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