Gleanings in
2 vols. in 1
(Philadelphia, Carey, Lea and Blanchard, 1838)
33
letters describing travel undertaken in 1828-1829;
digitized
for EuroDocs by Adriano Comollo and Richard
Hacken
in cooperation with
CIRVI - Centro Interuniversitario di Ricerche sul
Viaggio in Italia
TABLE OF CONTENTS
|
·
LETTER XVIII: Amalfi - ·
LETTER XIX: ·
LETTER XX: Naples - Caserta - Capua -
Appian Way - Gaeta - Terracina - Velletri
- Albano - Rome ·
LETTER XXI: ·
LETTER XXII: ·
LETTER XXIII: ·
LETTER XXIV: ·
LETTER XXV: ·
LETTER XXVI: ·
LETTER XXVII: ·
LETTER XXVIII: Tolentino -
Macerata - Loretto - ·
LETTER XXIX: ·
LETTER XXX: ·
LETTER XXXI: ·
LETTER XXXII: ·
LETTER XXXIII: |
If the author were required to give a reason why he
has written on a country so well known as Italy, he might be puzzled to give any
other answer than that he loved the subject, and has been indulging his own
recollections possibly more than he will please his readers.
As this, like most
other books, must speak for itself, the author has little to add, in the way of
Preface, to what has already been published in the work with which his travels
commence. He has endeavoured to avoid a
pretension which his research would not justify, while he hopes some may be
glad to go over again, even this beaten road, in his company.
Cooper’s town, 1838
Although we had breathed an atmosphere of delight from the moment the
carriage turned out of the glen of the Doveiria to enter the first really
Italian valley, the ardour of expectation and enjoyment was scarcely
diminished when we entered the carriage to quit Milan, on our way towards the
barrier of mountains that separates the Upper from the Lower, the false from
the true Italy. We had certainly some of the architecture, glimpses of the
nature, and a multitude of the recollections of the latter, where we then
were; but we well knew that there was more beyond, and we were glad to hurry
towards it after the two or three days of repose that we had now taken. As yet
we had only seen Cis-Alpine Gaul.
Old Caspar mounted his horse with renewed vigour, and he trotted
through the southern gate with us, some time before the sun had risen. Although
it was only the 15th of October and we were now fairly on the great plain of
Lombardy, the morning was so sharp that I found both a surtout and a cloak
agreeable, if not necessary.
The streets of Milan, and indeed of all the towns of this part of
Italy, have lines of flat stones, a sort of railway, laid for the
carriage-wheels; the celebrated Corso having two tracks, in order that the
vehicles may not intercept each other. The town walls are of bricks, and a good
deal covered with ivy; and as the ditch is imperfect and neglected, they were
probably more efficient in the days of the Visconti's than in those of
Napoleon. Military patroles march the streets at night, and all night, so that
the place is orderly and safe. We saw many people with goitres in the streets, peasants most probably from the valleys of
the Alps.
We took the route to Lodi, which is about twenty miles from Milan. The
road lay the entire distance through meadows and vines. There was little other
prospect than that of fertility, for we were in a sea of plain, though the Alps
still lifted their hoary peaks along the northern horizon. South, east, and
west, the sight was bounded with a fringe of fruit-trees, with, here and there,
a gaunt church-tower thrusting up its neck, to mark the site of a village.
There was, however, a good deal of irrigation, with canal-like ditches, among
the meadows, and occasionally a broad margin of faded verdure around us.
At Lodi we stopped two hours. The inn windows overlooked the
market-place, which was teeming with the activity, gesticulation, bawling,
humour, and wrangling of low Italian life. One fellow, mounted on a horse, was
haranguing a crowd; and, leaning forward, I caught enough to discover that he
was a quack dispensing immortality at very modest prices. Suddenly a peasant
presented his face, when the fellow extracted a tooth, without dismounting. The
operation was performed with great readiness, and, flourishing his prize in
triumph, while the poor patient was holding his jaws and kicking right and left
with pain, the fellow called on all around him to witness how slight a thing it
was to lose a tooth.
Observing great quantities of what I supposed to be small birds,
beautifully white and clean, strung on coarse grass, I went down to examine
them, thinking they might be some game of which it would be well to know more;
but, on inspection, they proved to be the hind quarters of frogs! There were hundreds
of strings of them in the market. I know not how the French got their
reputation of frog-eaters, unless it comes through the usual English prejudice;
for I feel certain that ten frogs are consumed in Italy for one in France.
Indeed, frogs are rather an unusual dish in Paris; nor do I remember ever to
have seen them anywhere on a private table. The country around Lodi, however,
is just suited to such a stock, and, literally, thousands are consumed by the
inhabitants.
We were anxious, of course, to examine the celebrated bridge. I found,
however, that the people on the spot did not deem the battle so serious an
affair as it is usually imagined; and as I have heard, on pretty good
authority, that several of Napoleon's battles were fought principally in the
bulletins, I went doubting to the river. The stream, you know, is the Adda; it
is straggling, and a good deal disfigured by sand-banks. The bridge, six or
eight hundred feet in length, is narrow; and the land opposite the town is a
low meadow. A few houses on that side mark the approach to the bridge, and the
buildings of the town do the same thing on the other. As it would be physically
impossible to cross this bridge under the fire of batteries of any force that
were in the least well managed, and as the Austrian artillery, moreover, if not
the very best, is considered among the best in Europe, I was a good deal
staggered with the appearance of things. The result of all my inquiries on the
spot was as follows, and I presume it is not far from the truth.
The Austrian army was in retreat, and had thrown the Adda between itself
and its enemy. Napoleon arrived in pursuit. Ascertaining that the stream might
be forded, he sent a detachment with that object towards a flank of his enemy,
and the Austrians retired, leaving a force to protect their retreat at the
bridge. Anxious to strike a blow, Napoleon decided to force this point
immediately, and ordered the attack. My informant affirmed that most of the
Austrian artillery had commenced retiring before the assault was made; and
this appears, at least, probable. Finding that his column paused under the fire
of the few guns left, Napoleon and his generals cheered them on in person. The
French did not get across until the Austrians were too far on their retreat to
make the affair decisive, but soon enough to seize some of the guns in the
rear; guns that the Austrians probably intended to sacrifice.
I give you this account as it was given to me by one
who affirmed he was an eye-witness. Certainly, after seeing the bridge, I
shall not believe that one army crossed it in face of another that was not
completely disorganised. Au reste, it
was sufficiently hazardous to attempt it in the face of a couple of efficient
guns; and the personal intrepidity of the generals would be abundantly
apparent even under such circumstances. It was probably a gallant thing, though
by no means the precise thing we are accustomed to believe it.
Lodi is a town of some size, having a population of sixteen
or eighteen thousand souls: it is the place in and near which the celebrated
Parmesan cheese is made, the environs being chiefly in rich meadows. No
Italian, I find, thinks of eating his soup without a spoonful of this cheese,
which as regularly forms one of the ingredients as salt. It struck me as a
discrepancy in civilisation to eat frogs and not to know how to make good
coffee; for we have quite taken leave of the latter since we crossed the Alps.
The country continued much the same beyond Lodi. Towards evening we discerned
the towers of a town in the visible horizon, and soon after came to the side of
a sluggish stream of some size, lying low between banks that it sometimes
evidently filled. The town was on the opposite side, walled, and not immediately
on the stream. The river was the Po, which we crossed by a bridge of boats,
and, making a little circuit, we drove through a gateway and entered Piacenza.
Ordering dinner, I walked out to look at the place, which contains more than
25,000 inhabitants. It is gloomy, crowded, and dull. Indeed, it is not easy to
see how so many towns of this size are kept up on so small a surface. There
does not appear to be any commerce worth mentioning; the manufactures are
usually on a small scale, and half the people seem idle. There is a small
palace belonging to the sovereign, of tolerable architecture. It has fifteen
windows in front, while that of the governor of the place has thirteen. I
believe the White House has less than either of these; though Piacenza is
merely a provincial town, and the duchy of Parma itself contains less than half
a million of souls.
Austria has made a very convenient arrangement for the defence of this
frontier. She has a right, by treaty, to maintain garrisons in several of the towns
that lie in the adjacent territories; by which means she gains so many
outworks beyond her own limits. Piacenza is thus garrisoned, as is also
Ferrara. This town and its walls are principally constructed of bricks: an unusual
thing on the continent of Europe. The walls seem going to decay.
In the evening I strolled into the great square, which I found
thronged with people. These towns are so cramped within their fortifications,
that walking, except in an area like this, or on the ramparts, is almost out of
the question; and as they all have a place
d'armes, the people have acquired the habit of resorting thither for air
and exercise.
There was a silent, gloomy crowd in the square; and as many of the men
wore cloaks and were smoking, it reminded me of Spain, a country whose habits
may very well have been introduced through the princes. You will remember
that, by an intermarriage with the heiress of the Farnese family, this duchy
passed into the possession of the Spanish Bourbons. It was a short time in the
hands of the Emperor, as an indemnity, and by him again ceded to the Bourbons.
Three generations of the latter family next reigned here; but the last gave up
his duchy for the ephemeral kingdom of Etruria; one of the bungling jobs at
king-making that Napoleon turned off during his own apprenticeship. At the
peace of 1814, Marie Louise received Parma in full sovereignty; but this
arrangement was subsequently altered, and she now holds it for life, the
reversion being settled on the present Duke of Lucca, who is the son of its
ancient sovereign, the King of Etruria. At his succession, I believe Lucca is
to be annexed to Tuscany. In speaking of the size of the palace, I ought to
have mentioned that Piacenza was once a separate duchy; to which circumstance
it probably owes that structure.
We were off at six, as usual, and trotted on merrily, through a perfectly
level country, though apparently less fertile and less peopled than Lombardy
Proper. Until now, since we entered Italy, our course has been generally south;
but on quitting Piacenza we diverged materially towards the east, travelling
almost in a parallel line with the ranges of the Apennines, whose forms began
to loom up, a little, in the haze of the atmosphere.
We had been warned of the necessity of bargaining at the inns for what
was ordered; but haggling is so odious, that I had done nothing of the sort,
preferring imposition. The last night at Piacenza, however, I left the family
in the carriage, and went to look at the rooms myself, asking the price. Under
these circumstances, I found that about half as much was demanded as I had
hitherto paid. The result showed that our lodgings and supper cost very little
more than the breakfast alone, and yet we had a parlour and four good
bed-rooms! The next day, at breakfast, I ordered the meal at so much a head,
and for so many persons: there was no difference in the service, or in its
quality, and we paid three dollars for that which had cost us five the previous
day.
We crossed the bed of a torrent that was absolutely dry, but broad, and
spanned by a noble bridge that Napoleon had commenced and which his widow has
just finished. Nearly everything is constructed of bricks, still. Near Parma we
passed an old castellated edifice that excited a good deal of curiosity among
us by its name, which is Castel Guelfo. I could get no history of this
fortress, but it is fair to presume it had some connexion with the wars of the
Guelphs and the Ghibellines. The building stands directly on the road, like a
tavern, and in a perfectly level country. The main edifice, which is very high,
is ranged around a court; it is about one hundred and fifty feet on each front,
and is constructed of bricks and small stones placed in alternate layers of
about three feet in thickness. The structure is surrounded by a ditch that is
now dry. Three or four low, heavy, awkward towers are attached to the square
building; and several appendages are scattered about, without the ditch. The
whole is dilapidated, though still inhabited.
We reached Parma very early, the day's work being less than forty
miles, over a perfect plain, although it nearly carried us from one side of the
duchy to the other. This is a much finer town than Piacenza, and materially
larger. We were no sooner housed and refreshed, than we hurried off to see the
palace, the theatre, and the other curiosities. The first is an ancient
irregular edifice of bricks, with a small, new, stuccoed facade. The theatre is
one of the largest in Europe, and, one would think, capable of holding all the elite of the duchy. A covered gallery
built on arches connects it with the palace, of which it is properly an
appendage.
