, a venerable
woman was leaning upon the parapet, her grey hair fluttering
in the wind, in earnest conversation with a hardy
stripling who stood at a short distance from her. He
was a political fugitive who had found safety within the
bounds of San Marino, and she was his mother just arrived
from a town in the vicinity to visit him. The incident
excited a pleasing train of reflections. San Marino
has rendered no small service to the cause of liberty,
by sheltering the many unfortunate victims of unsuccessful
revolution. For such she has ever a welcome. The
pope has been obliged to compromise with the republicans,
by agreeing that refugees from his territory
may travel unmolested for a certain period, with a
passport from the authorities of San Marino. This arrangement
has been eminently serviceable in protecting
the persons and rights of the liberals, and excited much
gratitude and respect towards the state. The setting sun
gleamed upon the summit of the mountain, as I turned
back to take a farewell glimpse of this little nestling-place
of freedom. I remembered the contented and happy
looks of the peasantry, and recalled the testimony
they all so cordially bore to the superior privileges
they enjoyed. I mused upon the remarkable preservation
of that isolated spot amid the unhappy destinies of the
land. I strove to impress the picturesque locality upon
my memory; and pleased my heart with the thought that
there was still one little green leaf in the withered crown
of Italy.
TURIN.
Stand sentinel'd with grandeur.”
Anon.
One of the circumstances which gives the traveller rather
painful assurance of his approach to the northern
confines of Italy, is that he finds himself once more ensconced
within that most comfortless of all locomotives,
except the lettiga of Sicily,—a Diligence. The straggling,
untrimmed horses, and harlequin-looking postilions
bobbing up and down most pitifully; the constant cracking
of the whip, and the lurching and shivering of the
clumsy fabric, are but the exterior graces which the
vehicle boasts. At night, the roof within is often hung
with baskets of provisions, and countless hats and bonnets
which dangle most disturbingly in the face of the
sleeping passenger; and when he has, at length, lost
himself in a pleasant dream, and commenced an imaginary
colloquy with some fair object left at the place of his
last sojourn, a sudden jolt pitches him upon his neighbor,
or an abrupt stoppage of the ponderous machine, rouses
execrating conducteur. It is, however, well that one
leaving the dreamy atmosphere of the South, should be
thus initiated into a more practical habit, and have the
radiant mists of imagination dissipated from his brain.
The Diligence is an excellent preparatory symbol of the
more utilitarian regions and prosaic localities, towards
which his pilgrimage tends. From the corner of one of
these minature arks—despite the grumbling of an old lady
by my side, the nap of whose lap dog I disturbed, and the
angry chattering of a parrot, whose pendant cage was vibrating
overhead—I succeeded, one afternoon, in withdrawing
myself sufficiently, to look from the window over
the surrounding fields. They presented a broad level
plain, covered with fresh green grain, which a band of
women, whose heads were enveloped in red cotton handkerchiefs,
were assiduously reaping. The air was still,
and the sky cloudy. A few trees, chiefly small poplars
and mulberries, rose here and there along the road. And
yet, meagre as was the natural scenery, it was a spot
abounding in interest. Thirty-eight years before, it was
the arena where contending armies battled for the possession
of Italy, and men were mown down as the grain, then
waving over their graves, fell beneath the sickles of the
reapers. It was the plain of Marengo. Near yonder
plantation of vines, Desaix took up his position. Across
these fields the French line stretched imposingly away.
And when the Austrians were so incautiously pursuing
their success, it was in the midst of this now deserted level,
that Napoleon met his brave ally, who, rushing forward
was hence, too, that the brave Melas, then more than
eighty years of age, considering the day won, and overcome
with fatigue, retired to Alexandria, only to hear in
a few hours, of his army's defeat. After this celebrated
battle, Turin became the metropolis of the French department
of the Po, and fourteen years after was restored to
Sardinia. It is not surprising that the young mind of
Alfieri was greatly impressed on entering this city. Its
broad, clean streets radiating from a common centre; its
airy arcades forming, like the passages of the French metropolis,
most agreeable promenades, and its cheerful aspect
may well captivate a stranger's eye. One scarcely
realizes, at Turin, that he is within the precints of an Italian
city. There is a modern look about the buildings,
an elegance in the shops and caffés, and altogether an air
of life and gayety, which brings Paris forcibly to mind.
Indeed, the proximity of this capital to France, neutralizes,
in no small degree, its Ausonian characteristics.
The language is a mixture of French and Italian; and
Goldoni found the taste here so strong for the French
stage, that, during his visit to Turin, he composed his comedy
of Moliere, to avail himself of the attraction of that
author's name. There are few finer public squares in
Europe than the Piazza del Castello, and no, more
beautiful prospect of its kind than that from the church of
La Superga, where the bones of the Sardinian kings repose.
The small number of paupers, and the frequent
instances of manly beauty among the military officers,
are peculiarly striking. Sometimes, beneath the porches,
with garlands and tapers, headed by a fat priest
chanting the burial service. The neighborhood of the
Alps is disagreeably indicated by the number of women
seen in the streets with goitres. They come, for the
most part, from the base of Mt. Cenis and Susa, where
this disease is very common, and still attributed by the
common people, to the chill the throat constantly receives
from the extreme coldness of the water. We are reminded
of old Gonzalo's query in the Tempest:—`Who would
believe that there were Mountaineers dew-lapp'd like
bulls, whose throats had hanging at them wallets of
flesh?' Turin is the coldest city in Italy. The circumadjacent
mountains are scarcely ever entirely free from
snow. As one looks upon them, frequently surmounted
by variegated clouds, or, in dull weather, bathed with the
yellow gleam of the struggling sunbeams playing on their
white scalps, with here and there a dark streak where the
snow has melted away, the appropriateness of the name of
this section of Italy becomes more apparent—pie di
monte—foot of the mountains.
I found an unusual number of priests reading in the
University library, and not a few peasants seated at the
reading desks—a note-worthy and pleasant circumstance.
It is interesting, when wandering about the precincts of
this institution, to remember that it was the scene of that
mis-education, of which Alfieri has drawn so vivid a picture
in his autobiography. It was here that so many of
his young days were wasted in wearisome sickness;
where he was bribed or threatened into labors for his stupid
upon the adjacent theatre, which he was only allowed to
enter five or six times a year, during carnival; and where
he suffered so long from the tyranny of a capricious and
pampered valet. In Turin, the stern tragedian first knew
the sweet delights of poetry in his stolen and secret communion
with Ariosto and Metastasio. Here he laid the
foundation of those dissipated habits which, he had the
rare moral courage to vanquish—suddenly vaulting from
the low level of a life of pleasure, to the most determined
and assiduous career that genius and industry ever
achieved. Here, too, his ardent soul first experienced
the delicious excitements of music, horsemanship, and
love—those inspiring resources of his after years.
The exhibition of the stranger's passport at Turin, is
sufficient to introduce him to the Royal Gallery. It is
interesting chiefly for its specimens of the Vandyck
school—those expressive portraits which have so long
formed the study of artists, and ever charmed that large portion
of the curious who delight in observing the `human
face divine.' There is one of Carlo Dolce's most characteristic
Madonnas, full of the mildness, soft coloring, and
timid execution which belong to his heads. That class
of woman's admirers, who would fain make the standard
of her attractiveness proportionate to the absence of any
strong traits, should collect the female faces portrayed by
this artist. A short time spent in contemplating such an
array, would convince them of the absolute necessity of
elevating their ideal of the sex, if they would have the
spell of their graces perpetuated. But the picture which
master-pieces. Some of the biographers of the Spanish
limner, seem to lament that his purpose of visiting Italy
was never fulfilled. It would certainly be a cause of just
regret, if the obscurity of his lot had doomed him for life,
to paint nothing but banners for exportation, and fruit
pieces for immediate sale; but since scope was given to
his genius at the Escurial, and it was encouraged to a
free and happy development at home, we cannot but deem
it a happy destiny that prevented him from ever leaving
his native country. There is no little error in the prevalent
notion, that a true painter, so constituted by nature,
is necessarily to improve by a visit to Italy. On the contrary,
numerous instances might be cited, where such a
course has been fatal to the individuality of the artist's
style. His real force is thereby often sacrificed to a false
manner. Servile imitation frequently supersedes
originality. He ponders the works of the old masters too
often, only to adopt certain of their peculiarities, instead
of being quickened to put forth what is characteristic in
himself. Such has, in many cases, been the result with
regard to young votaries of art among us, who after giving
certain proofs of talent, have gone abroad only to bring
home an improved taste, perhaps, but not seldom a far
inferior execution. Murillo was a genuine child of nature.
He painted, as Goldsmith wrote, from individual
inspiration. Who laments that his style is not so elevated
as that of Raphael, nor so graceful as that of Correggio?
If it were one or the other or both, he would not be Murillo.
What we love in him, is his singular truth to
of coloring, such a semblance of life! When one stands
before his Mother and Child, in the Palace at Florence,
does it require much imagination, momentarily to fancy,
that the infant is springing from the bosom of its mother
into our arms? There is an almost perceptible motion
in its posture, and a look of recognition in its eyes, that
haunts us at every step. How often does the traveller in
Italy—he who is wedded to that inexpressible charm in
life, society and art, which we call nature—lament the
paucity of Murillo's paintings! How often does he sigh
for a journey into Spain, that he may behold more of them!
The picture of which Turin boasts, represents Homer
with the laurel wreath straggling round his head, as an
improvisatore, and an amanuensis recording his song.
The bard appears like a fresh portrait of one of those
blind old men so often seen in southern Europe. The
singular blandness of such countenances who has not
noted? They wear a pensive, but peaceful expression, as
if sweet thoughts were cheering their darkness. The
light of poetry hovers round the brow. We feel that although
bereft of vision, the bard sees. The deep things
of life are unveiled to his inward gaze. And, then, how
plainly the other figure listens! We soon cease to lament
the blindness of the minstrel, in regretting that he
is dumb.
A son of Carlo Botta, the historian, follows the profession
of an engraver in this capital. It is but recently
that his justly renowned parent died in poverty at Paris.
Five hundred copies of his works, in sheets, were given,
who attended his wife in her last illness. This adds
one more to the countless anecdotes illustrative of the
melancholy lot of authors. But in this instance, the high
merit and estimable qualities of the individual, enhance
the pain with which every feeling mind must contemplate
his fate. It would be a pleasing thought if we, the people
of a free and prosperous land, had contributed to the comfort
of one in his declining years, who, when in the full
vigor of his intellect, devoted himself, most enthusiastically,
to recording the history of our Revolution. The details
of the war of independence are chiefly known on the
continent through the history of Botta. No single work
has served so effectually to establish the fame of that glorious
event in the minds of Italians. One of the first
questions they ask a comer from the New World is, if he
has read La Guerra Americana by Carlo Botta? The
work is a beautiful monument of the sympathy of one of
the gifted of that nation in the cause of freedom; and
happy would it have been, had our government added to
the honorary title of citizen, the means of smoothing the
venerable historian's passage to the grave. Another
of his sons is travelling in Arabia, for the Jardin des
Plantes. The father's last literary effort was a translation
of a voyage round the world by an American captain,
of whom this son was a companion. The latter is about
publishing it, and the proceeds, with the hon rable name
he boasts, will constitute his paternal heri age.
I could not leave Turin, without seeing the author of
Le Mie Prigioni. That beautiful and affecting record
over the civilized world. The despots of Europe have
endeavored in vain to prevent its entrance into their territories;
being well aware, that no harsh invectives
against tyranny, no panegyrics in praise of free institutions,
however eloquent and insidious, possess a tithe
of the power to arouse men to a sense of their rights,
which lives in such a calm and simple narrative of one of
the victims of their cruelty. How many honest bosoms
have glowed with indignation at the picture this amiable
and gifted Italian has painted, of his tortures under the
leads of a Venetian prison, and amid the cold walls of
the Spielberg fortress! How many have admired the resources
of intellect, philosophy, and affection, by which
the unfortunate prisoner made even captivity captive!
His correspondence with his fellow sufferer, his league
of amity with his keeper, his reading, poems, and reveries—how
do they shed a halo of moral brightness around
the gloom of his dungeon! His hope deferred, his agonizing
suspense, and, at length, his liberation and happy
return to the bosom of his family—all related with so
much truthfulness and feeling,—what an interest have
they excited in behalf of the innocent object of such cruel
persecution! Sharing this sentiment, I was not a little
disappointed to find that Pellico was absent from the
group of Piedmontese literati, who convene every evening
at one of the caffés. An abbé, his friend, informed
me, that the illuess of his father confined Silvio almost
constantly at home. Every one remembers the deep affection
with which he always alludes to his parents. I
in his memoirs. His father was rapidly declining
with age, and the son only left his bed-side for a few
moments to breathe the fresh air. At one of these intervals,
I paid him a visit. Pellico is now about thirty-eight
years of age, small in stature, and wears glasses. His
complexion is deadly pale, blanched by the blighting shadow
of a dungeon. His brow is broad and high, and his
expression serious and thoughtful. He was courteous
and affable, spoke with deep emotion of his father, and
seemed much gratified at the interest his work had excited
in America. Notwithstanding the immense number
of copies of Le Mie Prigioni which have been sold on
the continent, and that it has been translated into so many
languages, the author has derived no pecuniary benefit,
except the two thousand francs he received from the
original publisher at Turin. He is at present patrouized
by a rich and liberal Marchesa, who has made him
her librarian. He dines almost daily at her table, but
resides with his parents. It must be confessed, that the
sufferings of Pellico have, in no small measure, subdued
his early enthusiasm. Some of the young advocates of
liberal principles, in Italy, profess no little disappointment,
that one who was so near becoming a martyr to
their cause, should have turned derotee. They are displeased
that Pellico should now only employ his pen upon
Catholic hymns and religious odes. Such objectors
seem not to consider the extent and severity of the trials to
which the mind of the author has been exposed. They
appear, too, to lose sight of the peril of his situation. It
in peace, the privilege of watching over and consoling
the last years of his parents. Jealous eyes are ever upon
him. Few are the spirits which would not be unnerved
from their native buoyancy, by such a tragic experience as
he has known; few the hearts that would not, at the close
of such sufferings, fall back upon themselves, and cherish
serenity as the great boon of existence. When I received
his kindly-uttered buon viaggio, and followed his retreating
figure as he went to resume his station by his father's
bed-side, I could not but feel that the tyranny of Austria
had not yet exhausted itself upon his nature—that his spirit
had not wholly rebounded from the repression of despotism;
but I felt, too, that he had nobly endured enough to
deserve aniversal sympathy, and be wholly justified in applying
to himself the sentiment of Milton: `They also
serve who only stand and wait.'
LOVE IN A LAZZARET.
Haunted by love, the earliest oracle.'
Byron.
The surface of the sea assumed the crystalline quietude
of a summer calm. The dangling sails flapped
wearily; the sun slept with a fierce and dead heat upon
the scorching deck; and even the thin line of smoke
which rose from Stromboli, appeared fixed, like a light
cloud, in the breezeless sky. I sought relief from the monotonous
stillness and offensive glare, by noting my fellow
passengers, who seemed to have caught the quiescent mood
of surrounding nature, and resigned themselves to listlessness
and silence. Delano was lolling upon a light settee,
supporting his head upon his hand, and with half-closed
eyes, thinking, I well knew, of the friends we had
left, a few hours before, in Sicily. Of all Yankees I ever
saw, my companion most rarely combined the desirable
peculiarities of that unique race with the superadded
graces of less inflexible natures. For native intellgence
sentiment, his equal is seldom encountered; but the idea
of thrift, the eager sense of self-interest, and the iron
bond of local prejudice, which too often disfigure the unalloyed
New-England character, had been tempered to their
just proportion, in his disposition, by the influence of
travel and society. On the opposite side of the deck, sat
a young lady, regarding with a half-painful, half devoted
expression, a youth who was leaning against the companion-way,
ever and anon glancing at the small yellow slippers
that encased his feet, while he complacently arranged
his luxuriant mustaches. These two were affianced;
and by a brief observation of their mutual bearing, I soon
inferred the history of the connection, and subsequent
knowledge confirmed my conjecture.
The Prince of — had paid his addresses to the eldest
daughter of the Duke de Falco, with a view of replenishing
his scanty purse; and by dint of some accomplishments
and much plausibility, had succeeded not only in
obtaining the promise of her hand, but in winning the
priceless, but alas! unrecompensed boon of her affection.
Often, in the course of our voyage, when I marked
her sudden gaze of disappointment, as she sought in vain
for a responsive glance from her betrothed, I could not
but realize one fruitful source of that corruption of manners
which characterizes the island of their birth. And
not unfrequently, as I saw the parental pride and tenderness
with which the old man caressed his children, have
I wondered that he could ever bring himself to sacrifice
their best happiness to ambitious designs. Yet the history
The daughters of the South open their eyes upon
the fairest portion of the universe, and during the unsophisticated
years of early youth, their affections, precociously
developed by a genial clime and ardent temperament,
become interested in the first being who appeals to
their sympathies, or captivates their imagination. The
claims of these feelings, the first and deepest of which
they are conscious, if at all opposed to previous projects
of personal aggrandizement, are scorned by their natural
guardians. And yet when the warmest and richest attributes
of their natures are thus unceremoniously sacrificed
to some scheme of heartless policy, it is deemed wonderful
that in the artificial society thus formed, principle and
fidelity do not abide! What is so sacred in the estimation
of youth, as a spontaneous sentiment? And when
this is treated with cold sacrilege, what hallowed ground of
the heart remains, on which Virtue can rear her indestructible
temple? The elder children, however, are generally
the victims of this convential system, and when its main
object is accomplished, the others are often left to the exercise
of their natural freedom. With this consoling reflection,
I turned to the second sister, who was reading near
by, under the shadow of a light umbrella, which a young
Frenchman held over her head. Never were two countenances
more in contrast, than those of the donna Paolina,
and Monsieur Jacques. There were certain indications
in the play of her mouth and expression of her eye,
that, youthful as she was, the morning of her life had been
familiar with some of those deep trials of feeling, the effect
His physiognomy evinced both intelligence and amiability,
and yet one might study it for ever, and not feel that
it was animated by a soul. Upon a mattress beneath the
awning, her shoulders proped up by pillows, and her
form covered with a silk cloak, reposed the youngest, and
by far the most lovely, of the sisters. Angelica had seen
but sixteen summers, notwithstanding the maturity of expression
and manner so perceptible above the child-like
demeanor of girlhood. Her dark hair lay half unloosed
around one of the sweetest brows, and relieved the rich bloom
of her complexion, as she dozed, unconscious of the admiring
gaze of a Neapolitan officer, who stood at her feet. I
had scarcely time to notice the exquisite contour of her
features, when she started at an observation of her sister,
and the smile and voice with which she replied, redoubled
the silent enchantment of her beauty. At a distance from
us all, as if to complete the variety of the party, stood an
Englishman, whose folded arms and averted gaze sufficiently
indicated that, for the time at least, he had
enveloped himself in the forbidding mantle of his nation's
reserve.
