 | Rambles and reveries |  |
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.
| Rambles and reveries | |