We saw many cockney sights, such as the cradle of the young Napoleon,
and other similar wonders; but the duchess herself, of whom I could gladly have
stolen a glimpse, was at Vienna, where she passes most of her time. The
servants spoke of her as Sa Majeste,
and told us that she maintained a good deal of state. She has three or four
thousand troops, gendarmes included;
and we saw the garrison here, in coats of sky-blue faced with red.
The Academy of Arts repaid us for the visit. It has many good
pictures, one in particular by Correggio, who was a native of the vicinity.
Here we met, for the first time, with specimens of architecture that, I
believe, are nearly, if not quite, peculiar to Italy. A tower is erected near
the church to contain the bells, which is called the campanile; and a sort of dome stands at hand, a structure
altogether apart, in which the office of baptism is performed. The latter, from
its object, is called the Battistero.
I have seldom seen quainter or ruder specimens of the Gothic than we
found here, in a church of the middle ages. One of the bas reliefs is a car
drawn by two horses, of which one is actually placed on the back of the other,
from ignorance of all laws of perspective. This is almost as bad as the bas
reliefs in the rotunda of the Capitol. But all nations have their Gothic ages;
though it is to be hoped ours is to precede, and not follow the golden.
We breakfasted at Reggio, in the duchy of Modena, a place which gives the
title of Duke to Marshal Oudinot. The country continued much the same,
perfectly level, with the shadows of mountains on our left, and apparently
fertile. We reached Modena itself, very early, and had time to look at the
sights, the best of which are in the palace of the duke, consisting of
pictures. Here we also first saw composition floors, made of stucco, in
imitation of marble. When several coats of mortar have been laid, and beaten to
a proper consistency, pieces of marble are stuck in it, so as to variegate the
surface, and sometimes in a way to form designs. When the whole has indurated
and set, the surface is polished. The result is a beautifully mottled floor, richer
than any natural stone, much cheaper, and, if well made, perhaps as durable. It
would be well to adopt this mode of ornamenting houses in America. We might
commence in the public buildings and in large private houses. It has the
additional recommendation of security against fire. In a warm climate, however,
it is the most desirable; though carpets can be used over the stucco, in
winter, as well as over boards. The servants told me that a little oil mixed
with bran or saw-dust, and swept over the floor, had the effect of brightening
the colours and of rendering the whole brilliant. This process is repeated once
or twice a week.
The palace was neat, well kept, and large for the Duchy. Even this
structure puts Windsor to shame, so far as the internal arrangements, and the
beauty and lightness of the rooms are concerned. Modena is a town of
five-and-twenty thousand souls, and, like most of the places of this part of
Italy, the wonder is what they find to do. The reigning family was also at
Vienna; for all this region, though governed by different princes and held by
different titles, is virtually Austrian.
Our next day's march was still easier, extending no farther than
Bologna, where we arrived about noon. The frontier of the States of the Pope
was passed near the town of Modena, most of the road lying in the new
territory. It was on the line of the ancient Emilia Via.
Here, then, we were at last on the confines of Lower Italy, and though
the Apennines threw up their bold heads between us and our goal, we began to
feel as if we had arrived. In the mean time, we sallied out to see the wonders
of Bologna.
The streets of this town are lined with arcades, like those of Berne,
though loftier, lighter, and of better architecture than the gloomy vaults of
the city of the Burgherschaft. The architecture is altogether superior. You
will be surprised to hear that the same cause has induced this particular mode
of building; viz. the snows! Although in the heart of Italy, Bologna, lying at
the foot of the Apennines, and on their northern side, is liable to have its
streets obstructed with snow. There is a church on a hill, at the distance of a
league from the town, and certain pious persons have actually caused a covered
walk to be constructed the whole distance to it. It is an arcade open to the
south, and protected towards the north by a wall. So much for the climate of
Cis-Alpine Gaul!
The pictures of Bologna gave us great satisfaction; but the subject is so
hackneyed, that it is seldom I shall enter into details about such things. The
wax-work preparations have a horrible truth, and though probably useful as
anatomical studies, are odious as spectacles. The same things exist at Paris,
in equally disgusting accuracy.
There are two ugly motiveless brick towers in this town, one of which is
of great height, and the other is not low, that lean out of the perpendicular
in the way to make a spectator shudder. They have not much more beauty than the
chimneys of a paint manufactory, and seem to have been built precisely for the
reason that boys often pile bricks, with one leaning over the other, or just to
ascertain where a line drawn from the centre of gravity will fall without the
base. These babyisms on a large scale are apt to succeed the noble conceptions
of a great nation, when in its decline. I believe, however, there is some
pretence of utility connected with the best of these extraordinary freaks, and
some pretensions to workmanship.
Bologna gives one an idea of the riches of Italy, in palaces and the
arts. Its venerable and celebrated university is on the wane; but there are
noble remains of its former wealth, learning, and importance. Many of the first
families of Italy still reside here, and its society is said to be very
desirable. But what can one who passes a day in a tavern tell you of these
things that is worth knowing?
Caspar paid me a visit, after dinner, with an ominous face and a more
ominous report. He had ascertained that not less than twenty carriages were to
cross the mountains next day. This augured badly for our comfort. In the first
place, we might have a famine, or be brought to chestnuts, the true diet of the
Apennines; and moreover, there was but a single house within a day's work of
Bologna where we could possibly sleep. The ex-dragoon affirmed that nothing
could pass him while actually in motion; but they who travelled post had the
advantage of not stopping at all, and of course would win the plate. Nothing
remained to be done but to get the track at starting, and to throw ourselves on
our speed with at least the hope of distancing all the vetturini. We accordingly drove through the gates of Bologna,
before the day had fairly dawned. The inquiry of Caspar, whether any one had
preceded us, was satisfactorily answered, and, cracking his long whip, the
happy fellow trotted merrily to the foot of the first ascent. The road carried
us very soon into the mountains, and here we bade adieu to the sea-like plain
of Upper Italy.
For the first two or three hours we did little else but ascend; but it
was evident that the piles were not Alpine. The road, however, was excellent,
and though the country was scarcely grand enough to be imposing, or
sufficiently soft to be pleasing, it had a peculiarity in its features that served
to keep attention alive. We found the inn on the edge of what may be called the
first considerable plateau — if any portion of mountains that are a succession
of rounded caps can thus be termed. We were the first arrived, and were
rewarded for our diligence by getting the first breakfast. If it was the best,
our successors were to be pitied, for it consisted of execrable coffee, bad
bread, tallowish butter, and greasy chops. One seldom sees a meaner repast in a
log-house on the American frontier. Inferior as it all was, the laughing Caspar
assured me those who came after us would fare worse, for we had consumed all
the milk;-"et les voila,"
he added, pointing down the mountain to a train of carriages that were dragging
their weary way up the ascent. By this time we were ready to move, and away the
dragoon trotted, chuckling at his own management as much as at our success.
The region we were now in had a wildness and a character that, to us,
were entirely novel. Most of the mountain-tops were bald; and, indeed, as far
as the eye could extend, west and south, it beheld nothing but a species of
elevated downs, that were however much broken into irregular valleys and hills.
There was a little forest, here and there; but, in the main, nakedness was the
prevailing characteristic of the view. As I sat on the carriage-box, I could
see the road leagues ahead of us, winding its way among the ascents, and
forming an object of high civilisation amidst the otherwise rustic and quaint
peculiarities of the wilds. I can best compare the view to the back-grounds
which the old Italian masters sometimes put to their religious subjects, and of
which treeless hills, rocks, winding paths, and picturesque towers compose the
materials. Of the latter, however, there were no signs in this portion of the
Apennines.
Soon after quitting the inn, an expanse of water showed itself to the
north-east, quite in the horizon; for in that direction we could still overlook
a vast reach of hazy, and of nearly indistinct plain. Judging by the map, the
land was the Bolognese, with the country near Ravenna, and the water the
Adriatic! As this glimpse was quite unexpected, it came upon us with the
agreeable variety of a surprise.
Just after the water disappeared, a swarthy, picturesque-looking
peasant passed us, on a brisk trot, eyeing the carriage keenly as he went by;
he then leaped into a cross path, that led in nearly a direct line towards the
winding ascents of the road, that were plainly visible at the distance of two
or three miles, but to reach which we were compelled to make a long detour. A valley and a wood were between
us and these ascents, and unpleasant thoughts began to suggest themselves at
this little incident. I had heard of families borne off into these very
Apennines by banditti, and held for ransom, failing of which they had been
murdered. Robbers would have full an hour to do their work in; for the peasant,
who had just left the tavern, must have understood the order of our march, and
be certain that our party would be unsustained by any other for that time at
least. Then there were a startling sagacity and a suspicious observation in the
dark rolling eye that had so closely scanned us; and, all together, the fellow
had about him an air of premeditation and design.
We were four men, and, with a pistol apiece, might have made a good
defence; but I had not even a penknife or a cane, and Caspar had nothing but
his whip! At times, I was disposed to laugh at my own apprehensions; but the
heavy responsibility that I felt continued to render the matter serious. Still
I was unwilling to alarm the females, and preserved silence, determining to
halt in season if I detected any symptoms of an ambuscade before us. With this
purpose I kept a vigilant look-out on the formation of the ground; and though I
was not so much alarmed as to fancy every bush an enemy, no bush was left
unexamined.
At length we began to descend, and I cheered Caspar up to a pace that
would at least render aim a little uncertain. I now determined, as the road was
excellent, the instant a shot was fired, to cause the postilions to set off on
a run, and leave the issue to our speed. The fall of a horse, it is true, would
undo us; but we must trust to fortune. As the postilion, unless an accessory,
is generally the first victim in such an affair, I got ready to jump on the
pole, and to spring into his seat should the ex-dragoon fall. The fourgon speaking for itself, and being a
visible temptation to robbers, I had hopes too, by abandoning the baggage, at
least to save the females. All these plans were duly arranged in my own mind,
that no advantage might be lost in the confusion of a surprise.
While busy fancy was at work in this manner, during which time we
passed over two or three of the most uncomfortable miles I ever remember to
have travelled, we came to the foot of the long descent. Here, happily, was a
house or two, and a group of men in the road, with five or six yokes of oxen,
ready to assist us up the winding and sharp acclivities that lay in front.
Foremost among these honest people was my dark-eyed peasant who had run across
the open waste merely to give notice of our approach, and to notify to the
neighbourhood the number of oxen that would be required!
This was the first serious alarm I had felt about Italian banditti,
and, I may add, it was the last; though I believe we were subsequently in
situations where less indifference than this incident served so much to create
would have been more prudent. As fear, though particularly contagious, excites
no sympathy after the danger is passed, I kept my own secret.
By the help of the oxen we toiled our way up as steep ascents as one
sees in Switzerland, though by no means as long; after which we had a
succession of hills and valleys, through the same naked region as before. Towards
the close of day we reached a village, or rather a hamlet, near which is a
remarkable burning field that we dared not stop to examine, on account of our
pursuers. The inn was soon in sight, and old Caspar pointed to it with his whip
and grinned. Then he cast a glance of triumph back at the long winding road
that might be seen for miles. Half a league in our rear three or four carriages
had come into view, for it would seem that their owners too had bethought them
of the night and its wants. The evening was lovely. [Mrs. Cooper] was on the
carriage-box with me, enjoying its blandness, and we were all full of a sort of
racing excitement, and laughing at our success. At this very moment, when the
inn could not have been half a mile from us, click clack, click clack, was heard close to the carriage-wheels. A
courier, in the usual livery, galloped past us, flourishing his whip in
bravado, and before we could get there he dashed up to the door of the inn! In
a few minutes, however, we were there too; and when I went into the house, the
fellow was leaning coolly in the door. My inquiry for rooms was answered by
showing me two or three mean closets, without fireplaces or comforts of any
sort. As the house was tolerably comfortable, I demanded better apartments. All
the rest of the house was taken by the courier at the door, who was in the
service of Lord Lansdowne. The plot was apparent at once. The rogue had entered
into an arrangement, pretended or real, with the innkeeper, and rooms were to
be sold at an advance. I had a slight acquaintance with Lord Lansdowne, and had
half a mind to wait his arrival and trust to his known courtesy for
accommodations; but, preferring independence to being placed in controversy
with a courier, Caspar was ordered to proceed. The innkeeper felt disposed to
change his tactics when he saw the carriage departing; but I was not inclined
to humour roguery, and we went our way.