At sunset, a fresh breeze sprang up, and the spirits of
our little party rose beneath its invigorating breath. I have
often had occasion to observe the admirable facility with
which travellers in some parts of Europe assimilate. It
always struck me as delightfully human. One may
traverse the whole extent of the United States, and all the
while feel himself a stranger. If a fellow traveller
engage him in conversation, it is probably merely for the
or ascertaining his opinions on politics or religion,
objects so intrinsically selfish, that the very idea of them
is sufficient to repel any thing like the cordial and frank
interchange of feeling. This is perhaps one reason why
our people have such a passion for rapid journeys. One
of the chief pleasures of a pilgrimage is unknown to them;
and it is not wonderful that men should wish to fly through
that worst of solitudes, the desert of a crowd. In the old
world, however, and especially in its southern regions, it
is deemed but natural that those who are thrown together
within the precincts of the same vessel or carriage, should
maintain that kindly intercourse which so greatly enhances
the pleasures and lessens the inconvenience
of travel. In the present instance, a score of people
were collected on board the same craft, and destined to
pass several days in company, strangers to each other,
yet alike endowed with common susceptibilities and
wants; what truer philosophy than to meet freely on the
arena of our common humanity? Fortunately, we had
all been long enough abroad, to be prepared to adopt this
course, and accordingly, it was interesting to remark,
how soon we were at ease, and on the friendly footing of
old acquaintances. There was a general emulation to be
disinterested. One vied with the other in offices of courtesy;
and even the incorrigible demon of the mal sur mer
was speedily exorcised by the magic wand of sympathy.
I was impressed, as I had often been before, by the fact
that the claims of a foreigner seemed to be graduated, in
the estimation of the natives, by the distance of his country.
soon became the special recipients of kindness; and the
ten days at sea passed away like a few hours. We walked
the deck, when it was sufficiently calm, with our fair
companions, in friendly converse; and leaned over the
side, at sun-set, to study the gorgeous cloud-pictures of
the western sky. We traced together the beautiful scenery
of the isles in the Bay of Naples, and the night air
echoed with the chorus of our songs. And when blessed by
the moonlight, which renders transcendant the beauty of
these regions, our vigils were interrupted only by the rising
sun. Even when the motion of the vessel interfered
with our promenade, forming a snug circle under the
lee, we beguiled many an evening with those gamesome
trifles, so accordant with the Italian humor and vivacity.
Two of these sports, I remember, were prolific occasions
of mirth. The president appoints to each of the party a
procuratore, or advocate, and then proposes certain queries
or remarks to the different individuals. It is a law
of the game, that no one shall reply, except through his
advocate. But as the conversation becomes animated,
it is more and more difficult to observe the rule; many
are taken off their guard by the ingenuity of the president,
and commit themselves by a gratuitous reply, or neglect
of their clients, and are accordingly obliged to pay a forfeit.
Another is called dressing the bride. The president
assigns to all some profession or trade, and after a
preliminary harangue, which affords abundant opportunity
for the display of wit, calls upon his hearers to make a
contribution to the bridal vestments, appropriate to their
to furnish such materials, the gifts are incongruous in the
extreme; and the grotesque combination of apparel, thus
united upon a single person, is irresistibly ludicrous.
The point of the game is, to keep from laughing, which,
from the ridiculous images and odd associations presented
to the fancy, at the summing up of the bridal adornments,
is next to impossible. The consequence is, a
series of penances, which, by the ready invention of
the leader, who is generally selected for his quick parts,
in their turn augment the fun to which this curious game
gives birth.
On arriving at our destination, we were condemned
to perform a quarantine of fourteen days, according to
the absurd practice but too prevalent in Mediterranean
ports. Seldom, however, are such annunciations so
complacently received by voyagers wearied with the confinement
of ship-board, and eager for the freedom and variety
of the shore. In spite of the exclamations of disappointment
which were uttered, it was easy to trace a certain
contentment on many of the countenances of the
group, the very reverse of that expression with which the
unwilling prisoner surrenders himself to the pains of durance.
The truth was, that for several days the intercourse
of some of the younger of our party had been verging
upon something more interesting than mere acquaintance.
Angelica had fairly charmed more than one of the
youthful spirits on board; and there was an evident unwillingness
on their part to resign the contest, just as it had
reached a significant point of interest. Being fond of
amusement in observing the little drama which was enacting,
and nothing diverted me more than the apparent
perfect unconsciousness of the actors that their by-play
could be noted, and its motives discerned. My sympathies
were naturally most warmly enlisted in behalf of
poor Delano, notwithstanding that, after exhibiting the
most incontestible symptoms of love, he had the assurance
to affect anger toward me, because I detected meaning
in his assiduous attentions to the little syren.
The place of our confinement consisted of a paved
square, or rather oblong, surrounded with stone buildings.
Within the narrow limits of this court, were continually
moving to and fro the occupants of the adjacent rooms,
stepping about with the utmost caution, now and then
starting at the approach of some fellow-prisoner, and
crying largo! as the fear of contact suggested an indefinite
prolongation of their imprisonment. Occasionally
old acquaintances would chance to meet, and in the joy
of mutual recognition, forget their situation, hasten toward
each with extended hands, and perhaps be prevented
from embracing only by the descending staff of the watchful
guard. It was diverting to watch these manœuvres,
through our grated windows; and every evening we failed
not to be amused at the in-gathering, when the chief sentinel,
armed with a long bamboo, made the circuit of the
yards, and having collected us, often with no little difficulty,
like so many stray sheep, ushered us with as much
gravity as our sarcasms would permit, to our several
quarters, and locked us up for the night. The variety of
narrow bounds, was another cause of diversion. Opposite
our rooms, a celebrated prima donna sat all day at her
embroidery, singing, sotto voce, the most familiar opera
airs. Over the fence of the adjoining court, for hours in
the afternoon, leaned a Spanish cavalier, one of the adherents
of Don Carlos, whom misfortunes had driven into
exile. A silent figure, in a Greek dress, lounged at the
door beneath us, and at the extremity of the court, a Turk
sat all the morning, in grave contemplation. With this
personage we soon opened a parley in Italian, and I was
fond of eliciting his ideas and marking his habits. He
certainly deserved to be ranked among nature's philosophers.
After breakfast, he regularly locked the door upon
his wives, and took his station upon the stone seat, where,
hour after hour, he would maintain so motionless a position,
as to wear the semblance of an image in Eastern costume.
His face was finely formed, and its serious aspect and dark
mustaches were relieved by a quiet meekness of manner.
He appeared to consider himself the passive creature of a
higher power, and deemed it the part of true wisdom to
fulfil the requisite functions of nature, and, for the rest,
take things as they came, nor attempt to stem the tide of
fate, except by imperturbable gravity, and perpetual smoking.
He assured me that he considered this a beautiful
world, but the Franks (as he called all Europeans,) made
a vile place of it, by their wicked customs and silly bustle.
According to his theory, the way to enjoy life, was to go
through its appointed offices with tranquil dignity, make no
exertion that could possibly be avoided, and repose quiescent
not without his moral creed; and I have seldom known one
revert to such requisitions with more sincere reverence, or
follow their dictates with resolution so apparently invincible.
`There is but one difference,' said he, `in our religion;
the Supreme Being whom you designate as Deo, I
call Allah. We take unto ourselves four wives, and we do
so to make sure of the blessing for which you pray—not to
be led into temptation.' Of all vices, he appeared to regard
intemperance with the greatest disgust, and was evidently
much pained to see the ladies of our party promenading
the court unveiled. `Are your wives beautiful?' I
inquired. `In my view,' he replied, `they are lovely, and
that is sufficient.' I asked him if they resembled any of
the ladies who frequented the walk. `It would be a sin,'
he answered, `for me to gaze at them, and never having
done so, I cannot judge.' In answer to my request
that he would afford me an opportunity of forming my
own opinion, by allowing me a sight of his wives.
`Signor,' he said, with much solemnity, `when a Frank
has once looked upon one of our women, she is no
longer fit to be the wife of a Turk.' And he appears to
have acted strictly upon this principle, for when the custode
abruptly entered his room, as they were all seated at
breakfast, Mustapha suddenly caught up the coverlid from
the bed, and threw it over their heads.
There is a law in physics, called the attraction of cohesion,
by which the separate particles composing a body
are kept together, till a more powerful agency draws them
into greater masses. Upon somewhat such a principle, I
darting from one another in zig-zag lines, like insects
on the surface of a pool, were brought into more intimate
companionship, from being denied association with those
around, except at a respectable distance, and under the
strictest surveillance. Our company, at least, were soon
established on the intimate terms of a family, and the indifferent
observer could scarcely have augured from appearances,
that we were but a knot of strangers, brought
together by the vicissitudes of travelling. And now
the spirit of gallantry began to exhibit itself anew;
in the Neapolitan with passionate extravagance, in the
Frenchman with studied courtesies, and in the Yankee
with quiet earnestness. At dinner, the first day, the latter
took care to keep in the back ground, till most of the
party had selected seats, and then, seemingly by the merest
accident, glided among the ladies, and secured a post
between the two younger sisters. This successful
manœuvre so offended the Englishman, that he retired
from the field in high dudgeon, and never paid any farther
attention to the fair Italians than what civility required.
The remaining aspirants only carried on the contest
more warmly. I was obliged almost momently to turn
aside to conceal an irresistible smile at their labored politeness
towards each other, and the show of indifference
to the object of their devoirs, which each in turn assumed,
when slightly discomfited. Nor could I wonder at the
eagerness of the pursuit, as I beheld that lovely creature
seated at her book, or work, in a simple but tasteful dress
of white, and watched the play of a countenance in
sweet contrast with the repose of innocence, the vividness
of talent, and beauty so rare and heart-touching. I
could not, too, but wonder at the manner in which
she received the attention of her admirers—a manner so
amiable as to disarm jealousy, and so impartial as to
baffle the acutest on-looker who strove to divine her real
sentiments. There is a power of manner and expression
peculiar to women, more potent and variable than
any attribute vouchsafed to man; and were it not so often
despoiled of its charm by affectation, we should more
frequently feel its wonderful capacity. In the daughters
of southren climes, at that age when `existence is all a
feeling, not yet shaped into a thought,' it is often manifested
in singular perfection, and never have I seen it
more so than in Angelica. It was a lesson in the art of
love, worthy of Ovidius himself, to mark the course of
the rival three. Such ingenious tricks to secure her arm
for the evening walk; such eager watching to obtain the
vacant seat at her side; such countless expedients to
arouse her mirth, amuse her with anecdote, or interest
her in conversation; and such inexpressible triumph,
when her eye beamed pleasantly upon the successful competitor!
The Neapolitan cast burning glances of passion,
whenever he could meet her gaze: quoted Petrarch,
and soothed his hopeless moments by dark looks, intended
to alarm his brother gallants, and awaken her pity.
The Frenchman, on the contrary, was all smiles, constantly
studying his toilet and attitude, and laboring, by the
most graceful artifices, to fascinate the fancy of his ladylove.
but unvarying devotion. If Angelica dropped
her fan, he was ever the one to restore it; was the evening
chill, he always thought of her shawl, and often his dinner
grew cold upon his neglected plate, while he was attending
to her wants. One day her album was circulated.
Don Carlo, the Neapolitan, wrote a page of glowing protestations,
asserting his inextinguishable love. Monsieur
Jacques, in the neatest chirography, declared that the recent
voyage had been the happiest of his life, and his present
confinement more delightful than mountain liberty,
in the company of so perfect a nymph. Delano simply
declared, that the sweet virtues of Angelica sanctified her
beauty to his memory and heart.
There are some excellent creatures in this world,
whose lives seem to conduce to every body's happiness
but their own. Such an one was the donna Paolina.
Affable and engaging, and with a clear and cultivated
mind, she lacked the personal loveliness of her sisters,
and yet rejoiced in it as if it were her own. No one could
remain long in the society of the two, without perceiving
that the confidence between them was perfect, and founded
on that mutual adaptation which we but occasionally
behold, even in the characters of those allied by the ties
of a common parentage. To this kind-hearted girl I discovered
that the lovers had separately applied for counsel
and support in the prosecution of their suits. Don Carlo
begged her to warn her sister against the advances of the
Frenchman, as he knew him to be a thorough hypocrite;
and Monsieur Jacques returned the compliment, by assuring
refined and accomplished to be the companion of so
delicate a creature as Angelica. Young Jonathan, with
a more manly policy, so won the esteem of Paolina, by
dwelling upon the excellencies of her sister, that she became
his unwavering advocate. I confess that as the appointed
period of durance drew to a close, I began to feel
anxious as to the result of all this dallying with the tender
passion. I saw that Monsieur was essentially selfish
in his suit, and that vanity was its basis. It was evident
that the Neapolitan was stimulated by one of those ardent
and sudden partialities, which are as capricious as the
flashes of a volcano, and often as temporary. In truth,
there was not enough of the spirit of sacrifice, or vital attachment,
in their love, to warrant the happiness of the
gentle being whose outward charms alone had captivated
their senses. Delano, I knew, was sincere, and my fears
were, that his future peace was involved in the result.
At length the last evening of our quarantine had arrived.
Mons. Jacques had played over, as usual, all her favorite
airs on his guitar, and Carlo had just fervently recited a
glowing passage from some Italian poet, descriptive of a
lover's despair, when sunset, playing through the bars of
our window, reminded us that the cool hour of the day
was at hand, when it was our custom to walk in the outer
court. As we went forth, there was that eloquently
sad silence, with which even the most thoughtless engage
in an habitual employment for the last time. No one
anticipated me in securing the companionship of the
sweet child of nature, whose beauty and gentleness had
and I determined to improve it, by ascertaining,
if possible, the probable success of my poor friend. I
spoke of the many pleasant hours we had passed together,
of that social sympathy which had cheered and consoled,
and asked her if even those narrow walls would not be
left with regret. `Consider,' said I, `you will no more
be charmed with the exquisite elegance of Monsieur
Jacques'—she looked up to see if I really thought her
capable of being interested by such conventional graces—
`or be enlivened,' I continued, `by the enthusiastic converse
of Don Carlo'—she smiled—`or know,' I added,
with a more serious and searching glance, `the affectionate
and gifted society of Delano'—a tear filled her eye,
but the smile assumed a brighter meaning. I looked up,
and he was before us, gazing from one to the other, with
an expression of joyful inquiry, which flashed the happiest
conviction on my mind. The passionate Neapolitan had
flattered, and the genteel Frenchman had amused, but the
faithful Yankee had won the heart of Angelica De Falco.
FLORENCE REVISITED.
Of cities, fairest one.”
Shelley.
We had been riding all night along the Arno, whose
turgid waters were shrunk to half their usual dimensions,
by the intense heat of midsummer. Dawn was gradually
unveiling the heavens, and spreading a soft, silvery light
over the landscape, as we drew near the termination of
our journey. The vines, by the road-side, stirred cheerfully
in the morning breeze, and as one after another of
their broad leaves was uplifted, the mossy boughs of the
mulberry trees upon which they are festooned, were momentarily
revealed, brightened by the grateful dew. The
full grain beneath them, bowed by its own weight, glistened
with the same moisture, condensed in chrystals upon
its bended tops; and to vary the rich carpet so lavishly
spread over the earth, a patch of lupens or artichokes, occasionally
appeared, from amid which, rose the low, grey
olive, or thin poplar of Tuscany. Sometimes a few dwarfed
extirpated by the genius of Agriculture, or some remnant
of an ancient wall marked the old feudal boundaries of
the landholders. A still more interesting memorial of
those times exists farther back, in the shape of a picturesque
tower, celebrated on account of its having been taken
by a curious stratagem. Lights were appended to the
horns of a flock of goats, which, in the night, appeared
like an army, and frightened away the hesieged. Early
as was the hour, a large group of poor women, spinning
flax, were awaiting at the gate of a villa, the customary
alms of its proprietor; and often a bend in the river
brought us in view of several men dragging a heavily
laden barge through its narrow channel. As the day
broke, we came in sight of Florence. The mighty dome
of its cathedral—that noble monument of the genius of
Brunelleschi, and the graceful tower by its side, rose from
the mass of dense buildings, like a warrior of the middle
ages, and a fair devotee of some more peaceful epoch,
standing in the centre, to guard and hallow the city. Far
around the walls, spread the hills with a fertile beauty and
protecting grace, and through the midst wound the Arno,
gleaming in the morning sun. It is a curious feeling—
that with which we revisit an Italian city, familiar and
endeared to our memory. There are none of those striking
local changes, which startle the absentee on his return
to the New World. The outward scene is the same;
but what revolutions may not his own feelings have undergone,
since he last beheld it! How may experience
have subdued enthusiasm, and suffering chastened hope!
to lose himself in holy musing, beguile him, as of old, to
meditative joy? Will the picture before which he so often
stood, wrapt in admiration, awaken his heart as before?
Will the calm beauty of the favorite statue once more
soothe his impatient soul? Will the rich and moving
strain for which he has so long thirsted, ever thrill as
when it first fell upon his ear? And `the old, familiar
faces'—have a few years passed them by untouched? In
such a reverie I went forth to revive the associations of
Florence. The dreamy atmosphere of a warm and cloudy
day accorded with the pensive delight with which I retraced
scenes unexpectedly revisited. Many botanical
specimens were added to the unrivalled wax collection at
the museum, and several new tables, bright with chalcedony,
amethyst and pearl, were visible at the Pietra dura
manufactory. The old priest, whose serene temper seemed
a charm against the encroachments of age, had lost
something of his rotundity of visage, and his hair was
blanched to a more snowy whiteness. A shade of care
was evident upon the brow of the man of pleasure, and his
reckless air and contracted establishment most strikingly
indicated the reduced state of his resources. The flower-girl
moved with less sprightliness, and the dazzling beauty
of the belle was subdued to the calm grace of womanhood.
The artist whom I left toiling in obscurity had received
the reward of his self devotion; fame and fortune had
crowned his labors. The beggar at the corner looked as
unchanged as a picture, but his moan of supplication had
sunk a key lower. The waiter at the caffe maintained
earnest promptitude which distinguished his noviciate.
Three new chain bridges span Arno; being painted
white, and supported by massive pillars of granite, surmounted
by marble sphinxes, their appearance is very
pleasing. The one below the Ponte Vecchio, serves as
a fine foreground object in the landscape formed by the
adjacent hills; and the other embellishes the vista through
which we gaze down the river to the far-off mountains
and woods of the Cascine. Utilitarianism is rapidly penetrating
even into Tuscany. Demidorff's elegant villa
is transformed into a silk manufactory; and a railroad is
projected between Florence and Leghorn. With the
same stolid dignity rose the massive walls of the Pitti
and Strozzi palaces, wearing as undaunted an aspect as
when the standards of the ancient factions floated from
the iron rings still riveted to their walls. The lofty firs
and oaks of the public walk waved in undiminished luxuriance;
and the pheasants flitted as lightly over the lawn.
The curious tower of the Palazzo Vecchio was relieved
with the same vivid outline in the twilight; and the crowd
pressed as confusedly through the narrow limits of the
Via Calziole. The throng promenade as gaily as ever
along the river-side, on the evening of a festival,—the
stately peasant-girl, with her finely-wrought hat—the
strutting footman—the dark-robbed priest—the cheerful
stranger, and the loitering artist. The street-musicians
gather little audiences as formerly; and the evening bells
invade the air with their wonted chime.
The most interesting of Greenough's recent productions,
Pope's well-known lines:—
Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed;
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise
Where, join'd with God's, his loved idea lies.”
residence in Florence, whose labors seem destined to
reflect great honor upon his country. Hiram Powers is
one of those artists whose vocation is ordained by native
endowments. Amid the vicissitudes of his early life, the
faculty, so strong within him, found but occasional and
limited development: yet was it never wholly dormant.
Powers derives his principles of art directly from the only
legitimate source—Nature. His recent busts are instinct
with life and reality. They combine the utmost
fidelity in detail with the best general effect. They
abound in expression and truth. His success in this department,
has given occasion to so many engagements
for busts, that time has scarcely been afforded him for
any enterprize of a purely ideal character. He is now
about to embody a fine conception from Gesner's Death
of Abel. He intends making a statue of Eve at the moment
when after her expulsion from Paradise, the sight of
a dead bird first revealed to her the nature of death. “It
is I! It is I! Unhappy that I am, who have brought misery
and grief on every creature! For my sin, these pretty,
harmless animals are punished.” Her tears redoubled.
“What an event! How stiff and cold it is! It has
neither voice nor motion; its joints no longer bend;
death?'
