University of Virginia Library

39. LETTER XXXIX.

I was loitering down one of the gloomy aisles of
San Marc's church, just at twilight this evening, listening
to the far-off Ave Maria in one of the distant
chapels, when a Boston gentleman, who I did not
know was abroad, entered with his family, and passed
up to the altar. It is difficult to conceive with what a
tide the half-forgotten circumstances of a home, so far
away, rush back upon one's heart in a strange land,
after a long absence, at the sight of familiar faces. I
could realize nothing about me after it—the glittering
mosaic of precious stones under my feet, the gold and
splendid colors of the roof above me, the echoes of
the monotonous chant through the arches—foreign
and strange as these circumstances all were. I was
irresistibly at home, the familiar pictures of my native
place filling my eye, and the recollections of those
whom I love and honor there crowding upon my heart
with irrepressible emotion. The feeling is a painful
one, and with the necessity for becoming again a forgetful
wanderer, remembering home only as a dream,
one shrinks from such things. The reception of a
letter, even, destroys a day.

There has been a grand festa to-day at the Lido.
This, you know, is a long island, forming part of the
sea-wall of Venice. It is, perhaps, five or six miles
long, covered in part with groves of small trees, and a
fine green sward; and to the Venetians, to whom leaves
and grass are holyday novelties, is the scene of their
gayest festas. They were dancing and dining under
the trees; and in front of the fort which crowns the
island, the Austrian commandant had pitched his tent,
and with a band of military music, the officers were
waltzing with ladies in a circle of green-sward, making
altogether a very poetical scene. We passed an hour
or two wandering among this gay and unconscious
people, and came home by one of the loveliest sunsets
that ever melted sea and sky together. Venice looked
like a vision of a city hanging in mid-air.

We have been again to that delightful palace of
Manfrini. The “Portia swallowing fire,” the Rembrandt
portrait, the far-famed “Giorgione, son and
wife,” and twenty others, which to see is to be charmed,
delighted me once more. I believe the surviving
Manfrein is the only noble left in Venice. Pesaro,
who disdained to live in his country after its liberty
was gone, died lately in London. His palace here is
the finest structure I have seen, and his country-house
on the Brenta is a paradise. It must have been a
strong feeling which exiled him from them for eighteen
years.

In coming from the Manfrini, we stopped at the
church of “St. Mary of Nazareth.” This is one of
those whose cost might buy a kingdom. Its gold and
marbles oppress one with their splendor. In the centre
of the ceiling is a striking fresco of the bearing of
“Loretto's chapel through the air;” and in one of the
corners a lovely portrait of a boy looking over a balustrade,
done by the artist at fourteen years of age!

Padua.—We have passed two days in this venerable
city of learning, including a visit to Petrarch's
tomb at Arqua. The university here is still in its
glory, with fifteen hundred students. It has never
declined, I believe, since Livy's time. The beautiful
inner court has two or three galleries, crowded with
the arms of the nobles and distinguished individuals
who have received its honors. It has been the “cradle
of princes” from every part of Europe.

Around one of the squares of the city, stand forty
or fifty statues of the great and distinguished foreigners
who have received their education here. It happened
to be the month of vacation, and we could not
see the interior.

At a public palace, so renowned for the size and
singular architecture of its principal hall, we saw a
very antique bust of Titus Livy—a fine, cleanly-chiselled,
scholastic old head, that looked like the spirit
of Latin imbodied. We went thence to the Duomo,
where they show a beautiful bust of Petrarch, who
lived at Padua some of the latter years of his life. It
is a softer and more voluptuous conntenance than is
given him in the pictures.

The church of Saint Antony here has stood just
six hundred years. It occupied a century in building,
and is a rich and noble old specimen of the taste of
the times, with eight cupolas and towers, twenty-seven
chapels inside, four immense organs, and countless
statues and pictures. Saint Antony's body lies in the
midst of the principal chapel, which is surrounded
with relievos representing his miracles, done in the
best manner of the glorious artists of antiquity. We
were there during mass, and the people were nearly
suffocating themselves in the press to touch the altar
and tomb of the saint. This chapel was formerly lit
by massive silver lamps, which Napoleon took, presenting
them with their models in gilt. He also exacted
from them three thousand sequins for permission
to retain the chin and tongue of St. Antony, which
works miracles still, and are preserved in a splendid
chapel with immense brazen doors. Behind the main
altar I saw a harrowing picture by Teipolo, of the
martyrdom of St. Agatha. Her breasts are cut off,
and lying in a dish. The expression in the face of
the dying woman is painfully well done.

Returning to the inn, we passed a magnificent palace
on one of the squares, upon whose marble steps and
column-bases, sat hundreds of brutish Austrian troops,
smoking and laughing at the passers-by. This is a
sight you may see now all through Italy. The palaces
of her proudest nobles are turned into barracks for
foreign troops, and there is scarce a noble old church
or monastery that is not defiled with their filth. The
German soldiers are, without exception, the most stolid
and disagreeable looking body of men I ever saw,
and they have little to soften the indignant feeling with
which one sees them rioting in this lovely and oppressed
country.

We passed an hour before bedtime in the usual
amusement of travellers in a foreign hotel—reading
the traveller's record-book. Walter Scott's name was
written there, and hundreds of distinguished names
besides. I was pleased to find, on a leaf far back,
“Edward Everett,” written in his own round legible
hand. There were at least the names of fifty Americans,
within the dates of the year past—such a wandering
nation we are. Foreigners express their astonishment
always at their numbers in these cities.

On the afternoon of the next day, we went to Arqua,
on a pilgrimage to Petrarch's cottage and tomb. It
was an Italian summer afternoon, and the Euganean
hills were rising green and lovely, with the sun an hour

high above them, and the yellow of the early sunset
already commencing to glow about the horizon.

We left the carriage at the “pellucid lake,” and
went into the hills a mile, plucking the ripe grapes
which hung over the road in profusion. We were
soon at the little village and the tomb, which stands
just before the church door, “reared in air.” The
four laurels Byron mentions are dead. We passed up
the hill to the poet's house, a rural stone cottage,
commanding a lovely view of the compagna from the
portico. Sixteen villages may be counted from the
door, and the two large towns of Rovigo and Ferrara
are distinguishable in a clear atmosphere. It was a
retreat fit for a poet. We went through the rooms,
and saw the poet's cat, stuffed and exhibited behind a
wire grating, his chair and desk, his portrait in fresco,
and Laura's, and the small closet-like room where he
died. It was an interesting visit, and we returned by
the golden twilight of this heavenly climate, repeating
Childe Harold, and wishing for his pen to describe
afresh the scene about us.