There was an inn about two leagues farther, and the road was good. It
is true, Caspar shrugged his shoulders when he mentioned it; but I thought the
best accommodations of even an inferior inn, in our sole possession, might be
better than the worst of the place we had just left in the midst of a crowd.
Our departure caused long faces; but the example probably did no good, the
house possessing a monopoly.
The moon had risen, and the night had grown chilly, before we reached
the other inn. It was a single house, in a sort of heathy country, the very
type of solitude. Here, however, we were joyfully received. Mounting by a
narrow flight of steps, we were shown into the sala, a room of some size,
lighted from above, and surrounded by bedchambers. In one corner there was a
fireplace, and a faggot was soon in a bright blaze. The beds were homely but
clean, and I took care to secure one for each of us, with the proper number of
apartments. This was the first house we had entered that had a truly
distinctive Italian character, and we submitted to some wants, the more
readily, from the circumstance. The woman of the house was all assiduity and
attention, and it was not long before our supper made its appearance. Our great
desire was to dispose of this, and to get quietly into our own rooms, before
any more of the rejected travellers should arrive from the other place. None came,
however, though we had one or two alarms, and we ate our chickens fried in oil
undisturbed. Secure of the supper, we strutted about our sala, admiring the
novelty of the situation, gazing at the wild waste from the windows, and
setting all couriers at defiance.
I have since been told that this very inn was the scene of many
robberies and murders that were perpetrated with the connivance of the parish
priest, and which were subsequently discovered. The host had however been
changed, and we were now in honest hands. Certainly no house could be better
situated for deeds of violence; and there was even something in its internal
arrangements so retired and gloomy as to aid such practices. Altogether, we
enjoyed the excitement of the incidents, preserved our place on the road, had
an entire house to ourselves, gained two leagues in distance, and considered
ourselves the gainers.
To-day we passed a spot where high poles lined the road; a precaution to
enable travellers to keep it in the deep snows. This was Alpine, and yet the
spot was on the brow of the southern margin. We strained our eyes, in the hope
of getting a glimpse of the blue Mediterranean, but it is vain.
The grasping courier galloped past us again; but we now regarded him
and his bidet with indifference. The
olive soon appeared, a meagre, formal, insignificant tree in a landscape, with
a pale and stinted leaf, making altogether a miserable substitute for the
apple, though an evergreen. Still one looks at it with pleasure; as one does
also at the orange, the pomegranate, the fig, the date, and other trees of
Oriental associations, though none but the fig has much beauty. Even the supper
of the previous night, though saturated with oil, savoured of Italy, and was so
much the more agreeable than the lame imitations of French cookery we had met
with previously. Having asked one of my servants how they fared in the mess of
old Caspar, she laughed and told me that ever since we had left Berne, the
postilions and domestics, out of the large towns, had fared better than the
masters; this little attention to the caste of voituriers being a tribute to their power. On this hint, I had the
curiosity to visit their table, and I found the statement literally true. Old
Caspar laughed heartily at the exposure, and altogether the whole party, which
included the domestics of two or three other travellers, appeared to think it a
capital joke. What renders the palpable conspiracy more absurd, is the fact
that the servants figure in the bills for the merest trifles, at a franc or
thirty sous a meal, I believe. On my remarking that the people of the house had
made a mistake apparently, having served both us and them with the wrong
breakfast, the whole party, my own people included, burst out in a fit of
merriment, that showed how much they enjoyed the blunder. "Ce son de grands coquins, ces aubergistes,
monsieur," observed Caspar, by way of apology.
At length we reached a descent that communicated, by a gorge, with the
valley of the Arno. Soon after the city of Florence appeared, seated on a
plain, at the foot of hills, with the dome of its cathedral starting out of the
field of roofs, like a balloon about to ascend. We crossed a part of the plain,
between groves of olives and mulberries, went beneath a sort of triumphal arch,
erected, I believe, in commemoration of the completion of the great road that
we had just been travelling, and entered the gate of the city. A few pauls were
given to the custom-house officers, and the carriage rolled freely along the
broad flat stones, with which all the towns of Tuscany are paved, the gutter
being in the centre of the street. We proceeded to the Hotel York, a house
which is so called from the cardinal of that name, took rooms, and unloaded the
fourgon, for the first time since
quitting Berne.
It was but a step to the cathedral square, and I was no sooner dressed
than I ran out to feast my eyes with its wonders. The buildings had a mottled
look that displeased me, being faced with differently coloured marbles; but the
magnitude of the church is imposing. The campanile
has the same fault; though, a finical thing in itself, it can better bear
finery. The baptistery is near by, and altogether the spot has the charms of
magnificence sustained by those of association. The servant pointed out a
particular stone, on which Dante, it is said, used to seat himself in the cool
of the evening, in order to breathe an air less confined than that of the
streets.
This night I first learned to respect a musquito. If Buffon had in
view the comparative merits of these insects when he broached his theory of the
inferiority of the animal nature of America to that of Europe, there is more
apology for the extravagance of the supposition than is commonly thought among
ourselves. Luckily we had musquito nets, a thing I never saw at home, by the
way, and though they were full of holes, the creatures were too large to find
their way through them. One fellow did get in, however, and he made as much
noise as the horn of a wail-coach, at the distance of half a mile. The next
morning poor Lucie, who I fancy had no net, looked as if she had the small-pox.
As it was our intention to pass the winter here, old Caspar was
discharged, and we took lodgings. Florence is full of noble hotels, which are
termed palaces in the language of the country, and few families still retaining
a sufficient portion of the ancient wealth to occupy the whole of such huge
edifices, apartments are let in them, furnished, or not, as it may happen, on
the French plan. Hunting for lodgings gives one a good idea of the domestic
economy of a place, for we entered some twenty or thirty of these palaces with
this object. Rooms are unusually cheap, notwithstanding the number of strangers
who resort to the place, for the town has shrunk to less than half its ancient
population, and probably to a tithe of its ancient magnificence.
We become fully impressed with the changes that time produces, not
only in things, but in the moral aspect of the world, by seeing a town like
Florence. In our age, the man who should dream of making an inland place, in
the heart of the Apennines, the focus of trade, would be set down as a
simpleton; nor could any powers of combination or of wealth now overcome the
efforts of those who would naturally resort to more favourable positions.
These old merchants, however, men who truly ennobled commerce, and not
commerce them, have left behind them more durable remains of their ascendency
than can be seen in almost any other place. As they were not particularly
pacific, the constant struggles of factions in the streets induced a style of
architecture that is almost peculiar to Florence, for every palace is a sort of
fortress. We took an apartment in one that belongs to an ancient family who
still inhabit a portion of the building, and as our rooms are on the street, we
may be said to occupy the fortress. The great gate is of iron, and the great
stairs, of course, massive and solid. The lower floor is occupied only for the
offices and stables. Then comes what is called a mezzanino, or a low story, with small windows, but which has some
very good rooms. Above this is our apartment, with ceilings nearly twenty feet
high, large rooms all en suite, and
windows to look out of which we ascend two steps. The walls would bear considerable
battering, though the position of the house protected it from any danger of
such a nature. Forty or fifty stout-hearted retainers, and the number would not
be great for the old Florentines, must have been able to stand a respectable
siege in such an abode.
You will ask me what are my impressions, on finding myself entrenched
behind such works, with a thousand recollections of the Medici and the Strozzi,
and the Capponi, to awaken the love of the romantic and interesting? Alas! I am
filled with the consciousness of the impotency of man, who, after rearing these
piles, and guarding against the violence and ungovernable passions of his
fellows, is obliged to allow that all his resources cannot keep out the
musquitoes.
We have two noble bedrooms, besides several smaller; a large
drawing-room, and a larger dining room; a good cabinet for myself; an
ante-chamber, and baths, offices, &c.&c. all furnished, for the
moderate sum of sixty dollars a month. We have ten good rooms in all, besides
the offices.
Our hotel has a small court, and, I believe, a garden; though I have not
had access to the latter. By the side of the great gate is a small hole in the
wall, closed in general by a shutter. At eleven o'clock every day, people come
to this shutter and rap, and it is opened by a steward of the family. The
applicant puts in an empty flask and a paul (ten cents), receiving in return a
flask filled with wine. in this manner, I understand, most of the great
families of Florence now dispose of the products of their vines! It would be
curious to learn if the Medici carried on this trade. The wine of our palace is
among the best of Tuscany, and I drink it with great satisfaction; the more so
because its cost is about four cents the bottle. It is positively much better
wine than half the claret that is drunk in Paris. Twice a week, a donkey
appears in the court, dragging a little cart filled with flasks from the
estate, and carrying away the "dead soldiers." We are, however, a
little above the market, as our wine commands fully a cent a flask, or about
four mills a bottle, more than most of the Tuscan liquor.
We burn in our lamps oil that you would be happy to get on your
lobsters and salads. In other respects the market is good, and cloths are both
fine and cheap, finer and cheaper than I remember to have seen them anywhere
else, and yet they are imported. The shopkeepers are moderate in their wishes,
preferring the dolce far niente to
the more terrible energies of trade.
There is a sleepy indolence in these Italians, that singularly suits
my humour. They seem too gentlemanlike to work, or to be fussy, but appear
disposed to make a siesta of life, and to enjoy the passing moment. The Tuscans
seem full of sentiment, and though the poor, as is the case all over the continent
of Europe, are very poor, the class immediately above them have as much
satisfaction, I fancy, as they who dream dollars and talk dollars from
"the rising of the sun unto the going down of the same." If you ask
me if I would exchange populations and habits, I shall answer, we cannot afford
it. It would check our career short of perfect civilisation. We have arts to
acquire, and tastes to form, before we could enter at all into the enjoyments
of these people; one half of their pleasures depending on recollections that
possibly may have had their origin in the energies
of the first of the Medici; and there are things that must be created, but
which give more satisfaction in after ages than during the period of their
formation. For myself, I begin to feel I could be well content to vegetate here
for one half my life, to say nothing of the remainder. All who travel know that
the greatest pleasure is in the recollections; and I fancy that nations in
their decline enjoy more true happiness than nations in their advance.
Of course, I have visited the Venus, and the Pitti, and all the other
marvels of art that Florence contains. These things have been so often
described, that my remarks shall be limited to such gleanings as others appear
to have left, or as are suggested by my own passing feelings. The tribune of
the gallery contains the most precious collection of ancient art, perhaps, in
the world. Everything in it is a chef-d'oeuvre
in its way; though I am far from seeing the necessity of believing that every old
statue that is exhumed is an original. When I was introduced into this place, I
felt as if approaching the presence of illustrious personages, and stood, hat
in hand, involuntarily bowing to the circle of marble figures that surrounded
me, as if they were endowed with sensibilities to appreciate my homage. You are
not, however, to suppose that a love of art was so much at the bottom of this
reverence, as association. There was a set of engravings in my father's house
that represented most of the antique statues, and for these I had imbibed the
respect of a child. The forms had become familiar by years of observation, and
the Venus, the wrestlers, the dancing faun, and the knife-grinder, four of my
oldest acquaintances on paper, now stood before my eyes, looking like living
beings.
three or four centuries ago, and the defences may be set down as of no
account in the warfare of our own times. There is a citadel, however, of a more
warlike character, reserved, I suspect, for state purposes. The walls are
picturesque, but, failing of the great military object, they are next to
useless, as they are not provided with promenades. Au reste, they are a little Jerichoish,
or as I have already described those of Morat to be.
Economy, the galleries, the facility with which one obtains lodgings,
caprice, and the court, unite to make Florence a favourite residence with
strangers. The court has a little more of air and pretension than it might
otherwise possess, from the circumstance of the sovereign being an archduke.