Florence may appear, at a casual view, comparatively
deficient in local associations; yet few cities are more
impressed by the facts of their history. It was during
the middle ages that it rose to power, and that violent
era has left its memorials behind. The architecture is
more remarkable for strength than elegance, and its
beauty is that of simplicity and dignity. Of this, the
Pitti and Strozzi palaces are striking examples. In
whatever direction one wanders, memorials of departed
ages meet the view, less numerous and imposing than at
Rome, but still sufficiently so to awaken the sweet though
melancholy charm of antiquity. Every day, in walking
to the Cascine, the stranger passes the house where
Amerigo Vespuccio was born; and as he glances at the
hospital of Santa Maria Nuova, he remembers that it
was founded by the father of Dante's Beatrice. The
sight of Galileo's tower, near the Roman gate, recalls
that scene of deep, moral and dramatic interest, when
the philosopher, having, on his knees, renounced his
theory of the earth's motion, before the tribunal of Rome,
suddenly sprung to his feet and exclaimed, “E pur si
muove!”—`and yet it moves.' The villa of Boccacio, in
the environs, awakens the awful associations of the plague
as well as the beauty of the Decameron; and a stroll
around the walls, by bringing in view the old fortifications,
will revive some of the scenes of the celebrated siege of
eleven months, in 1530. The heroism exhibited by the
Florentines at this period of privation and suffering, renders
maiden cast herself from the balcony to escape the brutal
soldiery; and one woman who had been forcibly carried
away by an officer, stole from the camp at night, collected
all his spoils, and mounting hishorse, rode back to Florence,
with a new dowry for her husband. Let the stranger
who would excite the local associations of the Tuscan
capital, stroll into the Piazza Grand Duca on a spring
morning. Yonder is a crowd of applicants at the grated
windows of the post office; here a line of venders, vociferating
the price of their paltry wares; and there a score
of porters at work about the custom-house. In the
centre is an eloquent quack, mounted upon an open
barouche, and surrounded by vials, plasters and surgical
instruments, waving a long string of certificates, and loudly
expounding the virtues of his specifics to a group of
gaping peasants. At the portal of yonder palace, an
English equipage is standing, while its master is negotiating
with Fenzi, the banker, within. People are passing
and re-passing through the spacious area, or chatting in
small groups. In the midst is the bronze, equestrian
statue of Cosmo, and near it, the fountain exhibiting a
colossal figure of Neptune. This remarkable public
square is not less striking as a witness of the past than
from its present interest. The irregular design of the
Palazzo Veccho, is attributed to the public animosities
of the period of its erection; and the open space which
now constitutes the Piazza, was formed by the destruction
of the houses of the Uberti family, and others of the
same faction, that the palace of the Priors might not
scene associated with one of the most tragic events in
the history of Florence, is the Duomo—that huge pile so
richly encrusted with black and white marble, which
was commenced towards the close of the twelfth-century.
As one, in any degree susceptible to the influence of
superstition, wanders, at twilight, through the vast and
dusky precincts of this cathedral, vague and startling
fancies will often throng upon his mind. As he slowly
paces the marble floor towards the main altar, perhaps
some mendicant glides from a dark recess, with a low
moan of entreaty, or an aged female form, bowed at one
of the shrines, is dimly descried in the gloom. The
only light streams through the lofty and richly-painted
windows. The few busts of the illustrious of by-gone
days, are scarcely discernible; the letters on the sepulchral
tablets are blurred in the twilight, and the dust-covered
banners, trophies of valor displayed in the Holy
Land, hang in shadowy folds. At that pensive hour, in
the solitude of so extensive a building, surrounded by
the symbols of Death and Religion, how vividly rises to
the imagination the sanguinary deed perpetrated before
that altar! The conspiracy of the Pazzi forms the subject
of one of Alfieri's tragedies; and a very spirited
illustration of one of the scenes was recently exhibited in
Florence, the production of a promising young artist. It
represents the wife of Francesco kneeling at his feet and
endeavoring to prevent his leaving the house at the appointed
signal. At the head of the plot was Sixtus IV.,
whose principal agent, Salviati, concerted with the
Lorenzo de Medici, at Fiesole; but in consequence of
his brother's absence, the scene of action was transferred
to the church. On the 26th of April, 1478, the day
appointed, it appears the service commenced without the
presence of Guliano de Medici. Francesco Pazzi and
Bandini went in search of him. They not only accompanied
him in the most friendly manner to the cathedral,
but in order to ascertain if he wore concealed weapons,
threw their arms caressingly about him as they walked,
and took their places by his side, before the altar. When
the bell rung—the signal agreed upon, and the priest
raised the consecrated wafer, as the people bent their
heads before it, Bandini plunged a dagger into the
breast of Giuliano. Francesco Pazzi then rushed upon
him and stabbed him in many places, with such fury
that he wounded himself in the struggle. Lorenzo defended
himself successfully against the priest who was
to have taken his life, and received but a slight wound.
His friends rallied around him, and they retreated to the
sacristy, where one of the young men, thinking the
weapon which had injured Lorenzo might have been
poisoned, sucked the wound. The conspirators having
so completely failed, were soon identified, and the
leaders executed, while Lorenzo's escape was hailed with
acclamations by the people. On a calm, summer night,
as one walks up the deserted and spacious area of the
Via Larga, he may watch the moonbeams as they play
upon the beautiful cornice of the Palazzo Ricardi, and recall,
as a contrast to the peaceful scene, another bloody deed
princely dwelling that the nephew of Allessandro, first
Duke of Florence, commonly called Lorenzino, ambitious
of power, lured his profligate uncle, and having invited
him to repose, and placed his sword with the belt
twisted firmly round the hilt, upon the bolster, stole out
and brought a bravo to dispatch him. The assassination,
however, proved difficult, and the treacherous relative was
obliged, personally, to join in the butchery. He dipped
his finger in the blood of his kinsman, and wrote upon
the wall of the room, the line from Virgil—
“Vincit Amor Patriæ, laudumque immensa cupido.”
after ten years of exile, fell, himself, beneath an assassin's
dagger at Venice.
Among the numerous hills of the Appenine range
surrounding Florence, Fiesole is conspicuous from its
picturesque appearance. It is surmounted by a row of
cypresses, and upon its summit stands an ancient convent.
From the green and shady esplanade before this
building, is obtainable one of the best views of the city
and its environs; and the traveller who possesses any
taste for scenery will not regret his three miles walk from
the Porta Pinta, or the somewhat precipitous ascent which
brings him to so commanding an observatory. Upon
this mountain stood a celebrated Etruscan fortress. It
was one of Cataline's strong-holds; and the traces of its
walls are still discernible. From this spot the founders
of Florence descended to the borders of the Arno, and
city occupied the right bank of the river, and boasted
but one bridge outside the walls, which is still called
Ponte Vecchio. It is believed that the abundance of
lilies and other flowers (fiori) which flourished there,
gave its name to the metropolis of Tuscany, although Cellini
declares it to have been derived from Florentius, a
celebrated general. It is remarkable that the first use the
people made of arms, was to turn them against the spot of
their origin.
The republic was well established about the close of the
twelfth century. The population were early devoted to
manufactures, particularly of cloth. The first magistrates
were denominated consuls; afterwards, the office
of mayor was instituted, and it was decreed that the incumbent
should be a foreigner, that no ties of relationship
might interfere with the impartial discharge of his
duties. Another condition was attached to the situation
which would scarcely be deemed expedient in our own
times—that the mayor should never give nor accept dinners.
Subsequently, the title was changed to that of gonfaliere,
or standard-bearer, whose functions, at different
times, were variously modified. Besides the consuls,
there were priors of the arts and trades, senators—ten
buonuomini, etc. The Florentines first learned the art of
war in numerous conflicts with feudal lords, who made
incursions from neighboring castles located amid the fastnesses
of the mountains, and strongly fortified. A civil
feud, however, which gave birth to an infinite series of
long and bloody animosities, soon succeeded these paltry
by female beauty, which seems to have been one of the
most prolific occasions of ancient dissensions, as influential,
in those troubled times, in nerving the warrior, as
it has been, in every age, in calling forth the richest
strains of the bard. The youthful head of the wealthy
and powerful family of Buondelmonte had promised to
marry a daughter of the house of Amidei, equally renowned
and powerful. The charms of another lady, one of
the Donati, also one of the first rank, beguiled the accomplished
cavalier from his first love; and, unmindful of former
vows, he married the object of his new attachment.
The family of the deserted bride considered their dignity
compromised by this act, and on Easter Sunday, while
Boundelmonte, dressed in white, and mounted upon a
white horse, was riding from the other side of the Arno,
towards the house of the Amidei, passing over the old
bridge, they made an attack near the statue of Mars, and
killed him. This murder threw the whole city into confusion,
and the people, almost immediately, were divided
into two parties. The citizens barricaded the roads, and
fought in the streets and squares, and from the houses and
turrets. Soon after this event, ensued the political warfare
between the Guelphs, and Ghibelines, the former attaching
themselves to the Buondelmonte, and the latter, to the
Uberti—the most powerful family of the party, which became
its head, instead of the Amedei. The people constantly
vacillating between interest and enmity, alternately
fought and made truces, till a quarrel with Pisa, for a time,
diverted their arms. This rival colony undertook to stop
They were not, however, so good fighters on land as at
sea, and were finally defeated by the Florentines, at Castel
del Bosco. This war of inroads, however, lasted six
years, and was, at length, adjusted by a cardinal. The
old, intestine controversy was soon renewed with increased
ardor, and when the Ghibelines remained masters of the
city, for want of any better way of wreaking vengeance
upon the Guelphs, they razed their dwellings, demolished
numerous towers, and even made a barbarous attempt to
destroy the temple of St. John, now called the Baptistery,
because their opponents had once held meetings there.
A beautiful tower stood at the commencement of the
street of the Adimari, and this they endeavored to make fall
upon the temple by placing rafters against the opposite
part, cutting away the other side, and then setting fire to
the props. Happily, however, the tower fell in another
direction. For a series of years, the arms of the Florentines
were constantly exercised, with various success, in
wars against the Pisans, Lucchese, Arentines, etc., but,
ever and anon, this original and fierce civil feud usurped
all their energies. Its history is one of the remarkable
evidences of the spirit of that age, and hereafter, as the
sounds of warfare and violence die away into the past,
before the mild influences of Christianity, it will be reverted
to by the philosopher as a fertile source of illustration.
Its consequences and incidental results are numerous
and interesting. The Ghibelines were generally
triumphant in Florence. In 1261, when Count Guido
Novella was elected mayor, in order to introduce his people
he opened a new gate in the nearest walls, and the avenue
leading thence, is still called the street of the Ghibelines.
In the annals of these celebrated factions, we find now
one, and now another invoking foreign aid. Sometimes
a respite occurs of so long a continuance, as to induce a
belief that the demon of discord is at length laid asleep,
and anon it breaks forth with tenfold fury. At one moment,
the Pope's interposition procures peace, and the
next, some incident, trifling in itself, suddenly revives the
flame of party rage. After a solemn reconciliation had
apparently settled the dissension at Florence, it was again
renewed in Pistoia, a few miles off. A certain Ser Cancelliere
of that city was the father of a very numerous family,
the progeny of two wives, both of whom belonged to
noble houses. Between the descendants of these rival
mothers, a strong jealousy existed; and under the name
of Black and White chancellors, (Bianci and Neri) more
than a hundred individuals were included in the quarrel,
among whom, not less than eighteen, were chevaliers or
knights of the golden spur. Some young men of both
parties, having quarrelled over their wine, one of the Neri
received a blow from Charles Walfred, of the opposite
faction. In the evening, the aggrieved individual waylaid
the brother of his insulter, and having beaten him, so
mutilated one of his hands, that only the forefinger
remained. This aggression roused an universal spirit
of resentment on the part of the Bianci. The
opposite party vainly attempted to make peace; and
the inflictor of the injury, on repairing to Walfred's house,
one of his hands was cut off by way of retaliation, and he
was sent back to his partisans. This act rendered all further
attempts at treaty vain. Thenceforth, street-broils,
of the fiercest character, were of constant occurrence.
Some of the most guilty repaired to Florence, and there
fomented the old feud, the Bianci inciting the Ghibelines,
and the Neri the Guelphs. In 1301, Charles of Valois,
invited by Boniface VIII, into Italy, secretly concerted with
him the ruin of the Bianci party. The Neri were then
dominant. In consequence of the violence committed
under Corso Donati, the Pope had sent one of his cardinals
to Florence to bring about peace, but the efforts of
the prelate were vain. On Christmas day, the son of
Corso Donati, being on horseback in the square of Santa
Croce, and seeing Nicholas of the Cerchia family pass by,
ran after him out of one of the gates. A contest ensued,
in which both were killed, and, in consequence, civil war
once more kindled. At length, on the second of April,
the remainder of the Bianci party, among whom were
Dante and Petrucco of Parengo, the father of Petrarch,
were banished. The Neri threw fireworks upon the
houses and shops of their discomfitted opponents, near
the Mercato Nuovo, which, taking fire, produced extensive
destruction, and reduced many to poverty. In 1310,
the New German Emperor, Henry VII., prepared to descend
into Italy. Many cities invited him. In Tuscany,
Pisa and Arrezzo, alone desired his arrival. The following
year, Dante, in behalf of the Ghibeline party, wrote
him, earnestly, to come down upon Florence. This letter
again confirmed. Received openly at Pisa, and crowned at
Rome, Henry approached and besieged Florence, but
after a wearisome delay before the walls, and several fruitless
skirmishes, he fell sick, and on the last night of
October, 1813, abandoned the attempt to the glory of the
city. He soon after died at St. Salvi, and these eras of
violence and war were soon succeeded by a brilliant
period of literature and art.
The mausoleum of the Medici, against the extravagant
splendor of which, Byron utters so earnest a satire, is
now far advanced towards completion. It is an octagon,
lined with the richest marble and most precious stones.
As the curious visitor inspects the gorgeous monument,
how various and conflicting are the associations inspired
by the thought of the renowned family it celebrates.
Their redeeming characteristics were taste and liberality.
They promoted the progress of humanity by rewarding
the exertions of genius, rather than by a generous philanthropy.
The mass were as much cajoled and subjected,
as under more warlike princes; but the gifted received
encouragement, and were urged to high endeavor.
The annals of the house of Medici abound in scenes, at
one moment exciting warm admiration, and the next,
unbounded disgust. One instant we kindle at the refined
and enthusiastic taste of Lorenzo, and the next, are
revolted at some act of petty tyranny. Now we see
genius unfold with brilliant success beneath the fostering
rays of patronage; and the next, injustice, conspiracy, or
revenge, degrades the chronicle. The patriotic Cosmo,
the Magnificent, chatting with a young sculptor in his
garden, the dissipated and cunning Giovanni, the
imbecile Piero, the perfidious Lorenzino, and the cruel
Catharine, pass before us in startling contrast. Yet as
we behold the works to which the redeemers of the name
have given rise, and trace the splendid results of wealth
dedicated to the cause of taste, we feel their mission on
the earth was one, the intellectual fruits of which are
inestimable and progressive. The origin of the Medici
family has been romantically referred to Averardo de
Medici, a commander under Charlemagne. The first
authentic mention of this celebrated race seems, however,
to indicate Filippo as one of the earliest founders. Toward
the middle of the thirteenth century, the Guelphs
having obtained the chief authority in Florence, Filippo,
oppressed by the Ghibelines, fled from Fiorano, in the
valley of Mugello, to the Tuscan capital, which, thenceforth,
became his country. In 1348, we read of Francesco
de Medici, as the head of the magistracy, although
prevented by the plague from exercising his functions.
Filippo left two sons, Bicci and Giovanni. To the latter
succeeded Cosmo, and with his name began the renown
of the house. The world was but just emerging from
barbarism when this prince commenced his sway. Although
exiled by a faction, his absence was deeply regretted,
and his return triumphantly hailed. Cosmo invited
numerous Greek refugees to settle on the banks of the
Arno. Through them, a new interest was awakened in
ancient literature; classical studies revived, and manuscripts
were employed in barren theological disputes,
Cosmo was listening to Gemisthus Pletho, and planning
a Platonic academy. Among the illustrious Greeks
whom he befriended, was Agyropylus. `My son,' said
he, leaning over the cradle of one of his children, `if you
were born to be happy, you will have Agyropylus for your
preceptor.' Cosmo was succeeded by Piero, who had
previously married the wealthy Contessina Bardi. His
authority was near being overturned by a conspiracy,
headed by the Pitti family, who, in the end, were obliged
to flee, leaving their superb palace unfinished. Piero left
two sons, Lorenzo and Giuliano. The brilliant career of
the former has been made familiar by the elaborate and,
perhaps flattered portrait of Roscoe. That this magnificent
prince was a man of more than ordinary abilities,
is sufficiently proved by the address exhibited on his
youthful embassy to Ferdinand of Naples, as well as by
the numerous specimens extant of his poetical talents.
But no small portion of his renown is to be ascribed
simply to his immense wealth and exalted station. He
was a man of elegant taste, rather than of extraordinary
genius; and merits applause for his liberal patronage of
literature and the arts, more than for any example he has
bequeathed of intellectual or moral power. He renewed
and prolonged the impulse his father had given to the
cause of civilization. The visitor is continually reminded
of the obligations of Florence to Lorenzo. He established
a school of sculpture, greatly enriched the Laurentian
library, improved architecture, promoted the
His life was passed in the midst of men distinguished
for genius and acquirements, whom his magnificent
taste had gathered around him. His time was occupied
in supervising local improvements, cheering native
genius, collecting rare manuscripts and medals, cultivating
philosophy, studying politics, making love, discussing
poetry with Politiano, and writing sonnets. He demonstrated
that a prince could find ample employment,
and attain true glory without recourse to conquest.
He proved that there were more enduring monuments
than those which rise from the battle-field. His name
is associated with works of art and literary productions,
as indissolubly as those of their authors, and although he
only lived to the age of forty-four, he expired tranquilly
in the midst of his friends. His death was deemed a
national misfortune, and seems to have been the precursor
of innumerable woes to Italy. Giovanni, son of
Lorenzo, was an archbishop at ten, and a cardinal at
fourteen—the youngest person ever raised to that rank.
A letter still extant, addressed by his father to him at
Rome, evinces how much at heart he held his advancement.
After the death of Piero, Giovanni became the
head of the family; and all his wishes centered in the
hope of reviving its influence, which had again suffered
a serious interruption. This feeling he prudently concealed
for some time. After the battle of Ravenna, three
young men, resolute friends of the Medici, went to the
Gonfaliere, and, with their daggers at his throat, forced
Soderini to resign. The Medici being thus restored,
His pontificate is celebrated as a period when letters and
the arts flourished to an unparalleled degree. Previous
circumstances, however, had prepared the way for the
many brilliant results of that remarkable epoch. The
sale of indulgences, and other church abuses, were then
carried to the highest point; and the protests against
ecclesiastical tyranny commenced, which ushered in the
reformation. Cosmo, Francesco and Ferdinand, maintained
something of the liberal and tasteful spirit of their
ancestors. But under Ferdinand II., who, in 1621,
came to the government, at the age of eleven, the aspect of
affairs changed. Extravagant expenditures drained the
state of its resources, and when Cosmo III., died, after
a reign of fifty-three years, Tuscany was reduced to a
most deplorable state, oppressed with a heavy national
debt, and exhausted by taxes. Fortunately for the country,
John Gaston was the last of his family, once so glorious,
but now so sadly degenerated. He died after an
indifferent rule, and in accordance with the terms of peace
with Vienna (1735) left his duchy to the house of Lorraine.
