 | Rambles and reveries |  |
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.
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