Tuscany, however, is a respectable state, having nearly a million and a half of
subjects, with Lucca in reversion.
Among the strangers the English and Russians predominate; especially
the former, who are found in swarms, on the Continent, in all the most
agreeable places of residence. The policy of' the Tuscan government encourages
diplomatic appointments, and I believe all the great courts of Europe have
ministers here. The French, Russians, English, Austrians, and Prussians have
ministers plenipotentiaries, and many others charges d'affaires. All these things contribute to render the place
gay; nor is it without brilliancy at times, the little court appearing at the
festivals and other ceremonies with sufficient pomp. I shall not philosophise
on these things, but I fancy they do more good and less harm than is commonly
thought by us democrats. I have often compared the agreements of this little
town with those of one of our own larger cities. New York, which is four times
as large as Florence, and ten times as rich, does not possess a tithe — nay,
not a hundredth part of its attractions. To say nothing of taste, or of the
stores of ancient art, or of the noble palaces and churches, and the other
historical monuments, the circle of living creatures here affords greater
sources of amusement and instruction than are to be found in all the five great
American towns put together. Every one appears to be at leisure, and the demon
money seems to be forgotten, unless, indeed, he occasionally shows his talons
at the gaming table. An evening party offers the oddest collection of human
beings imaginable; for the natives of half the civilised countries of the world
appear to have met on neutral ground in this little capital, the government
having the liberality to tolerate even men of political opinions that are
elsewhere proscribed. I met at a soiree,
lately, besides a proper sprinkling of Tuscans, and Italians from the other parts
of Italy, French, Swiss, Germans from half a dozen states, English, Russians,
Greeks, Americans from several different countries, Dutch, an Algerine, an
Egyptian, and aTurk. There were, in addition, sundry adventurers from the
islands of the Mediterranean.
This is the age of cosmopolitism, real or pretended; and Florence, just
at this moment, is an epitome both of its spirit and of its representatives. So
many people travel, that one is apt to ask who can be left at home; and some
aim at distinction in this era of migration by making it a point to see
everything. Of this number is a certain Count di V[idua], whom I met in America
just before leaving home. This gentleman went through the United States,
tablets in hand, seeming to be dissatisfied with himself if he quitted one of
our common-place towns with an hospital unexamined, a mineral unregistered, or
a church unentered. It struck me at the time that he was making a toil of a
pleasure, especially in a country that has so little worth examining. But, a
short time since, I dined with my banker here. At table, I was seated between
the Marchese G_____, a Sardinian, and the Baron P[oerio], a Neapolitan.
Alluding to the locomotive propensities of our times, I mentioned the ardour
for travelling, and the industry I had witnessed in the aforesaid Count di
V[idua]. Signor G_____ told me that he knew him intimately, having himself
visited all the North of Europe in his company, previously to which his friend
had explored Greece, Egypt, Northern Africa, and the West of Asia, by himself.
"When he left the United States," continued Signor G_____, "it I
was to go where?" "To the West Indies and Mexico." "True;
and from the latter he came through Columbia to Brazil, where I was at the
time. He left me there to cross the Andes, and I cannot tell you what has
become of him."—"Why do you not come to the East Indies?" said
an Englishwoman to me the same evening, and to whom I had been introduced as to
a lady who lived in that part of the world, but who had taken a run from
Calcutta to pass the summer in Switzerland, and the winter in Italy. "I
fancy few mere travellers get as far as Hindostan?""Oh, we have them
occasionally. Now, the winter before I left home, we had one for several weeks
in our own house: he only left us to go to the Himalayah mountains, and return
a few months before I sailed." "An Englishman, of course?"
"No, indeed; an Italian." "Pray, ma'am, was it Count Carlo di
V[idua]?" "Yes, it was." "And may I ask what has become of
him?" "He left Calcutta to go to Ceylon and Manilla, on his way to
China." So much for our own times![1]
The strangers are at
the head of the gaiety of this place, few of the Florentines receiving much. In this number may be
included Prince Borghese, the brother-in-law of Napoleon, an amiable,
well-intentioned, and modest man, who has abandoned Rome, his proper country,
to reside here, where he maintains a good style, opening his palace
periodically for the reception of all who choose to come. "Then we have,
besides the regular exhibitions of the town, rival houses in two English
theatres, with amateur performers; at the head of one of which is Lord
B[urghersh], and at the head of the other Lord N[ormanby]. At the latter only,
however, can one be said to see the legitimate drama; the other running rather
into music, an experiment not to be idly attempted in Italy.
We have seen
Shakespeare in the hands of these noble actors once or twice, and found the
representation neither quite good enough to please, nor yet bad enough to laugh
at. Occasionally, a character was pretty well represented; but the natural
facility of the other sex in acting was sufficiently apparent, the women making
out much better than the men. It was like all private theatricals, well enough
for a country house, but hardly in its place in the capital of Tuscany. We had
a specimen of the feeling of the English towards America, as well as of
national manners, the other evening, that is worth a passing notice. One of
the players sang, with a good deal of humour, a comic song, that attempted to
delineate national traits. There was a verse or two appropriated to the
English, the French, the Germans, &c. &c. and the finale was an American. The delineations of all the first were
common-place enough; the humour consisting chiefly in the mimicry, the ideas
themselves having no particular merit. But the verse for the American seemed
to be prepared with singular care, and was given with great unction. It
represented a quasi Western man, who is made to boast that he is the lad to eat
his father, whip his mother, and to achieve other similar notable exploits. I
do not know that I am absolutely destitute of an appreciation of wit or
humour, but, certainly, it struck me this attempt was utterly without either.
It was purely an exaggerated and coarse caricature, positively suited only to
the tastes of a gallery in a seaport town. The other verses had been laughed
at, as silly drollery, perhaps; but this was received with —how shall I express
it? — a yell of delight would not be
a term too strong!
No one is more ready
to give proper credit to the just-mindedness and liberality of a portion of
the English than myself; but the truth would not be told, were I to leave you
under the impression that their tone prevails even among the better classes of
their society, in relation to ourselves. You will remember that this song was
not given to the pit or galleries of an ordinary theatre, but to a society in
which there were none beneath the station of gentlemen, and that I should deem
this caricature altogether beneath the intelligence and breeding of the
company, were it not for the singular rapture with which it was greeted. It is
a much more laughable commentary on this extraordinary scene, that, just as it
was finished, the Count di _____ leaned over and whispered to me that the
dislike and "jealousy" (I
use his own words) of the English for the Americans seemed inappeasable! I
observed that the side of the room that was chiefly occupied by the people of
rank was mute, the nobles maintaining a cold and polished indifference; but in
the other end of the sala, which was filled with half-pay officers and the oi polloi of the travellers, the yell was quite suited to the theme. One
might have fancied it the murdered lather shrieking under the knife of the
parricidal son.
At the receptions of Don Camillo Borghese, as
the Romans style him, one sees most of the strangers. These entertainments are dansantes, and, as the rooms are large
and the music noble, they are imposing; though the company is far from being of
the purest water. As a proof of this, a noisy party preceded us, the other
evening, the young men calling out to each other, "Where is the fat
man?" "Now for the fat man," &c. the prince being almost
unwieldy from his size. Waltzes are the favourite dances; though no people know
how to waltz but the Germans — or, indeed, to play the necessary airs, but
their musicians. It has struck me that I have seen no people who had the organ
of time, but the Germans and the
negroes of America: and a waltz without the utmost accuracy in the movement is
a ridiculous dance. I have observed that the young women of condition in France
and Italy were not often permitted to join in this dance, by their mothers,
with men as partners, unless the latter were near connexions; and as the
latter arrangement cannot well be made in a public ball, none joined in the
waltzes here.
As a specimen of the
sort of omnium gatherum that Florence
has become, I will give you a list of some of the notables that were seen, recently,
in the first row of the Pergola, the principal opera-house, here. First, there
was the Count St. Leu, as he is styled, or the ex-king of Holland. Near him was
the Prince de Montfort, his brother, or the ex-king of Westphalia. In the same
row was Mrs. Patterson, once the wife of the last-named personage. At no great
distance was Prince Henry of Prussia, a brother of the reigning king. In the
same line and at no great distance, sat Madame Christophe, ex-empress of Hayti,
with a daughter or two. In addition to these, there was a pretty sprinkling of
chiefs of revolutions, litterateurs
of all nations, ex-ambassadors, and politicians en retraite, to say nothing of mere people of fashion.
The winter has come
upon us sharply, ice forming freely in the ditches around the town, and skates
being brought into requisition. I have seen snow impending over us, in falling
clouds even, but it vanishes before it reaches the ground: though the Apennines
are occasionally, powdered. Once, and once only, a little has lain in the
streets, but not long enough, or in sufficient quantities, to enable one to say
it has covered the stones. Still it is snapping cold, and we find our good wood
fires as comfortable as in New York.
G[OUVERNEUR] W[ILKINS]
has been here, and we have made a run together down to the coast. We parted in
June last, you will recollect, in Amsterdam, he on his way to Moscow, and we on
ours to Rome, where he is likely to arrive before us, as he is off already in
that direction, and we still linger here on the banks of the Arno. The little
excursion we made together is worthy of a passing word. We left Florence in
W[ilkins]'s carriage, an excellent bachelorlike vehicle, on as cold a
noon-tide as one often meets with in New York, even north of the highlands.
These Apennines, which form a magnificent backbone for Italy, give the country
a great diversity of climate, serving as a wall to heat it in summer, and as
repositories of snow to cool it in winter. We were closely curtained and had
the glasses up, and went ventre à terre
over the paved roads, and yet had great difficulty in keeping ourselves warm.
The first halt was at
Pistoja, a town of some size, in which we amused ourselves for half-an-hour in
looking at a church or two, as well as at some pictures. Taking a little
refreshment, we proceeded at the old pace, and drove into the gate of Lucca,
just as night had set in. Shivering with cold, for this little capital is in
the heart of the mountains, we made our way into a room, and only began to
recover the natural line of our skins, when a dozen cones of the pine, well
filled with resin, were in a bright blaze. These and a plentiful supply of
faggots brought back the congealed vitality, whose current had almost frozen. A
good supper and good beds reconciled us to life.
We were up betimes,
and went forth to explore Lucca. The town stands on a plain, a mountain basin,
and is walled in a semi-modern fashion. If good for nothing in the way of defence,
the ramparts make an excellent promenade. We visited the churches and pictures
as usual, and then took a fancy to examine the palace, a long, unornamented
edifice in the heart of the place. The duke is travelling, and, pretty much as
a matter of course, is out of his own dominions, which, though one of the most
populous countries of Europe, possessing three hundred and thirty souls to the
square mile, has not one hundred and fifty thousand people. When it is
remembered that a large portion of even this small territory is mountain and
nearly uninhabited gorges, you may form some notion of the manner in which the
little plain itself is peopled. The town has only twenty two thousand souls;
but as we walked on the ramparts and overlooked the adjacent country, it seemed
alive with peasants of both sexes, labouring in the fields. They resembled
pigeons gleaning a stubble, literally forming lines of twenty or thirty,
working with hoes. Indeed, the agriculture was gardening. Lucca was a republic
down to the period of the French Revolution, about which time it was given to
his sister Eliza by Napoleon, as a duchy. I believe the palace is owing to her
taste, and to the expenditure of an Imperial princess. We found it Parisian in
style and arrangement, and in these particulars, I thought, superior even to
Windsor. Nature has fitted the French to excel in mantua-making, upholstery,
and philosophy.