Francis Stephen, Duke of Lorraine, and Grand
Duke of Tuscany, made a contract with John Gaston's
sister—the last of the name of Medici, by which he acquired
the various allodial possessions collected by her
ancestors. Under the twenty-six years of the sway of
his son Leopold, Tuscany recovered from a decline
that had lasted more than a century. He encouraged
commerce, agriculture and manufactures, established
penitentiaries, abolished the inquisition, and proclaimed
admirable, and his own manner of life extremely simple.
The traveller in Italy still recognizes the happy influences
of his regenerating rule. Nor has the effect of his
noble example been contravened by his successor. An
air of contentment, and a feeling of safety continues to
distinguish Tuscany, and render it the favourite sojourn
of the stranger. Even the comparative severity of the
climate in winter, aggravated by the tramontana which
sweeps so coldly from the mountains, seldom drives the
foreign sojourners to more genial localities. It is not,
perhaps, without reason, that the distinguished literary
rank which Florence holds in Italian history, has been
ascribed to its inferior climate.
There is something almost oppressive to the senses,
and confusing to the mind, in the immense collections of
paintings in Italy. The stranger, especially if his time
is limited, and his eagerness for knowledge and true impressions,
a delicate and discriminating, as well as an
earnest passion, will not unfrequently regret the number
and variety of interesting objects which at once demand
his attention. A scene of natural grandeur or beauty
seldom distracts the eye with the variety of its features.
The mountain range which girdles the prospect, the grove
which waves above the cliff, the river flowing through the
vale, the flowers on its banks, and the rich cloud-land
above, are harmonized to the view, reposing beneath the
same light, and stirred by a common air. But each work
of art has a distinctive character. It is a memorial of an
individual mind. It demands undivided attention.
unsatisfactory. We instinctively wish that the array
were not so imposing. Many a sweet countenance,
whose expression haunts us like a dream, we vainly endeavor
to recall; many a group we would fain transfer to
our own apartment, that there we might leisurely survey
its excellencies, and grow familiar with its spirit. There
are few public galleries which are less objectionable, on
this account, than that of Florence. When we have
paused in the vestibule long enough to recover breath
after ascending the long flight of stairs, and inspect the
specimens of statuary there arranged, the first paintings
which meet our gaze, on entering, are of an early date.
The stiff execution brings to mind the Chinese style,
and indicates a primitive epoch in the history of art.
The arabesques on the ceiling, the portraits immediately
beneath it, and the range of ancient busts below, fill,
without dazzling the eye. As we pass on, the interest increases
at every step. There is a gradual growth of
attraction. Curiosity is soon absorbed in a deeper sentiment.
Alternately we stand smiling before some
graphic product of the Dutch pencil, wrapt in a speculative
reverie over an obscure painting, or seated, at last,
quite absorbed in admiration within the hallowed precincts
of the Tribune. The perfect freedom of entrance and
observation, unannoyed by the jargon of a cicerone,
doubtless adds to the pleasure of a visit to the Florence
collections. And the heart is not less gratified than the
eye, when we behold one of the sunburnt conladini improving
a spare hour on market-days, to loiter in the gallery, or
some foreign painter, as he stands before his easel, intent
upon copying a favorite original. The most unique feature
in the collections of which this city boasts, however,
is doubtless the gallery of portraits of celebrated painters,
chiefly by themselves. How interesting to turn from the
immortal products of the pencil, to the lineaments of the
artist! Raphael's sweet countenance, eloquent with the
refined beauty which distinguishes his works, and subdued
by something of the melancholy associated with his
early death; Perugino, his master; Leonardo da Vinci,
who first developed the principles of that progress in art,
which was perfected during the fifteenth century, who so
earnestly and successfully devoted his life to the advancement
of his favorite pursuit, and died in the arms of his
royal patron; Salvator Rosa, the poet, musician and
painter, recognised by his half savage aspect, who so delighted
in scenes of gloomy grandeur, and studied nature
with such enthusiasm amid the wilds of the Appenines;—
all, in short, of that glorious phalanx, whose best monuments
are their works.
The bronze statue of Perseus, under the allogii of the
gallery, reminds the passer of one of the most remarkable
characters to which Florence has given birth. Born on
the night of All Saints' day, Cellini assures us he was
rapturously welcomed to the world by his father, who, as
if anticipating his future celebrity, instantly greeted him
as Benvenuto. Like Salvator Rosa, music, at first, disputed
the empire of his mind with the other arts, and his remarkable
performance on the flute, was the primary occasion
Indeed, the artist's father most pertinaciously fixed all his
hopes for young Cellini's advancement, upon his proficiency
in this accomplishment. Benvenuto's ambition,
however, was of a far more various and earnest nature
than the success of a mere musician could gratify. To
please his parent, however, he long continued to devote
much time to practising upon his favorite instrument,
although the employment was frequently an occasion of
ennui and disgust. At length, having been apprenticed
to a goldsmith, the skill he displayed in the finer departments
of the trade, indicated, in a striking manner, the
true bent of his genius. Henceforth, we find Benvenuto
constantly employed in various places, and everywhere
with distinguished success. It strikes us, at the present
day, with no little surprise, to perceive the enthusiasm
excited by labors of such a nature as employed the mind
of Cellini; but the exquisite grace and rare invention he
displayed, were as significant of talent to the admirers of
art, in the fifteenth century, as the gifted limner exhibited
on his canvas, or the statuary in his marble. His abilities
were in constant requisition, and seemed to have excited
equal admiration whether bestowed upon a button for the
Pope, a chalice for a Cardinal, or a salt-cellar for King
Francis.—At one time we find him engraver to the mint
at Rome, and at another, exercising all his ingenuity in
setting a precious jewel, executing an original medal, or
designing the most beautiful figures in alto relievo, upon
a golden vase, for some Italian prince. For a considerable
period, he was without an equal in his profession.
to have been concentrated upon sculpture, of which the
Perseus is the most celebrated specimen. The account
he gives of the difficulties surmounted in casting this
statue and the unworhy treatment he received from the
Grand Duke, in regard to his recompense, is among the
most painful examples of the trials of artists. Cellini's
life was one of the most singular vicissitude. Frequently
changing his abode, working under the patronage of various
princes, of a bold and active temper, his memoirs
present a picture in which the quiet pursuits of an artist are
grotesquely mingled with the experiences of an adventurer.
One day, banished from his native city for having been
engaged in a bloody quarrel, another, high in the confidence
of kings and popes; now pining in the dungeon
of St. Angelo, which he once so gallantly defended, and
now rich and honored in the service of a magnificent
court. If we are to place the slightest faith in his own
testimony, Benvenuto proved himself equal to any exigency,
and fairly overcame his various enemies by his prompt
courage, or quick invention. He is certainly the prince
of boasters. The coolness with which he speaks of
despatching his foes, is startling to one familiar only with
these peaceful times; and the ingenuity with which he
baffles those who are not to be reached by the sword, is
most remarkable. A striking instance occurred while he
was in the employ of the King of France. Madame
D'Estampes, who seems to have been extremely disaffected
towards Benvenuto, induced the king to inspect
some of his most recent works at an hour the most unfavorable
effect, affixed a torch to the arm of a statue of Jupiter;
and while his female enemy and the monarch were regarding
his studies, in the dusky light, he suddenly ignited
the torch, and wheeled the Jupiter into the centre of the
room. The effect was most vivid, as the light was placed
at exactly the right angle to show the figure to the best
advantage. Francis received a new and powerful impression
of the genius of Cellini, and Madame's design
was completely counteracted. The versatility of talent in
the character of Benvenuto was not more surprising than
his boundless self-confidence. How much are we indebted
to this quality for the fruits of genius! Gifts of mind,
unaccompanied by a vivid sense of their existence, are
of little benefit to the world. Consciousness of power,
firm and unwavering, is the best guarantee for its appropriate
exertion. How much of the cool decision of great
men is attributable to confidence in their destiny! When
Napoleon was urged to leave a dangerous position, during
an engagement when the shot were flying thickly around
him, and calmly replied, `the ball is not yet moulded
which is destined for me,' who does not recognize one
secret cause of his intrepidity? No combination of circumstances
seemed adequate to shake Cellini's faith in
himself. He spoke as certainly of the issue of an experiment
in his art, as if it had been repeatedly proved.
Again and again he reinstated himself in the favor from
which the machinations of his rivals had removed him, by
the clear earnestness of his bearing. Whether discussing
the merits of a work of art, defending himself before a tribunal,
which had cost him years of toil, he seemed to act upon
the sentiment of the poet—
Better never have been born.”
It cannot but provoke a smile in contrast with the theories
of later moralists, after having followed Benvenuto
thruugh an unequalled category of brawls, duels, amours
and intrigues, to find him consoling himself in prison by
communing with angelic visions, and cheering his heart
with the conviction that he is an especial favorite of Heaven.
Benvenuto closed his adventurous life where he
commenced it; and was buried with many honors, in the
church of the Annunziata, at Florence. His native city
is adorned with the chief ornament of his genius; and
the exquisite specimens of his skill as a jeweller and engraver,
are scattered over the cabinets of virtuosi throughout
Italy.
The opera-house of Florence, called the Pergola, is
remarkable for its chaste interior. Romani's poetry has
recently given a new interest to this favorite amusement.
It seems almost to have revived the dulcet numbers of
Metastasio, and wedded to the touching strains of Bellini,
leaves no occasion to regret the earlier eras of the musical
drama. The want of permanent prose companies in
the different cities of Italy, as schools of language, is a
great desideratum; and the number of trashy translations
from the French, degrade the national taste. Sometimes
the excellent company of Turin, including the inimitable
and furnish a pleasant pastime at the Cocomero, while
during Carnival, Stenterello dispenses his jokes and
rhymes at the Borg' Ogni Santi. In Florence, alone, is
enjoyed the opportunity, at certain seasons, of witnessing
Alfieri's tragedies. The stranger, too, cannot but gratefully
recur to the comedies of Goldoni. They furnish
him with an admirable introduction to the language; and
when he is once more at home, and would fain renew the
associations of every day life in far distant Italy, he has
only to peruse one of these colloquial plays, and be transported,
at once, to a locanda or a caffé. Goldoni's history
is intimately associated with his comedies. Successively
a student of medicine, diplomacy and law, a maker
of almanacs, and a comic writer, his personal adventures
abound in the humorous. He solaced himself, when unfortunate,
by observing the passing scene. When jilted
by a woman, or cheated by a knave, he revenged himself
by showing up their conduct as a warning, in his next
play. He looked upon the panorama of human existence,
not as a metaphysician, but as a painter, not to discover
the ideal, but to display the actual. Yet he often aimed
at bringing popular vices or follies into contempt, and frequently
with no little success. At a time when ciscesbeism
and gambling prevailed in Venice, he portrayed
their consequences so graphically, that, a for time, both
practices were brought into disrepute; and when the
Spectator began to be read, and it became fashionable for
women to affect philosophy, he turned the laugh upon
them with his Filosofo Inglese. His comedies have
truth to nature. Although much attached to Venice, his
native city, which he declares was never revisited without
discovering new beauties, Goldoni seems to have highly
enjoyed his long residence at the French court. He
boasts of having an excellent appetite after every fresh
mortification; and when care or sickness made him
wakeful, he was accustomed to translate from the Venetian
into the Tuscan dialect, and then into the French, by
way of a soporific. Overshadowed as his buoyant spirit
was at last, by illness and reverses, his happy temperament
made his life pleasant. He had the satisfaction of
feeling that, through his efforts, comedy was reformed
in Italy, and his country furnished with a stock of standdard
plays, of excellent tendency, sixteen of which were
composed in one year—no ordinary achievement of industry.
The house of the Buonarotti family has recently undergone
extensive repairs. But the rooms once occupied
by Michael Angelo, remain unchanged, save that
around one of them are arranged a series of paintings,
illustrative of the artist's life. How Florence teems
with the fame of this most gifted of her children! How
rife are his sayings on the lips of her citizens! How
eloquently do his works speak in the city where his bones
repose! As the Cathedral dome first greets the stranger's
eye, or fades from his parting gaze, how naturally does
it suggest the thoughts of St. Peter's and the artist's
well known exclamation! In a twilight walk along the
river-side, as we watch the evening star over San Spirito,
anatomy. If we pass the church del Carmine, we are
reminded that he there studied the early efforts of Massacio.
In the gallery, we behold the Dancing Faun,
whose head he so admirably restored, wonder at the
stern face of Brutus, or ponder his own portrait. In the
Piazza is his David, in the church of San Lorenzo, his
Day and Night, and that perfect embodiment of Horatio's
familiar phrase—`a countenance more in sorrow
than in anger,'—the statue of the Duke of Urbino.
Here he made his figure of snow; there he buried his
sleeping Cupid, which was dug up for an antique. Near
St. Mark's was the school of sculpture, where he first
practiced. In Santa Croce is his tomb. The memory
of Michael Angelo constitutes the happiest of the many
interesting associations of Florence. Not less as a man
than an artist, does his name lend dignity and beauty to
the scene. We look upon the master-lines of his unfinished
works, and realize the struggles of his soul towards
perfection. Truly has one of his biographers remarked,
`his genius was vast and wild, by turns extravagant and
capricious, rarely to be implicitly followed, always to be
studied with advantage.' But we think not merely here
of the sculptor, painter, architect, philosopher and poet;
we dwell upon, and feel the whole character of him who
so nobly proved his eminent claim to these various titles.
As we tread the chambers where he passed so many nights
of study, so many days of toil, as we behold the oratory
where he prayed, or stand above his ashes, we think of his
noble independence which princes and prelates, in a venal
grand and beautiful in human nature, and of his true affection
which dictated the sentiment—
Love cannot find than that in loving thee,
Glory to that eternal Peace is paid
Who such divinity to thee imparts,
As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.”
For fame, he cherished no morbid appetite. He was
conscious of loftier aims. His letters and sonnets
breathe the noblest aspirations, and the most perfect
love of truth. When refused admittance to the Pope's
presence, he quitted Rome in disgust; yet watched as
tenderly by the sick-bed of a faithful servant, as at that of
a son or a brother. As the architect of St. Peter's, he
declined all emolument; and kissed the cold hand of
Vittoria Colonna with tearful reverence. After eighty-eight
years spent in giving a mighty impulse to the arts,
in cultivating sculpture, painting, poetry and architecture,
in observing `the harmless comedy of life,' in proving the
supremacy of genius over wealth, of moral power over
rank, of character over the world, Michael Angelo died,
saying, `My soul I resign to God, my body to the earth,
and my possessions to my nearest kin.' He left a bequest
of which he spoke not, for it was already decreed
that his fame and example should shed a perennial honor
upon Florence, and for ever bless the world.
THE THESPIAN SYREN.
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued.
Byron.
1. I.
It was towards the close of a cool but delightful autumn
evening, in Milan, the best part of which I had vainly
spent in searching for a friend. All at once it occurred
to me that he might beat the opera;—yet, thought I, F—
is very fastidious, and there is no particular attraction to-night.
Thus weighing the matter on my mind, I came
within sight of the Scala, and I was soon at the door of
Count G—'s box, where F— was generally to be found.
The orchestra was performing an interlude, and the foot-lights
beaming upon the beautiful classical groups depicted
on the drop. My friend was not visible, and I should
instantly have retreated, had not a side glance revealed
to me the figure of a young man, seated in the shadow of
the box curtains. Count G— was partial to Americans,
and I scrutinized the stranger, thinking it not impossible
of a Scotch student, with whom I had exchanged
a few words at our table-d'hote in the morning. It was
several minutes before I satisfied myself of his identity,
so different was his aspect and demeanor. He sat opposite
me, at the table, and was engaged in a most lively
conversation with a flaxen-haired daughter of Vienna,
who appeared delighted with the opportunity of reciting
the story of her travels to a new acquaintance, which she
persisted in doing, notwithstanding the obvious displeasure
of her father, a military character, who morosely devoured
his dinner beside her. Her auditor repaid the
lady's condescension with an account of the customs and
traditions of the Highlanders, in doing which the keen
air of his native hills seemed to inspire him; for from a
constrained and quiet, he gradually glided into a free and
earnest manner, and evolved enthusiasm enough to draw
sympathizing looks even from a coterie of native Italians,
his opposite neighbors. Frank Graham was now in a
totally different mood. He sat, braced in his seat, as if
under the influence of some nervous affection; his lips
when released from the restraint imposed upon them,
quivered incessantly, and—it might have been fancy—but
I thought I saw, in the dusky light, several hasty tears fall
upon the crimson drapery. There is something in the
deep emotion of a man of intellectual vigor—and such,
Graham's table-talk had proved him—which interests us
deeply. The very attempt to check the tide of feeling,
the struggle between the reason and the heart, the affective
and reflective powers, as a phrenologist would say,
to the Scala, and silently resolved to lead off my fellow-sojourner
from the memory of his disquietude, or draw
from him its cause, and, if possible, act the comforter.
With this view, I approached him carelessly, as if I had
not noticed his emotion, and proffered him the greetings
of the evening. He looked at me vacantly, a moment,
but soon rejoined with cordiality. Then rising and
drawing his cloak around him, he seized my hand and exclaimed—`Let
us leave this place, my friend.' There
was confidence implied in his tremulous tones, yet I was
half in doubt as to the propriety of alluding to his obvious
depression. It was a fine moonlight night, and we
walked side by side for several minutes, in silence.
`How long since you left home, Mr. Graham?' I inquired
by, way of beginning a colloquy. `Five minutes
ago, or thereabouts,' he replied huskily. I halted in surprise,
and gazed upon him in wonder. He stopped also,
and observing my astonishment continued in a clearer
voice, `Do not be alarmed my friend; I am perfectly
sane; literally speaking, I left Scotland five years since,
but just now your voice aroused me to a consciousness of
where and what I am. I have been carried back not only
to my country, but to my youth, to its richest hour, to
its most vivid epoch; you, by a word, dissolved the spell:
—there is the famous cathedral, this is Milan, and I am
nothing now but Frank Graham; but one memento of
my recent fairy land remains'—and he pointed to the
moon.
`Oh what mistaken kindness we sometimes practice!'
I thought to divert your attention. Forgive my
intrusion, for many, many injuries are fanciful and unworthy
the name, compared with that which drags a happy
idealist from his ærie in the heavens, down to life's common
and desert shore.'
`Say you so, my friend?' returned Graham, `then you
will not laugh at an incident in the life of an enthusiast.
Come, come,' and he drew my arm within his, and quickened
his pace. The window of my room at the Albergo,
reached to the floor, and overlooked a small garden; as
we entered, I placed the lamps in a distant corner, threw
open the curtains and admitted the full light of the moon.
`Now, Heaven grant,' said I, as Frank Graham esconced
himself in a corner of the sofa, and filled his glass
from a flask of red wine—`Heaven grant that your's is a
tale of love and chivalry, for such a scene ill befits an unromantic
legend.'—`It is, indeed, a glorious night; but
who ever heard, in these days, of a poor Scotch student
essaying at tournament or holy war, except in the field of
fiction, as here,'—and he lifted `Ivanhoe' from the
table—`yet remember that this lovely orb smiles equally
upon the love-vigils of the Highland chief, as upon those
of the knights of old, and her beams must seem as romantic
to you, while I improvise a chapter of my autobiography,
as they did to Rebecca the Jewess, daughter of
Isaac of York, when the wounded knight related, at the
same witching season, his adventures in Palestine.'
2. II.
The vivid impression which our `first play' leaves upon
moralists, as to that greatly mooted point—the true
influence of the drama. Perchance from the deep and
splendid visions thus awakened to the fancy, the clear
and romantic aspect which humanity thus portrayed assumes,
we might discover no questionable affinity between
our own unsophisticated natures and the dramatic art, we
might appreciate the importance of such an institution as
the theatre to civilized man, to the dawning mind, to the
human being as such; we might with perfect consistency,
learn to rank the legitimate drama in the poetry of life.
