University of Virginia Library

A JOURNEY.

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

attuned, as it were, to the very spirit of the scene. Music
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

some observations respecting him, which in his
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.
I assured him I had no claims to the title. He seemed
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

locks, and worn visage harmonized perfectly with the
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

of modern science have as yet been applied to
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

the cool, briny air steals over the fertile and sultry plains
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.

How appropriate to the beach of Spezia are his touching
lines, written near Naples:—