A little circumstance that is scarcely worth mentioning has drawn me
from my privacy, and induced me to appear at the court of Tuscany. When the
resolution to be presented was taken, a letter was addressed to the great
chamberlain, with a request to have an audience of the grand duke, and of the
princesses of the family, of whom there are three of an age to have
establishments; and I received an answer that I should be presented on the
occasion of a festival that was at hand, when there was to be a grand
drawing-room. Accordingly, the sword, and steel buttons, and lace were early
provided; for I was given to understand that these were indispensable
paraphernalia. Were the thing to be done over again, I should ask permission to
appear in the full dress of my own country: for if a Turk can be received in
this manner, why not an American? My attire, however, was not much out of the
ordinary way, being merely a black coat, breeches, and vest, with lace at the
cuffs and frills, steel buttons and a sword, with a dress hat. Still, I make no
doubt, had a proper representation been made, I might have been received
precisely as one goes to the White House; for the rule is that each person
shall appear in the full dress of his own country.
As we have no minister in Italy, I escaped the necessity of offering
an apparent slight; for in no ordinary circumstances would I be presented by an
American minister: it is not his duty, and one can get along quite as well
without him as with him. I did think of asking the minister of Russia to do me
this favour, for he would have been the most natural substitute for one of our
own; but, on reflection, I determined to put myself altogether in the hands of
the regular officer of the court.
The great chamberlain, the Marchese Corsi, had directed me to be at
the Pitti at an early hour in the evening, where I was to inquire for him. The
King of England is lodged much less like a monarch than the Grand Duke of
Tuscany, who inhabits a palace fit for an emperor, although it was originally
constructed, or rather commenced, by a merchant. As every one is admitted to
see its pictures, I had often been in the building; but this was the first
occasion on which I had entered the regular reception rooms.
Of course I was punctual, and on ascending the great stairs, I found
them, the galleries, and the ante-chambers crowded with lackeys in the royal
liveries. Beyond these, again, was a party of the noble guards, a sort of gardes du corps; and still farther in
advance, was a room in which the young pages of honour, sons of the first
houses of Tuscany, were amusing themselves after the fashion of their time of
life, with certain practical jokes on each other. One of these was the young
Baron [Ricasoli], the owner of our own palazzo, and, although just at the moment
he was very busy in exercising his wit on one of his companions, he no sooner
recognised me, than he good-naturedly abandoned his fun to come and offer his
services. I told him I wished to find the Marchese Corsi, and he pointed to one
of the chamberlains of the court as the person to whom I ought to apply.
I saw through the long vista of rooms, that a crowd was present, and
that everybody was in high dress. The chamberlain to whom I applied was in
scarlet, and seethed to be in waiting for stray courtiers like myself. As soon
as I preferred my request to be conducted to Signor Corsi, he asked me, with a
little point of manner, if I were an American. The answer was in the affirmative,
of course, and, not a rarity, my national character appeared to be in my
favour. This gentleman very obligingly led the way through two or three large
rooms full of courtiers, and presented me to the grand chamberlain, who was in
a small apartment that contained merely a dozen people. After a short conversation,
I was desired to wait a little, for the appearance of the royal family. On
looking round, I perceived that my companions were the secretaries of the
different legations, and as I knew several of them, we fell into discourse. I
observed that my presence caused a little surprise, and apprehensive that it
was my duty to retire to the crowd in the outer room, I took an opportunity to
question an English acquaintance on the subject. From this gentleman I learned
that my presence in this particular room was a little out of rule. He said
this delicately, but with sufficient distinctness. The family was in an
apartment still further removed from the crowd, where it was in the practice of
receiving the heads of the different legations; and the subordinates, with the
ministers of state, had their place in the little room in which we then were.
My informant added, that several of his countrymen were among the courtiers,
waiting to be presented. This information was no sooner obtained, than, supposing
I had misunderstood M. Corsi, I withdrew.
In a minute, however, I was summoned back to the side of the great
chamberlain, who told me that the grand duke was about to enter the room. I
explained my error, by intimating that I had been led to suppose myself where I
ought not to be. On this hint, the great chamberlain indirectly, but very
politely, gave me to understand that he
was master of the ceremonies at the court of Tuscany, and no one else. Of
course I had no objection to make, and was resigned to my honour. But at this
moment the Count Fossombrone, the first minister of state, a respectable old
man of an excellent character, entered, and took his station near the door. The
rest of us were ranged in a circle, the Marchese Corsi nearest to the premier,
and I at his elbow.
You probably know that the Grand Duke of Tuscany is also an Austrian
Archduke. The scale is so graduated, that I believe he ranks higher, as a cadet
of the Imperial House, than as sovereign of this beautiful and respectable
little state. At any rate, his usual style is that of His Imperial and Royal
Highness, Leopold, &c. &c. His sister and daughters are also styled
Archduchesses; although the latter are as yet mere children.
Tuscany came into the possession of the House of Austria by an arrangement
with France. At the death of John Gaston, the last of the Medici, in 1737,
Louis XV. succeeded, as the descendant of Maria di Medici, the wife of Henry
IV. About the same time, Francis, the reigning Duke of Lorraine, had married
the heiress of the Hapsbourgs, and was elected Emperor of Germany. Lorraine
lying within the Rhine, at a short distance from Paris, and since the conquest
of Alsace actually enclave by the
French territory, it was very desirable to possess it. The death of John Gaston
offered a favourable occasion, and the family of Lorraine, durably transferred
to the thrones of Austria, consented to exchange its ancient states for those
of Tuscany. As regards extent and richness of territory and population, France
made a hard bargain; but high political considerations balanced the account.
Tuscany was remote, while the possession of Lorraine threw back the eastern
and most vulnerable frontier of the kingdom at once to the Rhine. The marriage
of Francis, moreover, would have left the future head of the House of Austria
in occupation of a territory almost in the heart of France, without this
arrangement, or a violent seizure. France stipulated that Tuscany should never
be merged in Austria, as a state, however, but that it should be governed by a
cadet of the family. Thus, when Joseph II died without issue and was succeeded
by his brother Leopold, then Grand Duke of Tuscany, the second son of the
latter, Ferdinand, became sovereign of Tuscany. His son Leopold II. is the
reigning duke; and, of course, he is a nephew of the emperor, and stands next
in succession to the Imperial throne, after the two sons of the emperor, and
before the Archidukes Charles, John, Regnier, Anthony, &c. &c. &c.
Thus, though we are about to see the sovereign of Tuscany, it is an event by no
means improbable that he may one day become Emperor of Austria, as happened to
his grandfather, and predecessor in the grand duchy.
I had hardly come to an understanding with the Signor Corsi, when the
members of the family entered the little room in which we were ranged. The
grand duke, a man of good stature and of an amiable countenance, came first. He
was dressed in the uniform of an Austrian officer, or in a white coat and
scarlet pantaloons, embroidered in gold, with military boots; and he wore the
star and badge of the Golden Fleece, &c. He appeared to be about thirty.
On entering the room he addressed himself to Count Fossombrone, his
minister, with whom he conversed a few minutes. He then turned with a look of
inquiry to the Marchese Corsi, who made a sign to me, mentioned my name, and
retired a few steps. The conversation lasted about five minutes, commencing
with the usual questions as to my route, the length of time I had been in
Florence, and civil expressions of satisfaction at seeing me at his court: it
was held in French. The grand duke left on my mind a strong impression of
integrity of character; a quality far more to be prized than any other. One
proof of the simplicity and justness of his mind was so striking, and so very
different from what I had just escaped from in Paris, that it deserves to be
recorded. "They tell me you are the author of many books," he said;
"but as it has never been my good fortune to meet with them, I can say no
more to you on the subject, than that I have heard them well spoken of by those
who have." Here was a civil thing, united with an honesty that did equal
credit to his tact and his truth. He left me with renewed expressions of his
satisfaction at seeing me at his court, and then made the circuit of the
secretaries and attaches.
While the grand duke was talking to me, the two grand duchesses, and
the Archduchess Louisa, appeared in the room. I say the grand duchesses; for
there is a dowager as well as a reigning grand duchess. These ladies are
sisters, and nieces of the King of Saxony, the eldest having married the late
grand duke, not long before his death, and being childless. The three followed
each other, speaking in succession to those who had been previously addressed
by the grand duke, and waiting until he had done. As our conversation had
lasted a little longer than common, the three princesses were standing in a
line behind the grand duke, when the latter left me. They were all in high
court dresses, and had their trains borne by chamberlains.
Each of the princesses spoke to Count Fossombrone, in passing; and
when the grand duke moved on, the reigning grand duchess approached me. There
was no introduction in words, M. Corsi merely bowing towards me, to prevent any
mistake. I dare say you think I now got some compliments on a work of fiction
or two: no such thing — the subject was not alluded to by either of the
princesses. They had treated letters with high distinction, by the especial
notice they conferred; for, as I afterwards understood, the outer rooms were
filled with men of rank waiting to be presented; but they avoided all allusion
to the subject. With the two grand duchesses I had, for the circumstances, a
good deal of conversation, and one of them quite won my heart by the manner in
which she alluded to my children, of whom she had accidentally heard
something. The archduchess said least; but the two grand duchesses were not
only disposed to talk, but were everything that was amiable.
I had a droll specimen of the influence of favour on this occasion:
for the family had no sooner passed on, than I had to receive nearly the whole
diplomatic corps; the rays of royalty illuminating the secondary planets as the
moon receives brilliancy from the sun.
The rest of the reception was conducted in the same mode, the grand
duke going through all the rooms; but the ladies were less particular. The
latter sat down to cards; where I observed that the refreshments they received
were taken from the pages, and handed to them by the chamberlains.
Among the company was M. Eynard, the celebrated Swiss Hellenist. He
wore the military jacket of the Swiss militia, with a Greek cross on the
sleeve. There were several Englishmen of rank present, in yeomanry uniforms;
and one, Lord ___, told me his was that of a lieutenancy in the militia — an
office he had formerly held. I
mention these things, as so much misconception exists in America on the
subject. The wisest way to go to court here, would be to go in the full dress
of Washington; but nothing is in better taste than to go in a militia uniform,
if one happened to be entitled to wear it. The mistake is in flourishing these
quasi-military titles on the card, and in ordinary life, and in believing they
are out of place on occasions like this. We get most of these things sens dessus, dessous, and fancy ourselves critically right, when we are
singularly wrong. The well-known story of Napoleon and General __ may be true, but I greatly question it,
as it is opposed to the spirit of European feeling; and it sounds very much
like one of those inventions that float about American society, and are taken
for gospel. I have known a dozen similar tales, in great vogue, which are
certainly false. Ignorance of European life is so very general in America, and
the susceptibility to European opinion so very keen, that we are to make great
allowances for what is rumoured in such matters.
After remaining some time in the drawing-room, I was stealing off;
when I perceived the grand duke moving slowly towards me, followed by a large
circle of courtiers. I got into an angle of the room that happened to be empty
at the moment, and close to a door, thinking I should be passed unseen, as I
did not like the appearance of pushing myself on his notice, after the extreme
civility of the first reception. With such an intention, however, a worse
position could not have been taken; for on entering the room, happening to
glance his eye aside, the grand duke saw me, and turning short, I was literally
cornered. Those who kept near the person of their sovereign, some fifty in all,
formed a semicircle, extending from the outer side of the door across the room,
and we were left alone, literally in the corner. At first, the grand duke had
his back turned towards the rest of the company; but recollecting the
awkwardness of the position, he changed it so as to face his subjects.
The conversation lasted, I should think, twenty minutes. His imperial
highness was very curious as to America, and though there were great modesty
and politeness, mingled with a singular and commendable sincerity, in his
manner, he asked a hundred questions, while, of course, I did nothing but
answer them. He inquired into the number and size of our towns, the habits of
the people, and the general state of the country. Some of his notions were, as
usual with most Europeans, vague and false; but, on the whole, he appeared to
me to know more about us than most of even the learned in this hemisphere. His
geographical attainments struck me as being very respectable; and what gave me
more satisfaction than anything else, was the simple integrity apparent in all
his sentiments.