But however this may be, there are many incidental experiences
where an universal end is pursued. About
every general object, personal associations abundantly
cling. There is deep truth in the great German writer's
remark—`every individual spirit wakes in the great
stream of multitude.' Lamb's first visit to the theatre was
powerfully associated with a plate prefixed to Rowe's
Shakspeare. This event with me, is linked with a deeper
reminiscence, for it occurred at an age of deeper susceptibility.
`I was educated at the University of St. Andrews, and
from a three years' residence there, divided between study,
solitary walks along the sea-shore, and attendance upon
prudential lectures daily delivered by the maiden aunt
with whom I resided, I was, all at once, removed to the
metropolis and entered as a law student. At Edinburgh,
I boarded with a distant relation who was a great musical
amateur. In his house there also resided a very eccentric
man, a dramatist by profession. He had an interest in
composed or adapted them to the stage. The manager
of one of the principal theatres was his intimate friend,
and had exerted himself to bring out Mr. Connington's
dramas so successfully, that they were then yielding him
a very handsome income. At every meal, dramatic literature
was discussed, and the merits of various actors canvassed.
Not infrequently my kinsman, who was quite an
adept in such matters, gave imitations of the best tragedians,
by way of an evening's pastime. As you may
suppose, I soon became much interested in the subject of
these conversations. To me a new field of thought was
opened. And yet evening after evening, I declined invitations
to attend the theatre. This was thought quite surprising,
particularly as I manifested so much interest in
every thing that was going on there, and after a while took
no inconsiderable part in the dramatic conversations.
The truth was, my imagination was wrought up to the
highest pitch. My `first play' assumed an importance
in my mind, which it is difficult to describe. I came to
regard it as one of the great epochs of existence. I anticipated
its effects as nervous people sometimes fancy
the operation of some powerful nostrum, or as I can imagine
Sir Humphrey Davy looked forward to the effect
of a new gas. In consequence of this feeling, I made
great preparations for the event. I read Shakspeare with
greater attention than ever before, informed myself of the
history of the drama, read innumerable criticisms, biographies
and lectures illustrative of the whole subject, and
finally determined to be governed by circumstances as to
`I entered our little parlor one cold, drizzly evening,
five years ago this very night, my head throbbing with six
long hours' delving into the mysteries of the law. In no
very good humor, I seated myself before the grate to
await the dinner hour. I was gazing rather moodily at
the fire, when something intercepted its rays; I looked
up, Mr. Connington was at my elbow holding a printed
bill before me. I could distinguish but one word, `Virginius.'
`Mr. Graham,' said my friend, `you must go
to-night.'—`I will,' said I, and we sat down to dinner.
`During the meal I was unusually silent. I was quite
oppressed with the thought that I was so near an end so
long anticipated. I fancied I had been too precipitate.
I felt like one standing at the entrance of a splendid
Gothic cathedral; it seemed to me that a single step
would bring me into an overpowering scene.
3. III.
`How little, my friend, can a man of acute, lively sensibilities
calculate upon the experience that awaits him!
A skilful devotee of science can predict, with a good degree
of certainty, the approach of celestial phenomena,
the existence of unseen fountains, and even the direction
of the unborn breeze; but who has the foresight to prophecy
the destiny of feeling—to indicate the next new
influence which shall arouse it, to trace its untravelled
course, or point confidently to its issue? A man conscious
of a fathomless tide of feeling within him, who throws
himself into a world of moral excitements, knows but
suffer agony—often to enjoy delight. But the very means
he thought would prove most magnetic, may absolutely
fail to attract, and some unexpected agency, of which he
dreamed not, may approach the unguarded portal of his
soul, and take it by surprise. Such was my experience
when I trusted myself to dramatic influences. I had
thought to be subject to them as a philosopher; but while
seeking this end I was taught most emphatically to realize
my own humanity.
`The leading actress on the Edinburgh boards at the
period to which I refer, was Helen Trevor. This was
not, indeed, the name by which she was known to the
public; for being the daughter of a distinguished performer,
it was deemed expedient for her to appear under
her mother's family name, which was one of the highest in
the annals of the British stage. I first saw her in Virginia,
and never, no, never can I forget that memorable
evening. In the first act, when Virginius says to Servia,
`Go fetch her to me,' I observed all around me silent and
intent from expectation. It was not till the deafening
greetings had subsided, that I raised my eyes, and then
my cherished ideal of female beauty was realized. The
chaste dress of white muslin—the thick dark ringlets
about the neck—the simple girdle—the little satin band
around the beautiful brow—the quiet, gentle and touching
simplicity of the air and accents—all, all are before me.
How deeply I sympathised in the indignation of Virginius—how
I wept when he recited his daughter's praises!
Unfortunately, the part of Icilius was played by a novice.
as they were, might have been subdued; but while all
the other characters satisfied me, his, Virginia's lover's,
the very part with which I felt myself identified, was
shamefully weak. I was absolutely maddened. The theatre
vanished from my mind. I thought of nothing,
cared for nothing but that fair young creature, and
the idea possessed me, with a frightful tenacity, that
I should one day be the true Icilius. As the play proceeded
I became more and more lost in this idea. It was
only when the wretched personator of the Roman lover
came on, that the illusion vanished. And then a bitter
and impatient hatred possessed me. I longed to clutch
the young man, and hurl him away. And when the
Roman father, in solemn and touching tones, said—
That this young creature I present to you
I do pronounce my profitably cherished,
And most deservedly beloved child—
My daughter truly filial, both in word
And act, yet even more in act than word—
box thought I was faint and proffered her salts. I took
the vial mechanically, but was not recalled; for a moment
after, when the words reached my enamoured ear—
Her father has been—added unto all
A lover would be?
what rushed to my lips, I rose, sprang upon the seat,
—I felt a hand close tightly over my mouth, and myself
lifted into the lobby, whence I was hurried, without a
word, into a hackney coach, by the dim lights of which I
discovered Mr. Connington, who had firmly grasped one
arm, while a gentleman, whom I recognised as an occupant
of the box, held the other. They evidently thought
me mad.
`This adventure was a salutary and timely lesson.
Never again did I betray any emotion. But I felt the
more. The drama which I had fancied would produce
such mighty effects on my mind, was nothing except as
it was associated with her. O my friend, you can have
no idea of what mingled ecstacy and bitterness is involved
in the love of an object of public admiration! Sometimes
I would have given worlds if Helen had been a
tradesman's daughter, living in honorable obscurity, and
then when evening came, I saw her personating the
grandest female characters of history, arrayed in an ideal
costume, uttering the noblest sentiments, and appearing
as the faithful, the self-denying, the beautiful representative
of her sex; and then, in those moments, I wished
her ever to be the same. But poor Shakspeare! where
was my reverence for him? Strange fantasy, the world
would have thought, had I written a new commentary on
his tragedies, to declare that the most eloquent line in Romeo
and Juliet was Lady Capulet's, `Nurse, where's my
daughter? call her forth to me'—and in Othello's speech,
the most awakening phrase the last, `Here comes my lady,
they called first upon the stage Juliet and Desdemona.
`Many weeks flew by, and my time was ostensibly divided
between Blackstone and the drama. My kinsman
frequently applauded this rare union of rational and imaginative
studies. `Few young men, cousin Frank,' he
would say, `choose so wisely. I perceive you did not
study the philosophy of the human mind, at St. Andrews,
in vain. Here you devote the day to legal investigations,
which, questionless, have a tendency to invigorate the understanding,
to create just habits of thinking, and train
the judgment; then your evenings are given to the greatest
imaginative amusement of this utilitarian age. You
cultivate a taste for the drama. Well, well, cousin, we'll
make a fine fellow of you yet.' In these remarks Mr.
Connington would coincide, neutralizing his praises
with the observation that Mr. Graham's dramatic criticisms
were, somehow or other, more vague and less to the
purpose, than before he attended the theatre.' Neither
of these sage observers of human nature, however, had
the least idea of the true state of the case. And, indeed,
it was not till late that I myself discovered with wonder
which partook strangely of regret and gladness, that it
was not Cordelia or Virginia that I loved, but Helen
Trevor.
4. IV.
`Hitherto my love had been ideal. Personal intercourse
had not revealed to me the imperfections of the
fair Thespian.—Report spoke highly of her character,
and the earnest approbation of the public sufficiently
remark would seem to a mere worldly reasoner, you
my friend, will understand me, when I assert that
few attachments excelled mine in real and beautiful sentiment.
It was much like the love which we know ardent
men have cherished for a portrait, a statue, or the being
of their dreams.—Whatever the object of my affections,
in reality, was—however tainted with the alleged evil influences
of her pursuit, however intellectually endowed or
morally gifted—remember that as presented to me, she
was always the living portrait of departed worth, the renovated
image of some hallowed being, the human embodiment
of a poet's dream. Naturally favored with a classical
species of womanly beauty, displaying manners in
which feminine grace and modesty struggled with a vivid
conception of the part she was representing—you cannot
wonder that a hallow of romance was thrown around the
person of my idol. I never saw her but as the personator
of virtue. No other parts were adapted to her talents.
And thus, to my ardent fancy, she became the personification
of all that was good, and beautiful, and true.
`It was not in human nature to be long content with
such a semi-interchange of sympathy. Alas! the thought
struck me, all at once, that there had been no interchange,
that my heart had been given to one who knew me not—
that I was no more to the Thespian than the multitude
who nightly witnessed her performance. I felt foolishly
conscious of my wandering moods. I resolved, after
long and troubled musing, to come face to face with the
admired actress. And yet I feared to adventure. The
What then? I should, at least, know my fate. Stripped
of the adventitious aid of her profession, she might prove
uninteresting. And then—I laughed wildly at the
thought—I should be free! Yet, in a moment I discarded
the idea. If I have been in bondage this month past,
thought I, then let me be a slave forever. It seemed to
me easier to die a victim to imaginary wo, than to return
again to barren studies or common cares. My resolution
taken, I grew impatient, yet never suffered myself
to think of what I was about to do, without realizing that
awe with which the German dramatist says all mortals
must `grasp the urn of destiny.'
`Capital, capital!' exclaimed Mr. Connington, one
morning, at the breakfast-table, as he laid down the Post
and resumed his muffin. `What is it?' inquired my
cousin, taking up the paper. `Why, an excellent criticism
on the Portia we saw Monday night.' `Ah! signed
F. G., too—who can that be?' `Who should it be but
Frank Graham?' asked the dramatist, his eye brightening
at the discovery. I could not deny the authorship. Mr.
Connington hastily swallowed his last cup of tea, and as
he left the room, with a significant nod, remarked—
`Well done, master Frank; she shall know it, too; she
shall, I declare.' I was after him in an instant. `My
dear Mr. Connington,' said I, `pray be careful. If you
choose to force this hasty notice upon the attention of
Miss —, do it in a way which shall impress her favorably
as to the author. See, see, my friend, that I am not
merged in her mind with the herd of coxcomb admirers
I spoke astonished him, but recovering quickly from his
surprise, he replied, `Why, look you, my young man;
the literary editor of this paper is the best friend her
family ever had; I mean he shall tell her. And should
you like to know her, Frank? I'll ask him to introduce
you. What say?' I could scarcely speak from agitation.
So near the object of my wishes? It seemed impossible.
Clinging to Mr. Connington's arm, I accompanied him
down to the last step, succeeding finally in hurriedly signifying
my assent. I was lost in joyful surprise, from
which I was aroused by my cousin's voice reprimanding
the porter for leaving the street door open, and hastened
in, to prepare for the expected interview.
`That long forenoon passed heavily enough. Not an
iota of legal knowledge did it bring me. The dinner
hour came. I longed to know if Mr. Connington had
seen the editor; but the conversation, for the first time
since my arrival in Edinburgh turned upon foreign politics,
and argument ensued. I thought it inexpressibly
tedious. My abstraction was noticed, which I did not
regret, since it relieved my suspense. `Frank,' said the
dramatist, `your wits seem a wool-gathering. Rally,
man!—you 're a critic, you know. I'm sorry my editorial
friend has gone to Glasgow for a fortnight. I saw
him this morning, just as he was starting. Give my
regards to Mr. Graham,' said he; `I hope to form his
acquaintance on my return—and then, as you say he's
really a fine fellow—I'll introduce him to Miss —; a
thing I would not do for many young men. The lady
I was terribly disappointed. A fortnight's delay
seemed an age. A proposal of my cousin suggested
consolation.—`Frank,' said he, `I want you to know
my friend Bouvier the composer; he has a sanctum near
the painting-room of the theatre—we'll go up and see
him to-night, between the acts.'
`The platforms extending over the wings, above the
stage are called the flies. They command a view of the
actors and the orchestra. It was necessary to cross these,
on our way to the composer's studio. I looked down a
moment as we passed, and was delighted to find that while
the stage was completely under my cognizance, I myself
was invisible to the performers, unless indeed they should
take great pains to spy me out. I determined to become
intimate with the musical occupant of this curious region,
that I might at will come hither, and, unseen, behold the
Thespian. Mr. Bouvier, upon my kinsman's favorable
representation of my talents, begged me to write the
words adapted to some opera music he was preparing.
And thus was I unexpectedly furnished with a reasonable
excuse for frequenting the vicinity of the hallowed scene
of my favorite labors.
`The next day, at about noon—the hour I had ascertained
she would be at rehearsal, I closed a huge volume
of commentaries, snatched up my hat, and, with a beating
heart, hastened to the theatre. I entered the private door,
passed through the corridors, by the range of dressing-rooms,
and, to my joy, encountered no one until I arrived
at the top of the stairs, where stood a knot of carpenters,
appearance. `Where is Mr. Bouvier's room?' I inquired.
`This way, sir,' said one of the men, conducting me
across the apartment to a little door. The moment he
retired, I gently closed it behind me, and found myself
alone upon the flies. It was sometime before, in the kind
of twilight which prevailed, I could distinctly behold the
scene upon the stage. Near the foot-lights stood a small
table, upon which three or four candles were burning
amid a mass of papers, two or three books, and a standish.
Here sat a portly man who, I afterwards learned, was the
prompter; beside him was a lad technically denominated
the call-boy; and standing about in groups, pacing in
couples to and fro, or ranged in order and reading their
several parts, were the performers. It was only now and
then that a phrase or two stole up to my ear from the
voices below, but the tones familiar to my dreams arose
not.—Suddenly the readers paused and looked round, as
if a new personage should appear. The prompter whispered
to the urchin at his side, and the boy ran towards
the green-room, shouting the name that was to me so
sacred. Presently the Thespian entered. I saw her for
the first time in the ordinary habit of her sex. Her dress
was simple, but becoming in the extreme. Her manner
of greeting the performers, and their obvious deference
towards her, confirmed me in the idea I had formed of
her lady-like demeanor in private life. Hearing some one
approach, I glided into Mr. Bouvier's room. But to this
post of observation I daily repaired. Thence I watched
every movement and caught every tone of the Thespian
over the old oaken beam, and gazed down upon the
rehearsals! The superiority of my charmer among her
mates, her self-possessed dignity under the trying circumstances
of her lot—I saw and marked from my ærie, and
fondly remembered ever. Sometimes I was tempted to
spring down into the midst of the group who were blessed
with her presence. At such moments I turned aside
and paced the platform, then looked down again, and
wrestled with my impatience till she departed, and then
hurried into the street to catch a glimpse of her beautiful
figure, as it glided through the neighboring thoroughfares
to her home.
`The fortnight elapsed; the editor returned. It was a
fine, clear morning—I remember it as if it were to-day.
I was earlier than usual at my post, and judged, from the
aspect of things below, that a quarter of an hour would
elapse before the performers would assemble. Helen
was there. I was at the office of the Post in a trice.
`Is Mr. — in?' I breathlessly asked. `He is,' was the
reply, and I was shown into the inner room.
`Good morning, sir,' I began. “I am Mr. Graham,
the gentleman whom you kindly promised to introduce to
Miss —. She is at the theatre now, sir; the rehearsal
has not commenced. Can you conveniently accompany
me at once?'
`Certainly, sir, with the greatest pleasure. I have to
see the lady myself. I brought a letter from her brother
in Glasgow.'
`How we got to the theatre, I cannot tell. One over-powering
was the turning point in my destiny. I answered only
in monosyllables to the editor's warm eulogiums of the
Thespian, and ran along almost dragging him, despite
his half articulated protestations against the pedestrianism
of country-bred Scotchmen. Emerging from the glare of
mid-day into the shadowy gloom of the theatre, we stopped
to take breath and accustom our dimmed vision to the
change. My companion taking my hand, drew me between
two scenes in about the centre line of the stage,
and there we began to observe.
`Is she here?' I asked faintly. Just then Helen appeared,
slowly walking up the stage, intent upon a manuscript.
She was dressed in a simple gown of black silk,
and over her neck was carelessly flung a shawl of richly
wrought lace of the same color. As she walked, the light
from a very high upper window fell directly upon her features;
and ever and anon, she lifted her full expressive
eye from the paper, and repeated to herself, as if to make
trial of her memory. When she came parallel with
us, my companion whispered her name. She turned towards
us; he stepped forward, and was instantly recognized
and kindly greeted. A few expressions passed between
them among which such words as—`news,' `cold,'
`Glasgow,' and others of an import so common-place
that they seemed to mock the solemn interest of my feelings,
when my companion beckoned me forward. I
approached with my hat in my hand and my heart in my
throat. `Miss —, this is the gentleman of whom I
spoke to you,—Mr. Francis Graham, of —.' `I
with a smile that thrilled me, and an accent that
seemed heavenly. I bowed repeatedly. I looked my
veneration and tenderness. I could not speak.
5. V.
`I had passed the Rubicon, and thenceforth obeyed
the impulse of my feelings fearlessly and freely. Every
night found me behind the wings. The best oranges
that searching could procure in Edinburgh, the fairest
roses of the public gardens, did I lay, as votive offerings,
on the shrine of my idolatry. Five memorable times I
attended the Thespian to her home. On three memorable
evenings I sat beside her, in the midst of her family.
I was abundantly content. If any thing had been necessary
to deepen my interest, it was afforded by the acquaintance
I now formed with her character. She followed
her profession uncomplainingly, for the sake of those dependent
for support upon her toils. During a morning
walk to Salisbury crags, I resolved on the succeeding
night to offer my hand to the Thespian. I determined
to marry her openly; to lead her before the public on her
farewell benefit. As I strolled back to the city, I was
composing the poetical address which I determined she
should speak on this occasion, when the door of my law
office, which I had mechanically reached, interrupted my
muse. I gravely entered, took down the proper
volume in course, opened it at the right place, and seating
myself before the extended page, fixed my eyes intently
Trevor.
`It was a lovely afternoon, the one preceding the evening
of my intended declaration. I was in my chamber,
cutting the dead leaves from some wild flowers, just
brought me from the country. Helen was to play Ophelia
that night, and these were destined for her `fennells,
columbines, and rue, her violets and daises.' There
was a noise in the passage. A sudden foreboding oppressed
me. The door slowly opened, and in walked
my old aunt, the Professor of Moral Philosophy in
the University at St. Andrews, my cousin and Mr. Connington.
There was an awful gravity in their countenances.
The flowers dropped from my hands; I was
aghast with astonishment and anxiety. The intruders silently
seated themselves. `Nephew,' said my aunt, in
the old lecture tone, but with unwonted severity of manner,
`I need not ask for whom those foolish weeds are designed;
I know all, sir. The disrespect you have shown
for the honor of your family, my honored kinsman has informed
me of. I warned him never to reprimand you,
but always to notify me of your misdemeanors. This he
has done, in season, happily, to prevent farther mischief.
Your learned friend, here,—and she pointed to the professor—starts
to-morrow for France. We have decided
that he shall be the companion of your travels. Prepare
to accompany him, sir.'
`Suffice it to add, that I was forced from Edinburgh
without being permitted to see the Thespian. Nearly
five years have I been on the continent. Knowledge I
in feeling. I have never entered a theatre since my departure
from home, till to night, the anniversary of my
`first play.' I ventured, and you saw how I was over-come,
ay, and lured into repeating, for the first time during
my exile, the tale you have so patiently heard.'
`Receive my earnest thanks, and all my sympathy,' I
replied; `but what became of the Thespian?'—`She went
to America, and report says she is there married.'
`One query more ere you go'—for he had risen to depart—`deep
as is your grief, you evidently have a theory
that supports you. I have seen you cheerful—what is it?
He smiled, and taking a miniature edition of Childe Harold
from his pocket, said, `It is written here;' then
grasping my hand, he repeated with great force and pathos,
the following lines:
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode
In bare and desolated bosoms: mute
The camel labors with the heaviest load,
And the wolf dies in silence: not bestowed
In vain should such examples be; if they,
Things of ignoble or of savage mood,
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay
May temper it to bear,—it is but for a day.
MODENA.
With most prevailing tinsel.”—
Keats.
Of all the strong holds of despotism at present existing
in Italy, Modena excites in the mind of a republican
the greatest impatience. The narrow limits of the state
are in ludicrous contrast with the tyrannical propensities
of the government. One cannot approach the neat
little capital and gaze through the vine-ranges of the contiguous
plains, to the distant and snow-clad Appenines,
without dwelling regretfully upon the political condition
of a people, upon whose domain nature has lavished her
resources with a richness that would seem to ensure their
prosperity and happiness. The conduct of the Modenese
during the revolutionary excitement, which agitated this
part of Italy several years since, and which is now alluded
to with a significant shrug, as l'affare di trent`uno, and
the sufferings consequent upon its failure, are such also
as to elicit the hearty sympathy of every true friend of liberal
under the escort of the single battalion of his troops, who
mained faithful to him, assured one of his old domestics,
who expressed much commiseration on the occasion, that
in three days he would return and quell the little disturbance.
For more than a month, however, the capital remained
in the possession of the people, who displayed
during this exciting epoch, a singular respect for individual
rights, and maintained a degree of order and good
faith, worthy of a more fortunate issue. Even the priests
assumed the tri-coloured cockade; and among the armed
citizens were many of the sturdy peasants from the neighboring
hills. And when the fugitive prince returned from
Vienna, at the head of fifteen thousand Austrian troops, a
large body of the national guard displayed the most commendable
bravery in defending those of the revolutionists
who were compelled to flee, conducting them in safety,
and not without several severe skirmishes, to Ancona,
whence they embarked for different ports in the Mediterranean
and Adriatic. A series of executions, imprisonments
and confiscations followed, and the traveller continually
meets with the unhappy effects of this impotent
attempt to establish liberty, in the number of impoverished
individuals, the restricted privileges of all classes, and
the increased rigor of the police. The manner in which
the plot was discovered was rather curious. One of the
conspirators was arrested on suspicion of theft, and thinking
all was known, spoke so freely of the plan and persons
pledged to its support, that every important detail
was soon revealed.
After this abortive revolution, no political event has
agitated the north of Italy, until the unexpected occupation
of Ancona by the French. An occurrence which
recently took place there was the occasion of much merriment.
It appears that among the French officers, was
one who prided himself greatly upon his skill with the
broad-sword. In order to give scope to this talent, he
had deliberately bullied nearly all his colleagues, besides
a large number of Italian gentlemen into quarrels, and
having invariably come off triumphant, his arrogance was
proportionably increased. At length weary of the peaceable
life he led and impatient for a new victim, he entered
the principal caffé in Ancona, one evening when it was
fully occupied, and for want of a better subject, fixed his
regard upon an athletic and handsome priest who was
quietly reading at a table. Monsieur took a seat by his
side. The priest soon after called for a cup of coffee,
which the officer immediately took possession of. The
latter not doubting it was done through inadvertance, renewed
the order; the Frenchman eagerly grasped the second
cup also. Without losing his patience in the least,
the priest for the third time repeated his demand, and
again his tormentor unceremoniously appropriated the
beverage to himself. By this time, the singular behavior
of the duellist, had attracted the attention of every one
present; and the priest in an elevated but calm tone, turning
to his tormentor, exclaimed, “How unworthy a man
of true courage, to insult one whose profession forbids resentment!”
The officer started to his feet in a rage—
“Priest, or no priest,” said he, “you have called me a
also risen and folding his robes about him, with dignified
coolness he addressed his adversary. “Sir, you
shall be satisfied. I believe among those of your profession,
it is customary for the challenged party, to choose
the place, time, and weapon. Accordingly, sir, let the
place be here, the time now, and the weapon this,” and
with a single blow he hurled him upon the floor in the
centre of the room. The crest-fallen bully was glad to
make his escape, amid the jeers of the company.
A few plain tomb-stones, in an enclosure just before
reaching one of the gates, indicate the Hebrew burying
ground. The sight of these isolated graves but too truly
illustrates the relentless persecution which still follows
the Jews in Italy—a spirit which was manifested with no
little severity by the reinstated Duke of Modena. It having
been ascertained that four of the fraternity had taken
an humble part in the popular movement, a fine of six hundred
thousand francs was levied on the whole sect, and
their number being very small in the Modenese territory,
the payment of the tribute reduced a large portion of the
Israelites to absolute beggary. A still more affecting instance
of the penalties inflicted upon the liberals of Modena,
came under my observation. In the carriage which
conveyed me from the little duchy, was a lady of middle
age, the expression of whose countenance was so indicative
of recent affliction, as to awaken immediate sympathy.
I remarked, too, that peculiar manner which evinces superiority
to suffering, or rather a determination to meet opposing
circumstances with decision of character and moral
the uprising of a woman's spirit, after the first burst
of passionate sorrow over the mysterious destiny, so truly
described by one of the sweetest of female poets—
in the calm attention with which the routine of life's
duties are fulfilled, as if they no longer interested the feelings,
but were simply dictated by necessity. It is seen in
the long reveries which occupy the intervals of active engagements;
and it is to be read at a glance in the tranquil
tone, the changeless expression, and the mild composure
which touch with something of sanctity, the person
of one whose existence is bereft of its chief attraction. I
was soon persuaded that such was the case, with the lady
who sat beside me in the Modenese voiture. She answered
my questions with that ready affability which belongs
to the better class of Italians, and with the quick intelligence
of a cultivated mind. For some time our conversation
was of a general nature, until I learned that the
object of her journey was to remove a son from college,
who, for some years, had been pursuing his studies in
Tuscany This led us to speak of education—of its momentuous
importance, and of its neglect in Italy. I remarked
that it seemed to me that the prevailing corruption
of manners was attributable chiefly to the want of good
domestic culture; that the homes of the land were not the
sanctuaries for the mind and affections they should be, because
expediency alone was the basis of most of the connections.
when, alas, there are those who have the independence
and the feeling to disregard the dominant system, and
create one of the sacred homes which you say grace your
native land, death soon severs the ties which were too
blessed to continue.” Tears filled her eyes, and it was
long before she recovered her equanimity sufficiently again
to engage in conversation. I subsequently learned that
this lady was the widow of a distinguished scientific professor
of Modena, who had ardently sympathised in the
vain attempt of his countrymen to enfranchise themselves
from the trammels of despotism. In consequence of his
prominence as a man of letters, it became necessary for
him on the unsuccessful termination of the struggle, to
leave the state. He accordingly fled to Corsica, where
he soon received from the Grand Duke of Tuscany, an
invitation to visit Florence, and the offer of a valuable
professorship. When this became known to the Modenese
government, he was informed that if he did not return
to his native state, his property would be confiscated;
while it was well known that on his re-appearance within
the precincts of the duchy, his head would pay the forfeit
of his attachment to freedom. He was, therefore, soon
joined by his family, and long continued to perform his
duties with distinguished success at Florence. By a species
of compromise, his wife enjoys a limited portion of
her just income, by residing most of the year upon her estates,
the remainder going to increase the ducal treasury.
The husband had died a short time previous, and his
widow was then returning from one of her annual sojourns
to which parental love led her to submit, in order to
preserve the already invaded rights of her fatherless children.
The general policy of the Duke of Modena accords
with this spirit of petty tyranny. He is now carrying into
execution many costly projects, some of which, indeed,
tend to embellish the city; but the means to defray them
are provided by taxes as contrary to the spirit of social advancement,
as they are onerous and unwise. It is sufficient
to mention the tribute exacted from all foreign artists,
who execute works at the quarries of Carrara, a measure
utterly unworthy an enlightened European ruler in
the nineteenth century. The countenance of this prince
struck me as altogether accordant with his character; and
the manifest servility of the vocalists at the court opera,
was something new and striking even in Italy. It was
not a little annoying, too, to hear in that splendid spartito
of the Puritani—
Io pugnerai da forte;
Bello è affrontar la morte
Gridando libertà—
heart, the word loyalty substituted for liberty.
The ducal palace of Modena is truly magnificent. Unfortunately
the grand saloon has proved unfit for the festive
scenes it was designed to witness, from the powerful
echo produced by its lofty and vaulted ceiling. Music,
and even the voice when slightly elevated, awakens such
a response as to create anything but an harmonious impression.
of which this elegant hall constitutes the centre, are
adorned with beautiful frescos, and lined with the richest
paintings. Among the latter, is a fine crucifixion by
Guido, and the death of Abel by one of his most promising
pupils. I examined this picture with interest when
informed that the author died very young. The meek
beauty of Abel's face, bowed down beneath the iron hold
of the first murderer, whose rude grasp is fiercely fixed
upon his golden hair, while the hand of the victim is laid
deprecatingly upon his brother's breast, abounds in that
expressive contrast which is so prolific a source of true
effect in art, and literature and life. The pleasing impression
derived from dwelling upon the numerous interesting
paintings here collected, is somewhat rudely dispelled
when one emerges from the palace into the square,
and sees the soldiers parading before the gate, and artillery
planted in the piazza, and turns his thoughts from the
ennobling emblems of genius, to the well appointed machinery
of despostism.
In a chamber of the ancient tower, is preserved the old
wooden bucket which is said to have been the occasion of
a war between Bolgna and Modena. It is suspended
by its original chain from the centre of the wall, and is
regarded as a curious and valuable relic, having been immortalized
by Tassoni in his celebrated poem La Secchia
Rapita. My memory, however, was busy with another
trophy memorialized in modern poetry. I remember
hearing a gentleman who had won some enviable laurels
in the field of letters, declare that the most gratifying
with which a country lass regarded him in a stage-coach,
after discovering that he was the author of a few verses
which had found their way into the reader used in the
public school she attended. This class book was the first
work which had unveiled to the ardent mind of the maiden,
the sweet mysteries of poetry, and this particular
piece had early fascinated her imagination, and been
transferred to her memory. In expressing her feelings
to the poet, she assured him that it had never occurred to
her that the author of these familiar lines was alive, far less
that he was so like other men, and, least of all, that she
should ever behold and talk with him. It seemed to her
a very strange, as it certainly was a delightful coincidence.
And such is the universal force of early associations, that
we all more or less share the feelings of this unsophisticated
girl; and in a country where education is pursued on a system
which is prevalent with us, many minds derive impressions
from school-book literature, which even the more
ripened taste and altered views of later life, cannot efface
Often have I thus read with delight one of the prettiest
sketches in Roger's Italy—
Stop at the palace near the Reggio gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini;
The noble garden terrace above terræce,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you, but before you go,
Enter the house—forget it not I pray,—
And look a while upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,” &c.
Little did I think in the careless season of boyhood,
that the opportunity would ever be afforded me of following
the poet's advice. Yet here I found myself in Modena,
and it seemed to me like an outrage upon better
feeling, as well as good taste, not to adopt the pleasant
counsel that rang in my ears, as if the kind-hearted banker
poet inclined his white locks and whispered it himself.
I lost no time, therefore, in inquiring for this interesting
picture, but in vain. By one of the thousand vicissitudes
which are ever changing the relics of Italy to the eye of
the traveller, Ginevra's portrait had been removed from
its original position. The oldest cicerone in the place
assured me that he had ineffectually endeavored to trace
it. It was evidently a sore subject with him. `Many
an English traveller, signor,' said he, `has asked me
about this picture, and again and again have I labored to
discover it. It fell into the hands of a dealer in such
things, who does not remember how he disposed of it.'
So I was obliged to rest content with the legend, and
imagine the countenance of her whose strangely melancholy
fate so awed the fancy of my childhood.
A JOURNEY.
Business both and contemplation;
Active without toil or stress,
Passive without listlessness.
Leigh Hunt.
Female beauty and fine weather are, by no means, every-day
blessings in Italy; but, when there encountered,
possess a magical perfection, which at once explains and
justifies all the eulogiums bestowed upon the land. And
it is the conjunction of these two attractions, which, at
some happy hour, imparts a charmed life and interest to
the traveller's experience. One of the last of these fortunate
occasions I enjoyed, while traversing that beautiful
new road, that now extends the whole distance from Pisa
to Genoa, sometimes intersecting a fine range of the Appenines,
and at frequent intervals, following the shores of
the Mediterranean. It was a cloudless and balmy day.
Around us were the mountains, and the sea far away to
the left, visible from every summit, when halting at a post-house
by the road-side, a melody suddenly struck our ears
is a great relief to the soul, when filled with the inspiration
of Nature; it is the natural language of sentiment,
and if at such times, its breathings unexpectedly greet us,
they are doubly grateful. The sweet strain which we lingered
long to enjoy, proceeded from two peasant girls,
who were standing just within the threshold of a neighboring
dwelling, accompanying themselves with a guitar.
They were gaily arrayed and decked with flowers. I
have seldom seen more perfect specimens of rustic beauty.
The face of the eldest, indeed, possessed a noble grace
which would have adorned a court. Her features were
perfectly regular, and seconded her music by the most
varying expression. Sometimes one voice rose in a clear,
joyous note, and then both mingled in a quick, chanting
measure. At length they ceased and smilingly sauntered
up the highway. We inquired the meaning of this concert,
and were told that these lovely girls were celebrating
the return of May, according to a custom in that region.
The vocalists are generally selected for their beauty and fine
voices, and pass many days, early in the month, going
from house to house, to pour forth their hymns. In such
usages there is refreshment. They prove that the poetic
element has not died out. How true to our better nature
is this going forth of the young and fair to welcome with
grateful songs, the advent of spring!
On this route I fell in with an unusual number of the
old soldiers of Napoleon. I have often been struck with
the enthusiasm, with which many of the Italians allude
to his genius and fate. A priest once hearing me venture
view, were not quite orthodox, drew me aside, and with
the utmost solemnity, assured me it was very sacrilegious
to speak so confidently of one who had been commissioned
by Heaven to consolidate Europe, to destroy the tyrants
of Italy, and unite in a happy and prosperous whole
her divided and oppressed states—objects, he added,
which would have been admirably accomplished, if Satan
had not tempted Buonaparte into Russia. A Genoese
captain, who had made several voyages to the East, told
me that his ship touched at St. Helena, the very day Napoleon
died. He was surprised not to hear the usual gun,
and after waiting several hours without receiving the customary
visit of inspection, went on shore, and when on
returning, he communicated the tidings, every sailor wept!
In Romagna, I travelled several days, in the wake of a
voiture containing a remarkably agreeable party; and we
invariably dined together on the road. During the evening,
there was always considerable pleasant conversation,
but one old gentleman, who was exceedingly affable to
every one else, treated me with the most marked reserve.
I puzzled myself, in vain, to account for his conduct,
when on the last evening we were together, he happened
to become engaged in a controversy with one of the company
in regard to some law or custom of England. After
a warm discussion, he appealed to me in support of
his assertions. I was obliged to confess my utter ignorance
of the matter. He regarded me with the utmost
surprise, and observed that he could not understand how
an Englishman could be unacquainted with the subject.
very incredulous and begged to know of what country
I was. The mention of America, seemed to awaken as
lively emotions in his heart as in that of orator Phillips.
His expression wholly changed. Throwing back his
cloak and deliberately rising from his chair, he approached
me with an air of the greatest earnestness: “Sir,” he
exclaimed, “forgive me. I have taken you for an Englishman,
and have never been able to endure one of that
nation, since its dastardly conduct towards Napoleon, under
whom I served many years. An American! ah! that
is very different. In my garden at Parma, I have placed
two busts, which I daily contemplate with perfect admiration,—Michael
Angelo, and George Washington;” so
saying, he embraced me most cordially, and during the remainder
of our journey, atoned for his previous silence,
by the most devoted courtesy.
At about noon we reached Massa. This is one of the
most picturesque of the minor Italian towns. It is nearly
surrounded with high mountains, covered thickly with
olive-trees. Below lies a pretty vale whose wild fertility
is increased by a swift stream coursing through it. On
the hill above is an old fortress, and on the shelves of the
mountain a cluster of houses. An inscription garlanded
with weeds, on the gates, indicates its Roman origin.
The principal street is completely grass-grown, and as I
wandered there at noon-tide, looking up at the immense government-house,
so out of proportion to the town, the echo
of my footsteps was startling, and no human being appeared,
except here and there, an ancient figure whose white
antique and deserted aspect of every thing around.
Yet nature smiles benignantly upon this secluded spot.
Several rich little gardens and many clusters of orange
trees, which here bloom all the year, gave evidence of the
peculiar mildness of the air. Completely sheltered by
the hills, admirably exposed to the sun, and visited by the
breeze from the Mediterranean, of which it commands a
beautiful view, one can scarcely imagine a more genial
retirement or a scene better adapted for romance, especially
as the inn-keeper's daughters have long been justly
celebrated for their beauty. The possession of Massa
was often warmly contested by the Pisans, Lucchese,
Florentines, Genoese, and innumerable princes and
bishops. Its castle has been repeatedly besieged. At
the present day, quietude and age brood with something of
sanctity over the picturesque town; and it reposes in the
midst of beauty so serene, that, on a fine summer day,
the heart of the returning traveller is beguiled by an unwonted
spell, to linger and muse there over his past enjoyments
or future prospects, in view of that element
which is soon to bear him, perhaps forever, from the
time-hallowed and tranquil precincts of the old world.
Carrara, which place we reached early in the afternoon,
is also begirt and overshadowed by the Appenine.
Some of the peaks seemed as bleak and snow-clad as
many of the Swiss mountains. In the heavy sides are
embedded the apparently inexhaustible quarries of celebrated
marble, generally lying in alternate masses of black
and white. It is astonishing to observe how little the inventions
the working of these quarries. Serious accidents are of
frequent occurrence from the fall of rocks, and the road
down which they are transported is choked up and rugged
in the extreme. The loss of time and damage to the
material in consequence, may be easily imagined. The
people of Carrara live by their labors, variously directed,
in quarrying, sawing and removing the marble, and there
are many studios in the town where the rough work of
the sculptor is performed, and copies of celebrated statues
executed for sale. As I descended from the quarries, and
looked around upon the scattered fragments of marble,
there was something most interesting and impressive in
the thought that from this spot have proceeded the material
of those countless creations of the chisel now scattered
over the globe. How triumphant is the activity of
the human mind! how productive the energies of art!
From the rocky sides of these rugged hills, what shapes
of beauty and grace have arisen!—the forms of heroes
and sages centuries since blended with the dust, the faces
of the loved whose mortal lineaments will be seen no
more, and creatures of imaginative birth radiant with
more than human loveliness. Donatello, Michael Angelo,
Canova, Thorwaldsen, Bartolini, and innumerable other
gifted names rush upon the heart and associate the mountains
of Carrara with noble and lovely forms. We gaze
with reverence upon a spot which fancy peoples with an
unborn generation of the children of genius. A halo of
glory environs the hill-sides whence have gone forth so
many enduring symbols of the beautiful and the grand.