The Osages had passed through Florence not long before, and had been
feted and fed, as at Paris. The grand duke inquired if I had seen them, and,
on being answered in the affirmative, he wished to know whether I believed
them to be chiefs of importance in their tribe, and enquired their motive in
coming to Europe. Now, it would not be agreeable for one who fancied he had seen
a hero, to hear he had only seen a common man, or who thought he was
entertaining a saint, to discover that his attentions were lavished on a
sinner. But catching some of the sincerity of the grand duke, I told him what
I really thought: viz. that these savages could not well be principal chiefs,
as the agent of our government would scarcely permit such to visit Europe; and
that I believed the whole thing to have no connexion whatever with religious
conversion, but to be merely a speculation of the Frenchman who managed the
affair. This explanation was taken in good part, and I thought the grand duke
had even anticipated some such reply. Princes so seldom get truth, that its
novelty sometimes pleases them.
With one of his questions, which was personal to myself, I was both
startled and amused. "De quel pays
'etes vous, vraiment?" he asked, laying particular emphasis on the
last word. Had he not discovered too much knowledge of America previously, I
might have suspected the old difficulty of colour was a stumblingblock; but as
this was out of the question, suspicion was drawn another way. I believe the
simple solution of this unusual question to be as follows: Not long before, I
had taken an opportunity to expose the motives and policy that had given rise
to the systematic and enduring abuse of the English press on America. Any one
might have accomplished this duty, for such it had actually become; but,
favoured by circumstances, my own publication had made its way in Europe, where
most American books would never have penetrated. As a matter of course, I had
been blackguarded, for the Anglo-Saxon race seems to take natural refuge in
blackguarding when it can neither refute nor disprove. By way of weakening my
testimony, a report had been industriously circulated that I was a renegado
Englishman, and an honest indignation for unmerited national calumny was
ingeniously imputed to personal disaffection and personal discontent. As
half-a-dozen of these rumours had fallen under my eyes in the public journals,
I was at no loss to understand the drift of the grand duke's inquiry; and this
the more especially, as he awaited the answer with evident curiosity.
Determined to set him right on this subject, which if of no importance to the
state of Tuscany, was of some importance to myself, I told him, with
commendable particularity, I was a native of the small state of New Jersey, a
territory lying between the two great states of Pennsylvania and New York;
though a citizen of the latter from infancy. He wished to know if New Jersey
was an original state, and whether my father had not been an Englishman. On
this hint, I added, that my family had migrated to America, in 1679, from
England certainly, but I had every reason to believe that I was the first
member of it, in the direct line, who had been out of the country since; and,
moreover, that Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York were original states in
the heart of America, and that more than a hundred men of my name and blood
were at this moment among their citizens. I believe this satisfied the grand
duke: for so general is the disgust created by the English system of calumniating,
that I have often had occasion to observe that the inhabitants of other
countries are usually pleased to find the islanders put in the wrong.
It was not an easy matter to answer all the questions of this prince
without misleading him, for etiquette prevented more than direct and brief
replies. He was curious on the subject of luxury, and had many exaggerated
notions concerning the magnificence of our nation. He seemed surprised when I
told him we had no scenery to compare with that of the Mediterranean, and that
nearly all of the American coast, in particular, was tame and uninteresting.
"But your lakes?" "Are large, sir, without question; but so
large as to resemble views of the ocean, and with coasts that are far from
striking. We have many beautiful little lakes, it is true, but nothing to
compare with those of Italy and Switzerland . "Your rivers?"
"Are large and beautiful." "And your mountains?" "Are
much inferior to those of Tuscany, even."
But I cannot recall all that passed in this long conversation, of
whose outline, rather than of its details, I have endeavoured to give you some
idea. It terminated with the usual expressions of civility on the part of the
grand duke, and the hope that Tuscany would prove an agreeable residence to
us. Throughout the entire evening, I was under the impression that I had been
treated with more than usual distinction, on account of my country; a source of
distinction so very novel in Europe, that I deem it worthy of being recorded.
Like most of the Austrian family, Leopold II is a man of kind heart
and affections, and, I believe, a strictly honest prince. In many public acts
it becomes necessary to separate the absolute sovereign from the individual;
though the world is constantly guilty of the injustice of confounding them,
while it is apt to overlook the divided responsibilities of aristocracies; a
polity that probably works more positive wrong than any other, since a large
part of the crimes of despotisms are merely excesses of those in places of
trust. But Tuscany is a mildly governed country, and though it cannot be free
from the vices of a want of publicity,
it is free from their opposite — the vice of a too great publicity, or that of
confounding the necessities of the community with the rights of individuals.
The most insidious enemy of monarchy is aristocracy, which destroys while it
pretends to support. Still, it is the natural goal of every nobility, and it
has struck me there is a secret instinct which teaches this important truth to
the sovereigns of our time. A country may be so far advanced as to wish for
democracy; but this is the fact under few despotic governments; while all the
nobles of Europe pine to become political, or true, as well as social
aristocrats. In such a state of things, there is nothing violent in supposing
that an absolute prince would regard an aristocrat with more distrust than he
regards a democrat; for the polity of the former is an impossibility to him,
while there is a constant and natural gravitation towards the latter. At all
events, in my own intercourse with princes and aristocrats, I think I have
discovered in the former greater liberality, a more confirmed deference for the
facts of a country and less theoretical ardour in favour of systems, a higher
tone of philosophy with less apparent selfishness, than in the latter,
considering the aristocrats as a body, and not regarding the occasional
brilliant exceptions. As respects affability and absence of hauteur, the
advantage is altogether with the prince, for it depends on a law of nature. I
believe, that as we are farther removed from competition and jealousy, the
greater the spirit of humanity and charity becomes.
The carnival
commenced early this year, and we have now been a month occupied with its
harmless follies and gaieties. Our little capital has shone forth in new
colours, and a round of masked balls, at the different legations, has been one
of the principal sources of amusement. I was present at the one given by M. de
Vitrolles, the minister of France, and shall describe it, in a few words, that
you may form some idea of the manner in which these things are managed in
Italy.
Although a mask is not indispensable, one is expected to wear some
symbol of the folly of the hour. I was told that a little silk cloak, that fell
no lower than the elbows, lined with red, and furnished with tassels, was much
used by the juste milieu, and was the
very minimum of admissible costume. Provided with one of these, then, and
otherwise dressed as usual, I presented myself among the crowd at the "Hotel de France."
Perhaps half the company was masked; the rest appearing in every sort
of dress that fancy, usage, or caprice dictated. A town like Florence offers,
on such an occasion, a greater variety of national costumes than one of the
larger capitals; for the society is more than half composed of travellers, who
come from all the countries of Christendom. The ballroom, as a matter of
course, presented a brilliant coup d'oeil,
the more especially as all the women were in high fancy dresses. There was the
usual sprinkling of Greeks, Egyptians, Turks, and magnificos, with a large
proportion of bona fide military
uniforms. Among others, I saw an Englishman of my acquaintance, a Sir ____, in
a coat of a cut that reminded one of the last century. On inquiry, he told me
that he had belonged to the guards in his youth, and that he never travelled
without his old coat, which he found still very useful on occasions like the
present. This is the sensible mode of getting along; but our provincial
sensitiveness makes us afraid of a militia uniform. Lord ____ was also here, in
his jacket, as a lieutenant of yeomanry. Again, in the course of the evening, a
group of Englishmen collected in the centre of the room, and began to talk of
their own country. They were all in uniforms, perhaps ten of them, and all
belonged to what they called "the household brigade." The rest of the
company shrugged their shoulders at this invasion of the English guards, which
was not exactly in good taste; but a cluster of finer young men could not
easily have been found. Several of them were six feet two or three, and among
the Italians they looked like giants. It resembled a ring of our own Western
boys, for a novelty, well dressed.
Soon after the company had assembled, a party appeared beautifully
attired in the Polish costume, and danced a polonaise. Both the men and women
wore boots, and the dresses were singularly striking. The movement of the dance
was slow, and had some slight resemblance to that of a quadrille, though it was
much more German and theatrical. The dancers were chiefly Italians; but the
master of ceremonies was, I believe, a Pole.
After I had been some time in the room, I found I was the object of
general attention. Every one turned round to look at me, until, suspecting
something was wrong, I asked an acquaintance what could be the cause of so
much and so unusual observation. "You have no cloak," he answered.
Sure enough, the apology for a costume that had been thrown over my shoulders
had fallen; and the want of it, in that assembly, was just as much a matter of
surprise, as wearing it would have been under other circumstances. "Vive la folie, mon cher!" cried the
eloquent Baron —, as he saw me pick up the fallen garment; "il faut etre aussi fou que le reste du
monde, ce soir." This gentleman was enveloped in a white domino, without
a mask; his live Neapolitan eye rolling over the scene, like one who enjoyed
its gaiety. The blending of colours formed one of the attractions of' the
evening, the white dominos, in particular, greatly aiding the effect.
Looking over the company, I was led to speculate on the probable
consequences of the extraordinary blending of nations, that is the consequence
of the present condition of Europe. Fifty years since, none but the noble and
rich travelled; and even of this class, not one in ten could fairly be said to
have seen the world. At that time, the Alps were crossed only with difficulty,
and at a heavy expense; and the roads and inns, generally, were so bad, that a
journey from Paris to Rome was a serious undertaking, and a residence in either
town involved a total change of habits for the inhabitant of the other. Tonight
a young Englishman of my acquaintance civilly asked me if he could do anything
for me in London. "I'm going to take a run home for a month or six
weeks," he added, "and shall be back before you go farther
south." He thought little more of the journey than we think of an
excursion from New York to Washington. His father would have taken more time
to prepare for such a journey than the son will consume in making it.
One evident and beneficial effect of this commingling is certainly
the general advancement of intelligence, the wearing down of prejudices, and
the prevalence of a more philosophic spirit than of old. In a society where
representatives from all the enlightened nations of the world are assembled, a
man must be worse than a block if he do not acquire materials worth retaining;
for no people is so civilized as to be perfect, and few so degraded as not to
possess something worthy to be imparted to others.
It would be morally impossible for Europe to retrograde to the
coarseness and open oppression that existed eighty years since, without the
occurrence of some violent revolution: nor is it any longer easy for any
particular community so far to isolate itself from the general sisterhood of
states, as to retain many of the flagrant abuses that outrage the spirit of the
age. There is still something to gain in these particulars, beyond a doubt; but
the progress is steadily onward, and twenty years more of peace and of continued
intercourse will create a standard of moral civilization below which no people
can fall and keep its place in the scale of nations. This is the right sort of
public opinion; not one which invades the sacred precincts of private life,
subjecting the sentiments and actions of individuals to the supervision of a
neighbourhood, and giving birth to a wrong as great as any it removes, — but a
controlling judgment that settles great principles, and throws its shield
before the wronged and the feeble — a public opinion that benefits all without
doing injustice to any. In this respect, Europe enjoys an immense advantage,
from which we are almost entirely excluded by position. I think the effect very
apparent, when one comes to analyze the modes of thinking of the two
hemispheres; and in nothing is this effect more obvious than in the
circumstance to which I have had occasion so often to allude in these letters,
of the manner in which opinion precedes facts here, and facts precede opinion
with us. This, after all, when one has made a proper allowance for the
influence of time on physical things, is the great distinctive feature between
the people of most of Europe and the people of America.
We have the carnival in the streets as well as in the palaces, and
most of all in the theatres. Balls are given nearly every night in some one of
these public places, and I have been to two or three in masks, but always in
domino. On several of these occasions I have attempted to mystify countrymen of
our own; but Jonathan is usually as innocent of joking as he is of Hebrew. One
evening I attempted a conversation with a tall Yankee, whom I had seen before,
and succeeded in getting him a little aloof from the company; when he started
up suddenly from his seat, and plunged into the crowd, leaving me delighted
with the success of my awful communications. You will judge of my astonishment
at hearing him tell a mutual friend next day of the abrupt manner in which he
had escaped some impudent troll, who had endeavoured to get him beneath a chandelier where the grease might fall on
his new coat — a plot of which I solemnly assert my innocence. My greasy
friend was revenged by a party which got round me, and quizzed me at such a
rate, that I took shelter from them, by putting my mask in my pocket, and going
into the box of the Count St. Leu, who was not in mask. My tormentors,
however, were not to be driven off so easily; for two of them followed me,
keeping up a round of pleasantries about America and the Indians until I was
glad to be quit of them. Later in the evening, one of these gentry met me in
the crowd, and removing his mask a little, he showed me the face of Prince
Napoleon Bonaparte, the eldest son of the count — a young man of great personal
beauty and of singular cleverness. I masked again, and we took a seat apart,
and began to discuss the usages of our respective countries. Both agreed that
the world was little more than a masquerade, and my companion related the
following anecdote, among other things, as a proof of the truth of our truisms.
You will remember that when King Louis abdicated the throne of
Holland, it was in favour of this very son, who was a titular monarch for the
few days that intervened between the retirement of his fatherland, the
incorporation of the country with France. Though a mere boy, he was condemned
to listen to many congratulatory addresses on his accession, his whole reign
being distinguished by little else. One morning he was required to receive a
deputation, just as he had prepared to discuss a quantity of bons-bons, on which he had set his
heart, and of which he was particularly fond. While the courtier was dwelling
on the virtues of the retired monarch, the weight of his loss (that of the bons-bons) oppressed him even to tears;
and "you will judge of my surprise," he added, laughing, "at
hearing all the courtiers bursting out in exclamations of delight at the excellence of my heart, when I
expected nothing better than a severe rebuke for my babyism." This, he
said good-humouredly, was the first of his masquerades.
A sudden call drew me from Florence during the carnival, and put me
unexpectedly on the road to Paris. As I went alone, I took the mail, or malle-poste; a species of travelling in great
request for those who are in a hurry. The mail is always attended by a guard,
who accompanies it from one great town to another. His duty it is to see it
properly delivered by the way, and to receive contributions that offer on the
route. The contractor is permitted to take one or two travellers in his
carriage, which is purposely disposed so as to receive them.
I took my place accordingly as far as Genoa, and we left Florence
just as the sun was setting, with our lamps lighted. As we drove through the
gate of Pisa, I observed a dragoon dashing along, on each side of us, and was
then told that frequent robberies had rendered this escort necessary, until we
got out of Lucca. There was a contadino
inside, a respectable farmer, who was going a post or two down the Arno, and
his eye glistened with delight as he regarded the dragoons. "Those are the
boys, signore," he observed to me. "Nineteen of them put five hundred
Neapolitans to flight here during the late wars." I wonder if there be a
people on the globe that does not think itself the salt of the earth! Near
Satins, last year, as we approached Switzerland, the postilion gravely pointed
to a fort, which he affirmed had surrendered to five-and-twenty French, though
garrisoned by two hundred Austrians. One can hear of such prodigies anywhere,
though they are obstinately uncommon in practice, "even Providence,"
as Frederick expressed it, "being usually on the side of strong
battalions."
We drove through Pisa at midnight, and reached Lucca before day. On
the confines of this little territory we got some beautiful scenery, the road
descending and climbing the Suisse, offering occasional glimpses of the sea.
Massa, the capital of the duchy of that name, was little more than a straggling
village, seated on a hillside, but picturesque and Italian; and Carrara, which
aspires to the title of a principality, and which is so well known for its
statuary marble, is not much more. Both the small states belong to the Duchess
Dowager of Modena, and at her death will come under the government of the Duke
of Modena, extending his possessions, which already join them, to the sea.
Here the Apennines approached the Mediterranean, until we soon saw
their noble piles forming capes and headlands, impending over the blue element.
It was altogether a wild and picturesque road, running among and over
mountains, along the margin of torrents and through frowning gorges, with occasional
openings toward the Mediterranean, that seemed like the breaking away of clouds
in winter. One of the most extraordinary features of the scenery was the
manner in which grey villages were stuck like wasps' nests against the
acclivities, resembling romantic structures placed in the most picturesque
positions on purpose to produce an effect. Fifty of these dusky hamlets rose
like bas-reliefs, or embossings, from the brown sides of the mountains; and
some of them seemed perched on pinnacles that the foot of man could hardly
scale. I had never before seen anything, in its way, half so wild and romantic
as the rustic hamlets in the distance; though a few that we entered completely
destroyed the charm on the near view.
At Spezzia an indentation of the coast brought our carriage wheels
fairly into the water; and after this we began to ascend. Just as night closed,
we were buried in the mountains, and I composed myself to sleep. A jog from the
conducteur awoke me, while we were
driving through a gallery that equalled the boasted cuttings of the Simplon.
Looking out, I found we were on the coast again; and passing village after
village in quick succession, we reached the gates of Genoa, amid a crowd of
donkeys, and of market people of both sexes, who profited by our arrival to
enter the town.
You are to remember that I have promised nothing but the gleanings
that are to be had after the harvests gathered by those who have gone before
me. My task, therefore, is less one of minute and close description, than of
desultory findings. This peculiarity may cause occasional meagreness of facts,
and some apparent eccentricities of thought; for while I pretend to have
gathered no more of what has been left by others than has come in my way, most
of what I have actually seen is necessarily unrecorded, and matters of opinion
are commonly uttered when I have found reason to differ from the multitude.
At Genoa I remained two days. To the peculiar attractions of a port,
and that too a port of the Mediterranean, were added the magnificence and
glories of a capital. Every one has read of the palaces of this town, the Strada Balbi probably having no equal,
in its way, in any other European capital. It is not wide, is without
side-walks, and but for the structures that line its two sides, would offer
nothing remarkable. For more than a mile, however, it is a succession of edifices,
that, in any other country but Italy, would be deemed fit for royalty. The
Faubourg St. Germain has more large hotels, certainly; but the architecture is
better here, and the material much superior to that in use in France. I should
think that in the material point of gardens, the French capital has greatly the
advantage. I entered several of these fine houses, which were generally
remarkable for their marbles, staircases, and paintings. That of Serra is known
all over Europe for a saloon that is covered with mirrors which reflect its
half columns in a way to give it the air of a fairy palace. This room, when
well lighted, must present an extraordinary sight; though it is rather small
for its style of ornament. I have seen many rooms decorated in this mode, but
never one with the blended magnificence and simplicity that are to be observed
here. Generally the effect has been that of a toy, a sort of German
prettiness, or German conceit; but there was none of this in the Serra palace.
The master of this noble house is not compos
mentis, though quiet and harmless. He was seated over a brazier, in an
ante-chamber, in the company of the ladies, as I passed through; and he rose
politely to return my bow, muttering some words of compliment. It may be that he
has a simple satisfaction in this amusement, but it struck me painfully. The
antics of the carnival were acting in this fine street.
I saw the palace of the King, and some of the pictures; that of the
Feast of Cana in particular. But the town, the scenery, and the port most
attracted me. Genoa lies at the base of a hill, around the head of a large
cove, which has been converted into a fine harbour by means of two moles. One
quarter of the town actually stands on low cliffs that are washed by the sea, which
must sometimes throw its spray into the streets. Its position consequently
unites the several beauties of a gorgeous capital with all its works of art,
the movement and bustle of a port, the view of a sea with passing ships and its
varying aspects of calms and tempests, with a background of stupendous hills;
for at this point the Alps send out those grand accessories to their magnificence,
the Apennines. The place is fortified, and the nature of the ground requiring
that the adjacent hill should be included, the enceinte is large enough to contain all Paris. On the side of the
cliffs and at the moles, are water batteries; the entire port is separated from
the town by a high wall, which, while it does little more in the way of
defence than protect the revenue, offers a peculiarly beautiful promenade,
which overlooks the busy and picturesque little haven. Towards the land the
works are more regular, and are intended for defence. The ascent is rapid after
one is out of the streets; and the walls, flanked by forts, follow the line of
a ridge, that is shaped like an irregular triangle, which by falling off
precipitously towards the country, supersedes the necessity of ditches.
I took a horse and made the circuit of the walls. The day was mild,
but had passing clouds; and some of the views towards the interior were of an
extraordinary character. A deep valley separated us from the district around
the works; and there were several fine glimpses, in a sort of wild perspective,
among the recesses of the mountains. I scarcely remember a scene of more
peculiar wildness blended with beauty, than some of these glimpses offered;
though the passing clouds and the season perhaps contributed to the effect. The
inland views resembled some of the backgrounds of the pictures of Leonardo da
Vinci. Indeed, it is only in Italy, and among its romantic heights with their
castle-resembling villages and towns, that one first gets an accurate notion of
the models that the older masters painted.
Seaward, the prospect from the apex of the triangle was truly
glorious. The day was mild, and twenty sail were loitering along, quaint in
their rig, as usual, and wallowing to the heavy ground-swell. Here I got almost
a bird's-eye view of the town, port, and offing, with the noble range of coast
southward, and a pile of purple mountains whose feet were lined with villages.
I scarcely remember a day in Switzerland that was more fruitful of delight than
this. As I descended to the highway, one of the royal equipages, a coach and
six, with scarlet liveries, went by at a stately pace, followed by another with
four, and several outriders. It added to the brilliancy of the foreground of
the picture.
The large space between the town and the walls was nearly waste;
though there stands a citadel, overlooking the former in a way to suggest the
idea of offence, rather than of defence. The streets in general are Moorish in
width, many of them positively not being more than eight or ten feet in
breadth. I had one or two encounters with donkeys loaded with panniers, a
passage being frequently quite a Scylla-and-Charybdis matter. As the houses are
six or seven stories high, it is like walking in the fissures of a mountain to
walk in these streets. Of course carriages never attempt them. Still, Genoa has
many fine avenues besides the Strada Balbi.
I saw more street devotion in Genoa that I had previously witnessed in
Italy, men on their knees in the streets being rather an unusual sight in
Florence. The gambols of the carnival were much as usual; though Italian humour
is both richer and stronger than that of France. This is in favour of the
people, and shows that they have had a place in the world; for I take it the
French are wanting in this peculiar quality of the mind from the all-absorbing
moral as well as political superiority of the court. The humour of France is
nearly all military, as might be expected; and in this they are unequalled.
I believe I fancied business called me to Paris, as much to make the
passage of the Maritime Alps, as from any real necessity; for here I am back
again at Florence, after an absence of less than three weeks, the journey
unaccomplished.
I took the malle-poste,
again, on the afternoon of the third day, and left Genoa for Nice, with no
other companion than the conducteur.
As we whirled round the cliff that forms the western point of the port, I
looked back with longing eyes at Genova
la Superba, and thought that it well deserved the title.
Now commenced one of the most extraordinary roads it was ever my good
fortune to travel. It ran for a long distance on the very margin of the sea,
the carriage literally rolling along the beach in places. I cannot recount the
names of all the pretty little fishing and trading hamlets that we galloped
through in this manner; but they were numberless, and now and then we had a
town. The shore was fairly lined with them; while the mountains, inland, soon
began to tower upward to an Alpine magnitude. This was the commencement of the
Maritime Alps; and the following day we were to turn their flank along what is
aptly enough termed the corniche
road.
Imagination cannot portray bits of scenery more picturesque than some
that offered on the beach. Wild ravines, down which broad and rapid torrents
poured their contributions, opened towards the hills; and bridges of a singular
construction and of great antiquity frequently spanned them in bold and
imposing flights. Many of those wide arches were half ruined, adding the aid of
association to their other charms. As for the beach, it was principally of
sand; and wherever a hamlet occurred, it was certain to be lined with boats
and feluccas, some lying on their bilges, and others shored up on their keels,
with perhaps a sail spread to dry. How some of these crafts, vessels of forty or
fifty tons, in the absence of tides, were got there, or how they were to be got
off again, exceeded my skill at conjecture; though the conducteur affirmed that they sailed upon the sands, and would sail
off again when they wished to put to sea!
Here and there a prettily-modelled felucca was on the ways.
Altogether, it was an extraordinary passage, differing entirely from any I had
ever before made. Night overtook us a little before we reached Savona, and for
several hours we travelled in darkness. We had left Noli before the day dawned;
and when it came, it opened on an entirely different scene. The beach was
deserted, or rather, there was no longer a beach, but the coast had become
rocky and broken. The land was heaving itself up in gigantic forms, and on our
right appeared a peak that bears the name of Monte Finale. It was the last summit of the Alps!