On reaching Sarzana, at night, it was rather difficult to
realize upon refering to the signatures on my passport,
that during the day's ride of less than forty miles, I had
passed through the territories of five Dukes—a striking
evidence of the divided state of Italy. At dawn, the following
day, we crossed the Maga in a broad, flat ferry-boat,
and as the grey light fell upon a time-tinted village
on an adjacent hill, the scene would have furnished a
pretty subject for a landscape, including the dingy stream
and motley cargo of quaintly-attired travellers, weather-worn
peasants and white cattle. On landing, a carriage
passed us under the escort of four gen d'armes on horse
back, conducting an unfortunate party to the frontiers,
who had been discovered travelling without a passport. The
scenery grew more rich and variegated until in descending
a hill, we came at once in view of the beautiful gulf
of Spezia. Upon its finely-cultivated borders, are several
low, massive and ancient forts. Not far from the shore
a spring of fresh water gushes up through the sea. In
the midst of the calm, blue bay, several fishing vessels lay
at anchor, distinctly reflected on the water. Along the
beach were sauntering dark-visaged men with long red
caps, and many sunburnt and savage-looking women,
with curions little straw hats, placed coquettishly upon the
side of their heads. Everywhere is the sea sublime, its
breezes invigorating its music plaintive; but when it flows
thus clear and broad to the shores of a southern land, there
is an unspeakable charm in its presence. The waves
seem to roll with conscious joy to the warm strand, and
throw up a shower of sparkling tears as they retreat, and
like Valor bracing Love.
Here some of the happiest months of Shelley's life were
spent. He loved to go forth in his boat alone upon this
bay and commune with himself in the moonlight. Here
he enjoyed during the last year of his existence, the society
of a few cherished associates, and here his wife and
friends vainly awaited, in agonizing suspense, his return
from that fatal expedition to Pisa whither he had gone to
welcome Hunt to Italy.
It was between the Arno and Serchio that Shelley's
boat went down, and on the shore near Via Reggio, that
his body was burned under the auspices of Lord Byron.
And meet lone Death on the drear ocean-waste;
For well he knew that mighty shadow love
The shining caverns of the populous deep.'[2]
How appropriate to the beach of Spezia are his touching
lines, written near Naples:—
With green and purple sea-weed strown:
I see the waves upon the shore
Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone,
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet did any heart now share in my emotion.'
GENOA.
“The ocean-wave thy wealth reflected.”
Rogers.
`The beauty of an Italian sunset has not been exaggerated
either by the pencil of Claude, or the pen of the poets,'
I musingly affirmed, while loitering down a long curving
declivity, in the twilight of a warm summer evening.
The farthest range of hills my eager vision could descry,
were bathed in a rich purple, occasionally verging to a dark
blue tint, the adjacent sea glowed with saffron hues, while
the horizon wore the aspect of molten gold, fading toward
the zenith, to a pale amber. The pensive whistle of
the vetturino came softened by the distance to my ear. Before
me was the far-stretching road, and around the still
and lonely hills. A few hours previous, we had left the
little town of Borghetti, and on the ensuing day, anticipated
repose within the precincts of that city, which enriched
with the spoils of a splendid commerce and brilliant maritime
adventure, so long boasted the title of superb; that
city whose neighborhood gave birth to Columbus, and
who prides herself, in these more degenerate times, in
having produced the prince of fiddlers. The wide sweeping
chain of the Appenines we had traversed, is covered
rock-ribbed as to have rendered the construction of the
road an enterprise of extreme difficulty. For a long distance
there is no sign of life, but the venerable looking
goats clambering about in search of subsistence, and the
children that tend them, whose air and faces are painfully
significant of premature responsibility. Sometimes we
came in sight of the sea, calm as crystal, and dotted with
a few distant sails. It was easy to realize the bleak
and dangerous ride to which the traveller is here exposed
in winter. But the succeeding morning displayed a new
and richer vegetation. Aloes and fig-trees, remind one
of Sicily, a resemblance which the vicinity of the Mediterranean
enhances. The first part of the day's ride, lies
along the margin of the water, and afterwards chiefly over
verdant hills, which often slope down to the shore. The
gulf of Sesto, as you withdraw from it, appears singularly
graceful. Its beach has a most symmetrical curve. So
placid was the water, that the town of St. Margueritto, seen
from above, was perfectly reflected as in a mirror, and the
picture resembled a miniature Venice. The scenery
throughout the ride, is remarkably variegated; and the
garniture of the country sufficiently blended between vegetable
gardens, olive and fig orchards, and wild trees to
render it pleasingly various. Several grottoes are passed
which are plastered over interiorly, in order to prevent
the springs from dripping; but the lover of the picturesque,
cannot but wish they had been left rough-hewn
like those of the Simplon. From the last of these, Genoa
is seen far below on the borders of the sea. The
It gives no idea of majesty. Clusters of lemon and
orange line the remainder of the way, as well as innumerable
villas admirably exposed to the sea-breeze, but as
usual, lacking the vicinity of trees—a charm which rural
taste can scarcely consent to yield, even though the deficiency
is supplied by inviting verandahs.
There are decided maritime features, even upon first
entering Genoa. The mixed throng, the sun-burnt faces,
the garb and even the manners of the lower order, immediately
bespeak a sea-port. From the extreme narrowness
of the streets, much of the actual beauty and richness of
the city is hid from the gaze. Even the numerous palaces
do not at first strike the stranger, situated as they frequently
are, in thoroughfares so confined as to afford no
complete view of their façades. Many a pretty garden
and cool arbor is placed upon a roof so lofty, or a terrace
so secluded, as to be wholly concealed from observation,
yet affording retired and delightful retreats, overlooking
the bay, and no less attractive to the meditative recluse
or the secret lovers, from being far above the crowd and
out of sight of the curious,—the country in the very
heart of the city, a garden independent of territory! Many
of the peculiarities of Genoa, are fast losing themselves
in modern improvements. The streets are widening every
year, and carriages, once quite unknown, are coming
daily in vogue. There is something here congenial with
the alleged sinister tastes of the Italians. The finest caffé
is in an obscure street. One is continually stumbling
upon luxurious arrangements, and agreeable nooks,
hue of the marble, and the marine odors bring constantly
to mind the rival republic of the Adriatic. The churches
are far more rich in frescos and marble, than any other
work of art. In that of the Scuola Pia, however, there
are some exquisite basso-relievos by a Genoese. In one
of them the face of Mary is very sweet and graceful. The
palaces are the chief attraction of Genoa. In one we admire
the profusion of gold and mirrors, with which the
lofty saloons are decorated; in another the magnificent
stair-case; here the splendid tints of the marble floor, and
there the fine old family portraits. These noble and
princely dwellings, eloquently speak to the stranger of the
wealth, luxury and taste, which once prevailed here; nor
judging by one example, should I imagine that their empire
had ceased. Having occasion to seek an old baron
well known for his liberal taste, after roaming over his
immense garden, till weary of peeping into arbors and
temples, I found him in a cool grotto at breakfast with a
party of artists. His beautiful domain was once an ancient
fortress. All the earth was transported thither, and
he has spared no pains to make it a paradise. On every
pretty knoll he has placed a bower or statue. Busts of
departed sages are reared beside murmuring fountains.
One little building is appropriated to his library; another
to scientific apparatus. One terrace rises above another,
bedecked with rose bushes and fragrant shrubs. From
this point you behold a beautiful vista, and from that look
down upon the public walk, around upon the city, or far
away on the wide blue sea. I would not recommend an
climbing necessary in perambulating the streets. The
women are often pretty and have in general a Spanish look.
Formerly they universally wore the long and graceful white
muslin veil flowing backward as the Milanese did the
black. Many have now adopted the more artificial style
of French costume. The facchini are uncommonly impertinent,
and the people for the most part, very saving
and quiet, rather proud and generally industrious. Genoa
now exports little but silk or velvet, although she
continues to furnish the best mariners in the Mediterranean.
The Sardinian flag is often seen in the Brazils, and
West Indies, though rarely in the East.
Among the by-way oddities of the place are the numerous
parrots and little naval officers arrayed in the costume
of adults, although sometimes only nine years old.
In the street of the jewellers, there is a very pretty Madona
about two centuries old, the painter of which was killed
by his master from jealousy. The jewellers have
been offered large sums for this picture, but, considering
it as their guardian saint, they will not part with it
on any terms. In one of the thoroughfares a tablet
perpetuates the infamy of two traitors; and at another
angle, as if to atone for the shameful record, an
inscription upon an ancient palace, sets forth that it
was the gift of Genoa to the brave Admiral Doria,
in acknowledgement of his courage and patriotism.
Opposite to this interesting monument is the church
where the bones of the gallant hero are said to repose.
BOLOGNA.
What sacred oracle hath here a home?
Galt.
Italy is a land of contrasts. Its various cities are not
only characterized by diversity in the schools of painting
and architecture; but the natural scenery, the climate and
the dialect and manners of the people are, alone, sufficient
strongly to identify the different towns. It is not a
little surprising in the view of one habituated to the facilities
of communication existing in England and the United
States, to witness such striking contrasts between places
separated by a space of only one or two hundred miles;
and it is to be explained only by recurring to the original
distinctions of the different republics, and to the absence
of those motives for frequent intercourse which operate so
powerfully to equalise and assimilate commercial districts.
This contrariety is nowhere more observable than between
Florence and Bologna. We leave a city seated in the
midst of hills, over whose broad slopes, dotted with
where our eyes have grown familiar with the airy architecture
of the bridges, the massive dome of the cathedral,
and the graceful lightness of the campanile; where flower-girls,
loitering pedestrians, and gay equipages give life
and variety to the scene, in spite of the gloomy style of
the palaces, and the unfinished façades of the churches.
A few hours are passed in winding amid the Appenines,
and we walk the streets of a capital, where long lines of
porticos shade the thoroughfares, were a half-barbarous
accent destroys the sweetness of the language, and a certain
moroseness marks the manners of the people. There
is certainly a kind of natural language in cities as well as
in individuals, an inexplicable influence, which produces
a spontaneous impression upon our minds. Otherwise,
why is it that so many continental sojourners feel perfectly
at home in the Tuscan metropolis, and quite out of
their element in many other cities of Italy, boasting more
interesting society, and a more agreeable round of amusements?
In the passage of the Appenines, a lover of
mountain scenery will not be without the means of enjoyment.
The picturesque defiles and wild ranges, the
barren peaks and fertile slopes, the pebly dells and broad
undulations, though on a comparatively small scale as regards
grandeur, are yet sufficiently pleasing to yield that
sweet charm to the imagination which such scenery is fitted
to inspire. The only remarkable object of natural
curiosity encountered in the route is a species of volcano.
It was a beautiful evening when we left the miserable village
where we were to lodge, and sought this singular spot.
was cool and bracing, and over the western horizon, lingered
the rich, rosy glow that succeeds a fine sunset, as if
the portals of heaven were half-opened to the longing
gaze. Along the rocky path above us, several peasant
girls were carrying vases of water on their heads from a
favorite spring, singing as they went, and their clear
voices came with a kind of wild melody to our ears. The
whole scene was calculated to convey that soothing idea
of the repose of pastoral life, which, at intervals, fascinates
even those least inclined to solitude. We found the object
of our search in the midst of a stony soil. Flames,
evidently of ignited gas, issued from the ground in a circle
of about ten feet in diameter. About the centre, the
largest flame was red, and burned steadily; but the others
were of a pale violet color and quivered incessantly, seeming
to creep along the ground as the night breeze swept
over them. In truth the appearance of the fire was precisely
that which we might imagine of the magic circle
of some ancient sorcerer; and the dreary loneliness of the
spot seemed finely adapted to the idea. The flames burn
more brightly after a rain, but no one in the neighborhood,
recollects any particular change in the volcano. It has
never been known to disgorge sulphurous matter, or exhibit
any different phenomena than at present; but ever
burns with a constant and apparently inextinguishable
fire.
Porticos line all the principal streets of Bologna; and
however convenient their shelter may prove to a pedestrian
on a rainy day, it requires no little time for the
they prodace. The most extensive line of these arches
is that which leads from the city to the Church of St.
Luke, a distance of three miles. The promenade on a
fine day, displays at every turn, beautiful views of the surrounding
plains; and the elevated position of the temple
of the patron saint of the Bolognese, approached by such
a noble range of porticos, strikes the traveller as a well conceived
idea. The passion for this style of building has
extended to many of the adjacent towns, and the three
first tiers of the spacious threatre of Bologna present the
same favorite form. The gloomy aspect of this species
of street architecture, is enhanced by the solitude that
prevails in many parts of this extensive town;—and late
in the evening, when the lamps shed a dazzling light at
intervals through the long and silent vistas of the less frequented
ways, a scenic effect is produced favorable to romantic
impressions. I remember being struck, upon entering
the city after night-fall by one of its most solitary
gates, with the picture formed by a decrepid and withered
old woman, seated at the foot of one of the pillars of a
dark portico, roasting chesnuts. The lurid glare of her
charcoal fire shot up, in fitful flashes to the top of the
arch, bringing her haggard features into strong relief,
while all around was involved in deep shade.
Perhaps the most impressive of the traveller's experience
in this unprepossessing city, is the view from the
summit of the old leaning tower in the piazza, and two
or three of the faces depicted on the inspired canvass of
the old masters in the academy. The eye of Raphael's
celebrated “Massacre of the Innocents,” and especially the
upturned and beaming look of Guido's Magdalen crouched
at the foot of the cross, haunt the imagination long
after the eye has ceased to behold them. Sir Joshua
Reynolds always urged his scholars to make a long sojourn
at Bologna. The most annoying feature in the
present aspect of this city, is the presence of the Austrian
troops, sputtering their gutturals in the caffés, parading
beneath the arcades, and drawn up in files in the saloon
of the theatre. Everywhere one encounters the insignia
of military despotism, and, perhaps, to a liberal mind
the most painful associations are derived from the appearance
of some of the fine-looking Swiss officers—sons
of the mountains and recipients of nobler political influences
than their fellows, and yet content to be the hireling
oppressors of a foreign soil.
One of the richest palaces in Bologna, belongs to Bacciochi,
who espoused the sister of Napoleon, and there
is scarcely one of its splendid apartments unadorned with
some memorial of his person or life. Here is a portrait
exhibiting the free and fresh expression of irresponsible
youth; there the same brow appears shaded by a military
cap or glittering coronet; here that extraordinary countenance
is exquisitely delineated upon a small surface of
ivory, and there elaborately carved in the centre of a pietra
dura table. In the centre of a richly-curtained cabinet
is his bust by Canova; over the fire-place of a silken-hung
bed room, is his head encircled by rays; and on
the damask walls of the magnificent saloon, hangs his
In another apartment, we behold his statue in marble,
surrounded by those of his family; and on a slab, in an
adjoining room, we gaze on the same remarkable features
fixed in the still rigidity of death, in the form of a bronze
cast taken after his decease. It is enough to temper the
eagerness of the veriest enthusiast in pursuit of glory, to
wander through this quiet, lofty and elegantly decorated palace,
and as his eye rests upon these memorials, call to mind
successively the most wonderful epochs of Napoleon's life.
He seems almost to move before us, as the drama of his
memorable career is acted rapidly out in the imagination.
We remember his early achievements, his startling victories,
his suddenly acquired empire, the grandeur of his
projects, the immense sacrifice attending their fulfilment,
and, at length, the waning of his proud star—his fall, exile,
and death. How brief a period has sufficed to transfer
the deeds of Europe's modern conqueror to the calm
sphere of history, and enthrone his terrible name amid
the undreaded though solemn past!
Enterprise and genuis in most of the departments of
human effort meet with so little pecuniary encouragement
in Italy, that they almost invariably excite sympathy for
the ill-rewarded toil of the votary. An exception to this
rule I witnessed in Bologna, in the person of Rossini,
the composer, whose operas continue to yield him a handsome
income. But a case more in accordance with the
prevailing spirit, is that of a Bolognese physician, who,
for several years, was attached to the military service in
Greece and Egypt. While in Nubia, at great expense,
excavating a pyramid, and bringing away the contents of
a sarcophagus which he discovered within. According to
the opinion of the most esteemed archeologists whom he
has consulted, this pyramid was erected seven hundred
years before the Christian era, by King Tahraka. The
collection consists chiefly of ornaments of the finest gold
—rings, bracelets, and neck-laces, upon which are wrought
the various devices and emblems of Egyptian lore. Many
of these are exceedingly curious, and different from those
previously known. But the most singular circumstance
attending this excavation is, that among the articles
disinterred is a cameo, representing a head of Minerva,
executed in a style altogether beyond the epoch in the
history of art, from which the other objects evidently date.
In fact, there are obvious indications that the stone is of
Grecian workmanship. The only satisfactory solution
which has been given to this problem, is that the pyramid
although commenced during the reign of Tahraka, was
not completed until after an interval of three hundred
years—a supposition which is confirmed by the difference
observable in the angle and quality of the stones. This
valuable collection still remains upon the hands of the
enterprising excavator, although it so richly merits a place
in some public museum, for which object it would doubtless
be purchased—as the poor physician regretfully declared
—if it had been his lot to be a native of England or
France, instead of impoverished Italy.
One of the most remarkable of Catholic fertivals—
called the Day of the Dead—occurred on the loveliest day
language rather than that of mortality and decay. The
road leading to the celebrated Campo Santo was thronged
with people walking beneath the glad sky, in holiday
attire; and there would have been one universal semblance
of gaiety, but for the moaning tones and wretched appearance
of the beggars that lined the way. The numerous
arcades of the extensive burying place resounded with the
hum, bustle, and exclamations of a careless crowd, who
moved about like the multitude at a fair. But for the
countless busts of departed worthies, the numberless inscriptions,
and the echoes of the mass floating from one
of the open chapels, it would have been impossible to
believe, that this concourse had assembled ostensibly to
remember and honor the dead. To the view of a stranger
nothing could be more incongruous or strange than the
scene. The cypresses and cenotaphs assured him he was
in a burial place; while every moment he was jostled by
a hurrying group, and his ears saluted with peals of discordant
laughter, the leering whisper of the courtezan, and
the stern reproof of the soldier. And yet in his answer
to the inquiries which curiosity promotes, he is told that
this day is conse crated to the departed, that this throng
have assembled to think of, and pray for them, and that
these tapers are placed by surviving friends around the
tombs of the loved and lost. There was something jarring
to every nerve, something that mocked every hallowed
association in this rude contrast between the solemn
emblems of death, and the eager recklessness of life. I
suggested the idea of inexorable and unmitigable destiny,
and despair. It was as if men would confront the dark
doom of mortality with hollow laughter and raillery. So,
at least, the scene impressed one spectator, to whom it was
new; yet habit, or their peculiar creed, had apparently
associated it in the minds of the multitude with no such
shocking suggestions. It was affecting to notice, here and
there, a monument unilluminated—perhaps that of a
stranger, who died unhonored and unsoothed, or the ancient
mausoleum of such who could claim kindred with
the place and the people, but whose memories inexorable
time had consigned to the dark abyss of forgetfulness.
LUCCA.
“In the deep umbrage of the olive's shade.”
Childe Harold.
The Lucchese look upon the mountains. Does not
this, in some measure, account for their love of liberty?
It may seem rather more fanciful than philosophic, but
one can scarcely perambulate, on a fine day, the delightful
promenade, which surrounds the walls, and gaze on
the adjacent hills, without realizing, as it were, in the
tenor of his musings, something of the elevated and inspiring
sentiment, so beautifully typified by their green
and graceful loftiness. `High mountains are a feeling;'
and were we to analyse the emotions they excite, surely
the sense of freedom would be prominent among them.
Not less in the spirit of wisdom than of poetry, should we
found a city among the hills. Let the souls of men
grow familiar with their sky-pointing summits, their blue
waving lines, the dark hugeness of their forms at night-fall,
and the rosy vestment thrown around them by the
morning. It was not an accidental combination that
Hofer in the midst of the Tyrol. Originally a Roman colony,
Lucca, in the middle ages, was repeatedly bartered away
by successive masters, in consequence of the liberal principles
of her inhabitants, until she succeeded while in the possession
of Florence, in purchasing her freedom of Charles
IV, for two hundred thousand guilders. One of her first self-created
rulers was Castruccio, a warrior pre-eminent for
consummate bravery; and, although involved in numerous
wars, she maintained her independence till the time
of Napoleon. It was a happy circumstance for the Lucchese,
that the Emperor's sister who virtually governed
them, had learned from her brother Lucien while in Paris,
to love and respect the cause of Poetry and the Arts.
Elise delighted in exhibiting this new-born taste, by a
generous patronage of genius; and the traveller meets
with many affecting proofs of the attachment in which
her memory is still held by the people.
Well do the inhabitants of this little duchy, deserve the
appellative so long, by general consent, bestowed on
them, of the industrious. Fields of flax, and vegetable
patches of the most promising aspect, indicate to the
stranger his vicinity to Lucca. A rocky vein of soil and
many cliff-like hills affords genial ground for the olive,
and a certain superior quality in the fruit or peculiar care
exercised in the manufacture, renders the oil here produced,
preferable to that of any other district in Italy.
Within a few years, fortunes have been made by the fabrication
of paper and silk. The hangings of the Palace,
indeed, furnish a striking proof of the degree of excellence
more rich, however, in works of art. There is a picture
by Annibal Carraci, representing the Woman taken in
Adultery. An expression of profound sorrow and benevolence
illumes the Saviour's countenance. Hehas risen
from the stooping posture he had assumed in the presence
of the malignant accusers, and seems just to have dismissed
the woman who, kneeling at his feet, is gazing despairingly
upon his face. Her eyes are full of eloquent
sorrow. We can almost see the tears; but her anguish
is evidently too deep for weeping, while something like
the light of hope mingles with and beautifies her expression;
as if his forgiving accent had already fallen upon
ner soul. In the same apartment hangs another painting
remarkable for effective coloring—Christ before Pilate,
by Gerardo delle Notti. The rays of a candle shine up
on the sharp Jewish features of the judge, and from amid
the dark shadows of the back-ground, beam forth, in calm
majesty, the serene lineaments of the accused. The capo
d'opera of this collection is a Holy Family by Raphael,
which some might be pardoned for esteeming above the
more celebrated one of the Pitti palace. The mother's
face is certainly more strictly Italian, and nothing can be
more sweetly eloquent than her downcast eyes meekly
bent upon the clinging child. Angelica Kaufman, who
learned painting from her father, and so speedily surpassed
him in skill, is said to have greatly preferred ideal female
figures, and, as her point of excellence was grace,
they were doubtless best adapted to her pencil. She
found, however, in real life, an admirable subject, in the
whose portrait taken at the moment of inspiration, graces
the Ducal gallery. It is a delightful and by no means a
common occurrence, in the annals of the arts, for one
gifted woman thus to celebrate another. The most renowned
picture, however, at present existing here, is the
Assumption, by Fra Bartolomeo, in the Dominican convent.
A young artist from Rome, patronised by the Duke,
was my cicerone at Lucca, and, after viewing the palace,
we adjourned to his studio, to look over his designs.
Some of these indicate no ordinary talent. One of them
illustrates an instance of sudden vengeance recorded in
the history of Tuscany. Cosmo de Medici, as the story
runs, having discovered an intrigue between his wife and
a page, sent for a priest and executioner, and when all
was ready, called her into the apartment, made known
his discovery, and giving a signal, the favorite was murdered
before her eyes. The moment chosen, is when the
enraged husband, having displayed an intercepted letter,
is uttering the fatal word. The scene was most vividly
sketched by the young painter—the deep but diverse emotions
of the several parties, being most strongly depicted
in their attitudes and expression.
But the period of my sojourn at Lucca, was not altogether
favorable to a quiet and leisure survey of her attractions.
It was the anniversary of a triennial festa in
a neighboring town, and the inviting weather, and cheerful
faces of the throng swarming the gate, were enough to
lure even a passing traveller along the road to Pescia, the
birth-place of Sismondi. The contadini of this and the
were generally sallow, or very brown from exposure to
the sun; and those which age had stamped with furrows,
and shaded with gray locks, resemble the impressive
heads so often introduced in the pictures of the old masters.
The female peasants have the same sun-burnt appearance,
being equally accustomed to work in the fields.
They wore enormous gold and silver ornaments, often
preserving, in this form, all their superfluous earnings.
On this occasion, too, their best mantillas were in requisition,
of a snowy whiteness, and frequently embroidered
with no little taste. This simple, but most becoming
head dress, is in beautiful contrast with their olive complexions
and raven hair. It is a charming pastime for a
native of the North, to thread such an assemblage of the
rustic fair of the South. Sometimes a face is encountered,
so bland, innocent, and passively beautiful, but for the
rich jet eyes, as to revive the sweet impressions which
poetry inspires, of what an English poet considers the
most divine coincidence in existence—`a lovely woman
in a rural spot.' To give variety to the otherwise pastoral
aspect of the scene, here and there, some exquisite from
an adjacent city, loiters along, and the venders endeavor
to call attention to their stalls, by loud and various cries.
Nuts, cheap toys, and pastry, comprise their merchandise.
And what are the ostensible amusements of such a
concourse? What spell preserves amid such a heterogeneous
mass, so much order and mutual courtesy? Whence
the charm that gives rise to such merry peals of laughter,
that arrays so many faces with gladness? Nature, indeed,
frowns. Doubtless, there is much delight in the simple
dolce far niente, much spontaneous joy in the social excitement
of the scene, to which the Italians of every
class are peculiarly susceptible. A festa in Italy, however,
must ever be more or less of a mystery to one wedded
to a cold philosophy. And yet I pity the man who
can roam through such a village, at such a season, and
not breathe more freely, and catch a ray of pleasure from
the light-hearted triflers around him. He may be wise;
he must be heartless.
The festa of Pescia was ushered in, as usual, by a religious
ceremonial. The principal church was arrayed
in crimson and gold, and illuminated with hundreds of
tapers. Mass was performed, and, for several hours, a
choir and an orchestra made the vaulted roof resound with
sacred melody. No peasant seemed satisfied till his brow
was moistened with the holy water, and his knees had
pressed the steps of the altar. The responses once uttered,
and the benediction received, they hastened again into
the open air, to chat with their fellows from the adjoining
district, or treat some favorite maiden to an ice.
In the afternoon, they flocked into the main street, to see
a race. Three or four horses, without riders, decked out
in gilt paper, and with briars shaking at their sides, are
started from a certain point. The crowd part before them,
and shout to quicken their career. No drunkenness is
seen, and the only apparent excess, is that of harmless
buffoonery. An illumination closed the festa. In the
evening, every window was studded with lights, and
every trace of its homely and every-day aspect, and seemed
a spot consecrated to romance. Then, all the women
appeared beautiful. The hum of conversation swelled
upon the night-breeze, Laughter echoed through the
streets. Children danced over the pavement in transport.
Old men walked slowly, smiling to their friends. Lovers
side by side, grew bold in their endearments. Jokes
were bandied freely. All deemed the hour one of those
lapses in the monotonous tide of life, when the deep of
existence ripples sportively, lulling to momentary oblivvion
all bitter memories, and throwing nought but bright
sparkles on the sands of time. Amid the surrounding
hills, from the shadowy olive-woods, numberless lamps
twinkled in fantastic groups. On their summits, lights
were arranged in the form of crosses. The sacred symbol
glittered thus from afar, like the vision of Constantine
in the sky. On the churches, the lamps followed the
lines of the architect, making them appear like temples
built of stars. And above all, in the midst of the solemn
firmament, the full moon sailed in unclouded beauty, as
if to smile upon and hallow the transient reign of human
festivity.
LEAF FROM A LOG.
`Once more upon the waters!'
Childe Harold.
Pictures of sea-life generally present the two extremes
of truth. When drawn by the professional mariner, the
shadows are often kept wholly out of view, and when
depicted by one to whom the element itself and all the
associations of shipboard are uncongenial, we have Dr.
Johnson's summary opinion re-echoed with the endorsement
of experience. Life at sea, as everywhere else, is
a chequered scene. Nothing can exceed the melancholy
of a cloudy day on the ocean, to the heart of one fresh
from endeared localities. The grey sky, the chilly air
and the boundless, dark mass of water rolling in sullen
gloom, fill the mind with sombre images. And when
night comes over the deep and the voyager retires to his
cabin, to muse over the friends and sweet places of the
earth left behind,—the creaking of the strained timbers,
the swaying of the flickering lamp, and the gurgling of
that weigh upon his heart. On the other hand,
what can give more buoyancy to the spirits than a
bright, clear day at sea, when with a fair wind and every
sail filled, the noble vessel rushes gallantly through the
water? It must be confessed, however, that there are
few occasions of more keen enjoyment than going on
shore, after a long voyage. Life seems renewed, and
old impressions become fresh when the loneliness of the
ocean is all at once exchanged for the busy haunts of
men, the narrow deck for the crowded street, the melancholy
expanse of waves for the variegated garniture of
earth. When naught has met the eye for many weeks
but sea and sky, when the social excellencies of a party
have been too largely drawn upon to be keenly relished,
and the novelties of voyaging have become familiar, the
hour of landing is anticipated with an eagerness only to
be realized by experience.
It was with no little impatience that we awaited the
lawn after casting anchor in the bay of Gibraltar. In
his instance delay was more irksome, as our arrangements
precluded more than a day's sojourn on the celebrated
rock. We found the town in a state of unusual
excitement from a report which was current, of the near
approach of the troops of Don Carlos. The people of
Saint Roque, the nearest Spanish town, were flocking
into the gates, many of the poorer classes laden with
their household effects. Never, to me, were the contrasts
between sea and land more striking. The wild
cry of the mariners had scarcely died away upon our
and the enlivening strains of martial music. As
we proceeded, groups of Jews were seen moving towards
the synagogue, their dark robes and grey beards blending
with the bright uniforms of the English officers who
gravely trod the crowded pavement. A swarthy peasant
with a steeple-crowned hat, was violently beating his
mules in the middle of the street, while directly under
the wall, a Spanish lady, with graceful steps, glided on
to mass. But our attention was soon completely absorbed
in a survey of the fortifications. Many hours
were spent in clambering over the rock, now pausing to
note the picturesque aspect of a Moorish castle, and
now to admire the marvellous vegetation of a little garden,
planted on a narrow shelf of the fortress. Here a
luxuriant aloe threw up its blue and spear-like leaves
above the grey stone; and there, a venerable goat was
perched motionless upon a projecting cliff. We wandered
through the extensive galleries cut in the solid rock,
one moment struck with the immense resources of nature,
and the next, delighted by some admirable device
of art. The light streaming the loop-holes, the large
dark cannon, and the extraordinary number and extent
of these galleries, fill the mind with a kind of awe.
At one of the most central points, we paused and gazed
down upon the bay. Our vessel seemed dwindled to the
size of a pleasure-boat. Opposite, appeared the town of
Algeciras, and immediately below, the neutral land between
the Spanish and British territory. This is the
duelling-ground of the garrison, and near by is a cluster
wind swept with a melancholy roar round the immense
rock. Our voices echoed through the long, vaulted archway.
As we clustered about the cannon, looking forth
from that dizzy height upon the extensive prospect, while
our guide rehearsed the capabilities of the position, and
pointed out the memorable points of the landscape, we
fully realized the impregnable strength of Gibraltar. Before
dusk we were under way, and rounding the majestic
rock, soon lost sight of its scattered lights and huge form
towering through the twilight. The American Consul
bade us adieu at the pier, and the facilities he had afforded
us during the day, led me to reflect upon the importance
of this office abroad, and the singular neglect of our
government to its claims. Politicians, among us, are so
absorbed in temporary questions and immediate objects,
that it is difficult to attract their attention to any foreign
interest. Yet, in a patriotic point of view, there are
few subjects more worthy of the consideration of political
reformers, than our consular system. Of the utter indifference
with which these offices are regarded, there
are many evidences. A very gentlemanly man who had
fulfilled the duties of United States Consul, at one of the
Mediterranean ports, for more than twenty years, was
waited upon one morning, by a stranger, who demanded
the seal and books of the consulate, showing a commission
empowering him to fill the station. Common
decency, to say nothing of civility, would require that
this gentleman should have received some official notice
of his expulsion. But the most curious circumstance
consul renewed his call, and stating he found the fees
inadequate to his support, destroyed his commission,
and departed. Another old incumbent, deservedly popular,
discovered, for the first time, through the public prints,
that his office had been abolished for more than a year.
At present, these offices are chiefly held by merchants,
whose personal interests are continually liable to conflict
with their duty as public servants. Our consuls, too,
usually depend upon fees for remuneration, and a large
part of these are paid by travellers. Those who make
several successive visits to the same city, paying, at each
departure, for the consul's signature to their passports,
cannot but feel annoyed at a tax from which other strangers
are exempt. If salaries were instituted, proportioned
to the labor and importance of each station, and liberal
enough to secure the services of able men, the result, in
every point of view, would be excellent. Generous and
enlightened views of national intercourse, are now rapidly
prevailing, and our country should be the first to give
them a practical influence. The French system is progressive,
and the consuls are, therefore, regularly educated
for their duty. The English consuls are accustomed
to furnish the home-department with useful statistica'
information, which is of eminent service to the merchant
manfacturer, and political economist. If these inquiries
were extended to scientific and other general subjects, it is
easy to perceive how extensively useful the consular office
might become. If there is any country, which, in
the present condition of the world, should be worthily represented,
commercial relations, and the rapid increase of American
travellers require it; but the honor of a young and prosperous
nation, and fidelity to the important principles of
freedom and popular education we profess, are still higher
reasons. Men of intelligence and observation, who shall
command the respect of their countrymen, and of the
courts to which they are sent, should be placed at these
posts of duty. Party feeling should be waived in such
appointments. They should be regarded not merely as
affording protection and facilitating intercourse, but as
involving high responsibility, and furnishing occasion for
various usefulness. Our consuls should have the interests
of their country at heart, not only as diplomatists
but, if possible, as men of literature and science, and, at
all events, as enlightened and generous patriots.
Day after day, we proceeded constantly in view of the
Spanish coast. It was delightful, at early morning, to
trace the fine outline of the mountains, broken, occasionally,
by a watch-tower, or, at sunset, behold the rich glow
gather upon their summits, and suffuse their misty robes
with beautiful hues. The still grandeur of the hills of
Spain thus bathed in softened tints, was in striking contrast
to the civil feud then devastating the country. Leaning
over the bulwarks, I loved to gaze upon these magnificent
boundaries of a chivalrous land, and muse upon the
decayed splendor of the Alhambra, the rich humor of Don
Quixote, or the wrongs and triumphs of Columbus. On
a clear and delightful morning, we came in view of Malta.
Perhaps there is no spot of such diminutive extent, that
rock, its commanding position early attracted the
arms of the Cathagenians, who were dispossessed by
the Romans. The island was occupied, in the middle
ages, by the Saracens and Normans, and in 1530, conferred,
by Charles V., upon the knights of Saint John,
who had been expelled from Rhodes by the Turks.
Thenceforth, Malta exhibited a new aspect. Fortifications
of great extent and admirable construction arose.
The one small stream of fresh water was carried to Valetta
by an acqueduct of a thousand arches. The noble
church dedicated to the patron saint of the order arose. A
hospital was built to accommodate two thousand patients,
and the vessels used in its service, were of solid silver.
Earth from Sicily, was spread over the rock, which soon
presented tints of lively green to contrast with the greyish-yellow
hue of the forts, and the deep blue of the sea.
As we were not permitted immediately to land, I had ample
opportunity to contemplate the interesting scene.
Several vessels of war were lying in the harbor, their large,
dark hulls casting broad and imposing shadows. The
castles of Saint Angelo and Saint Elmo, presented their
batteries at opposite angles, reviving the associations of
the memorable sieges which the knights so courageously
sustained. On one of these occasions, when the position
of the enemy intervened between the two forts, their
situation is described as trying in the extreme. The
waves were dyed with blood. The bodies of the knights
who perished at Saint Elmo, floated to the foot of Saint
Angelo, and were buried there. Many of them were horribly
breasts. At night, the fire wheels and other engines, illuminated
the scene of battle. The brave champions of
Christianity, met, for the last time, in their council hall,
wounded and spent with fatigue, and, having partaken of
the last religious rite, vowed to sacrifice themselves, and
return once more to the defence. When the moon arose,
and poured her tranquil light upon the harbor, its peaceful
beauty rendered such retrospections more difficult to
realize. The water rippled playfully around the mossy
walls of the forts. The mild lustre fell serenely upon the
tile covered roofs of the town, and bathed the lofty dome
of the Cathedral. The crowd passed cheerfully along
the quay, and the echo of a mariner's song alone disturbed
the silence of night. Now and then a boat shot
across the bay with its complement of passengers—a
priest, a soldier, and one or two female figures, shrouded
in black silk. It was impossible to peruse the scene and
not revert to those fierce struggles between the crescent
and the cross, and dwell upon the devoted enthusiasm
which led so many of the young and the brave to assume
the black mantle and holy symbol of Christian knighthood.
The inspiration of a Southern night aided the
imagination in conjuring from the bosom of the quiet waters,
the buried tales of romantic valor. Such dreams
were soon dispelled upon landing, for the Nix Mangare
stairs leading to the town, are always thronged with the
most importunate beggars. In the principal street, some
laborers were digging the foundation of a house. The
cellar is made by merely throwing out the calcareous soil
used, however, for floors, it is necessary to harden the surface
of the Malta stone with varnish or oil. A friend of
mine, at Palermo, who paved his house with this material,
and neglected thus to prepare it, discovered his mistake
in a very unpleasant manner. Soon after taking possession
of his residence, he gave a ball. After the third or
fourth dance, the gentlemen's coats were white with powder,
the air of the rooms was filled with fine dust, and the
next day, every one of the company complained of a sore
throat. We lodged at a hotel, formerly a knight's palace,
every apartment of which is of noble dimensions,
and richly decorated. The Grand Master's residence,
the splendid armory, the long lines of bastions, and the
monuments in the church of Saint John, are the most interesting
memorials of the knights. The old pits excavated
for preserving grain, which has been thus kept for
an entire century, are still used for a similar purpose.
A column on one of the ramparts, commemorates the services
of Sir Alexander Ball, to whom Coleridge pays so
high a tribute in the Friend. The gay uniforms of the
English officers give a lively air to the narrow streets of
Malta. At the opera, between the acts, the orchestra perform
“God save the King,” and every individual rises
and remains attentively standing until the music ceases
This silent recognition of national feeling, in a foreign
land is impressive and touching. Malta will not long
detain the curious traveller, when so near more interesting
localities. But while the novelty of its peculiar features
is fresh to the mind, they cannot fail to amuse.
place, connected as they are, almost exclusively with the
knights. A great variety in costume, and sundry singularities
in the habits and dialects of the natives, afford a
fund of entertainment for a few days' sojourn. The Maltese
still complain loudly of their grievances, and have
but recently succeeded in obtaining the freedom of their
press. Their African origin is strongly indicated in their
complexions and cast of features. Yet not unfrequently,
from one of the grotesque balconies, a dark eye gleams,
or a form is visible, which stays the steps, and provokes
the sigh of the stranger.
| Rambles and reveries | |