The huge background of mountains protects all this coast from the
north winds, and the sun of a low latitude beating against it, joined to the
bland airs of this miraculous sea, conspire to render all this region
precocious. Even the palm was growing in one or two places; and, though only in
the first days of March, we felt all the symptoms of a young spring. This harmony
between the weather and the views contributed largely to my pleasures. Although
the coast had become so broken, we occasionally descended to the margin of the
sea. At Ventimiglia we passed a torrent of some width; and this was a point
that the King of Sardinia was fortifying extensively, as it completely covered
one flank of his Italian possessions. Farther on, we passed a small town called
Mentone, which is in the principality of Monaco. This little state lies enclave
in those of Sardinia, contains some six or eight thousand souls, and has passed
into the possession of the French family of Valentinois. Why it was preserved
through the eventful period of the late wars, I cannot tell you; but three or
four of these pigmy governments have shared its fate, let it be for good or for
evil. Among them are Lichtenstein, St. Marino, Knyphausen, and Monaco. The
last, however, is not strictly independent, but is under the protection of
Sardinia, and is without foreign relations; or it is an independent and
sovereign state a la mode de nullification.
A little distance from the town we passed a new building, erected by
the prince for a country-house. It was not much larger than an American
dwelling of the same sort, and, barring the Grecian monstrosities and the
shingle palaces, not more respectable. The grounds were small and naked of
trees, and altogether it was the most comfortless and unpretending abode of the
sort I have seen in Europe. But the Prince of Monaco resides chiefly in
France, cannot properly be considered royal, and, I dare say, values his French
peerage as highly as his Italian states. We passed barracks that were said to
contain an army of twenty men.
Soon after quitting Mentone, the road began to wind its way across the
broad and naked breast of a huge mountain. This was, in truth, the point where
we crossed the Maritime Alps, the rest of our mounting and descending being
merely coquetting on their skirts. The town of Monaco appeared in the distance,
seated on a low rocky promontory, with the sea laving one of its sides, and the
other opening towards a pretty and secluded port. The whole of this coast is as
picturesque and glorious, however, as the imagination can paint: and then the
associations, which are Oriental, and sometimes even Scriptural, come in to
throw a hue over all. I observed today, while we were traversing one of the
heights or promontories of the coast, a polacre rolling at her anchor, while
boats were carrying off to her oil and olives, from the spot where the latter
had grown. To give you a still juster notion of the nature of this region, as I
sat leaning back in the carriage this afternoon, the line of sight, by clearing
the bottom of the carriage window, struck another vessel under her canvass, at
the distance of half a league from the shore. We might have been, at the
moment, a thousand feet above the sea. Some of the panoramas, seen from these
advanced eminences, were as magnificent as land and water could form; and this
the more so from the hue of the Mediterranean, a tint that is eminently
beautiful. Indeed, one who has seen no other sea but that which is visible from
the American coast, can scarcely form a notion of the beauty of the ocean; for
there the tint is a dull green, while in most other parts of the world it is a
marine blue. The difference, I think, is owing to the shallowness of our own
seas, and the depth of those of this hemisphere, — and, perhaps, also to the
magnitude and number of the American rivers.
After climbing a league we reached the summit of the pass, which was a
sort of shoulder of the range, and had a short distance of tolerably level
route. From this elevation we caught a glimpse of a deep bay, with a town at
its head called Villa Franca; and one of the most extraordinary of all the
wasp-nest-looking villages I had yet seen presented itself. It literally
capped the apex of a cone, whose sides were so steep as to render ascending
and descending a work of toil, and even of risk. I should think that a child
that fell from the verge of the village must roll down two hundred feet. On
this extraordinary pinnacle were perched some fifty or sixty houses built of
stone, and resembling, as usual, one single and quaint edifice, from the manner
in which they were compressed together. The conducteur
deemed this village the most extraordinary thing on his route, and when I asked
him what could have induced men to select such a position for a town, he
answered, "The bears!" Protection was unquestionably the motive, and
the village is probably very ancient. My companion thought there must be a well
of great depth to furnish water, and he added, that the inhabitants were
chiefly shepherds. It is necessary to see a landscape embellished by towns,
convents, castles and churches, occupying sites like this, to form any accurate
notion of the manner in which they render it quaint and remarkable.
We now began to descend, and for a long distance the road wound down
the breast of the mountain; though it was far from being remarkable as an
Alpine pass. At length we reached a sort of basin on a level with the sea,
which held the city of Nice; the county of that name lying on both sides of the
Alps, and having been entered near Mentone.
A good supper and a bed were the first requisites; but, finding that
the malle poste did not proceed until
the next afternoon, the following morning I set about examining the exterior of
this celebrated refuge of the valetudinarian. The town is of some size and
well-built, being divided into two parts by a high bit of table-land, or a low
mountain, which is near the sea. I ascended this eminence, and got a
bird's-eye view of its entourage. The
port is small, and, I should think, in part artificial, — for it is like a
dock, with a narrow entrance, from a coast that was a perfectly unbroken and
regular curvature. The vessels lie as in a basin, though within a few yards of
the open sea, from which they are separated by a low beach. There were a good
many crafts in port, partaking of all the picturesque beauties of the polacre,
latine-rig, felucca, Lombard, &c. &c. Among the rest, I was struck with
a beautiful little schooner, that had so much of a ship-shape and knowing air
about her, that I was just about to inquire whence she came, as an English
ensign was set on board her. She was the yacht of an English naval captain, in
which he is in the habit of making short excursions in this glorious sea. If
there is a man on earth I envy, it is he! This craft was about thirty tons
burthen, well found, and as neat as a marine's musket.
I walked across the port, and thence around the nearest headland, by a
winding foot-path, and came out at the mouth of the harbour of Villa Franca,
which, I was told, is a haven much used by the Sardinian men-of-war. To me the
place seemed stagnant and deserted, and I returned to Nice by the same path.
Strolling along the quays of the latter, I found more of those signs of
Oriental life, which never fail to transport me in spirit to the regions of a
fabulous antiquity. Among other things, I saw a great number of large jars,
intended to hold oil, which at once explained the manner in which the forty
thieves were secreted; a difficulty that always destroyed the illusion of the
tale. Many of these jars were quite large enough to hold a man; though the
attitude he would be compelled to assume might be none of the most agreeable
for an ambuscade.
The orange-trees in this vicinity were covered with fruit; but the
oranges themselves were sour and unpalatable. On the whole, the situation of
Nice, which is almost entirely sheltered by mountains towards the north, must
render the climate generally mild; and the proximity of the Mediterranean, no
doubt, lends a blandness to the air. But, on the other hand, the sudden changes
and cold blasts that certainly do occur among all mountains, cannot but make
it a little precarious for consumptive people. If the scirocco, the greatest
drawback of this region, blows home at this remote point, it will be an
additional objection. I believe that the present condition of the world, and
the great facilities for travelling, are bringing other places more into
notice, and Nice and Montpelier are in less request than formerly. Still,
judging only from my own hasty and imperfect surveys of both, I should
recommend Nice much sooner than Pisa.
After dinner, which, for the first time since I came to Europe,was
made at a table d'hote filled by men
in trade, — a set that struck me as singularly professional on so long an
abstinence from the luxury of the craft, — we left Nice for Antibes. The road
ran along a level and fertile country, among orange-groves and olive-trees,
until we reached a broad and straggling river called the Var, across which was
thrown a rude, long, wooden bridge. Near the middle of this bridge was a gate
that marked the frontier of France. At the opposite side of the river, we
encountered a custom-house, where my luggage was examined. This was done in a
very civil and pro forma manner; and
the douceur that was offered, as an
acknowledgment of this favour was declined. The circumstance deserves to be
recorded.
It was dark when we reached Antibes, a walled and garrisoned town,
that occupies a low promontory which forms a pretty little haven. This place is
known in the history of Napoleon, who landed in a meadow about a league from
it, where he encamped for the night, in the celebrated expedition of 1815. An
officer, with a few men, was sent to summon Antibes; but they were captured and
confined in the town. The moments were too precious to be lost in discussing
the matter, and the next day the Emperor moved on, leaving his agent, as the
lawyers say, "to abide the event of the suit." The coast is generally
low in this vicinity, and the brigs found good anchorage in an open roadstead.
The descent was made at an unprotected point, and as we passed it next morning
the conducteur showed me a tree under
which Napoleon passed the night. It is now generally understood that his
arrival was expected, and that the army was in a great measure prepared to
receive him. "Le Petit Caporal!"
From Antibes to Cannes we were at no time far from the coast. The
latter is a small town on the strand, and the harbour is little more than a
roadstead. As we approached Frejus, the ruins of an ancient aqueduct were seen
on the adjacent plain; and as this is a place of great antiquity, I could
gladly have passed a few hours in it. But the malle-poste stops for nothing, except at designated points; not
even to eat. To supply the place of a breakfast, however, I ran into a shop and
bought a famous biscuit de Savoie, fancying
that one ought to get a cake of such a name good so near the frontier of Savoy
itself. At the first mouthful it crumbled into dust, and I discovered that the
good woman of the shop had sold me her sign! Swallowing a little water at a
fountain to wash away the debris, I
ran ahead and examined an amphitheatre that is still standing in the skirts of
the place. It is small, but far from being a total ruin, most of the seats
being still to be traced quite distinctly. Feste,
Farina e Forche (festivals, bread, and the gallows) seems to be a political maxim as old
as Italy itself; for wherever any traces of ancient Rome are to be found, one
usually meets with a theatre or an amphitheatre. These noble traces of a remote
civilization, in a retired place like this, had far more interest for me than
the personal adventures of Napoleon.
At Frejus we quitted the coast, for I was tied, for better for worse,
to the letter-bags. Our road now lay across a hilly and far from inviting
country to Draguignan. We had the cork and the olive for companions, the latter
having suffered severely by the frosts of the previous winter. This was the
commencement of the mountainous and retired region into which Napoleon plunged
when he marched from Antibes and in which he was lost to observers, for a few
days, previously to his brilliant coup de
main at Grenoble. Hitherto I had seen little of the real rusticity of
France, for everything around Paris and on the great roads leading to it is
conventional and maniere. Draguignan
proved to be literally une ville de
province, but we got a reasonably good dinner.
From Draguignan to Aix it was, again, night-work; though we got to the
latter place in time to enjoy a bed for a few hours. Aix is an ancient and a
celebrated town; but it offers little to interest a stranger. I passed a few
hours in it, undecided whether to pursue the road to Paris, or to turn again
towards the coast, where, I was given to understand, the object of my journey
could he effected as well as in the capital. I fear a longing for the blue
Mediterranean had its influence on the decision, for I had turned my back on it
reluctantly; about noon I got into a diligence and was on my way to Marseilles.
I saw little of the beauty of Provence for a less attractive region than that
we drove through is seldom seen. Indeed, I feel persuaded that few countries
offer less to the eye of the mere passer-by than France; the tastes of the
people being little given to the picturesque, and, like the cookery, in which
bad imitations of art mar the natural qualities of the viands, the provincial
attempts to resemble Paris destroy the country without properly substituting
the town. Nothing, in short, has the simplicity and nature of rural life until
one gets as low as dirty blouse and sabots. Between coarseness and mannerism
the chasm is wide indeed.
It was Mardi Gras, and as we
drew near Marseilles, we met the population making the usual promenade on the
highway: there being a sort of corso
just without the town. There was the usual number of buffoons and patched
faces, a good line of plain carriages, and very many pretty women. Indeed, the
women of this town struck me as being much handsomer, generally, than those of
the North of France.
I remained ten days at Marseilles, which is little besides a
commercial town; but which, by its pretty port, beautiful coast, and its
movement, offers enough to amuse one for a short time. The new town is built in
a good style, with wide straight streets; but the old town, like all the places
of the middle ages, is narrow, crowded, and dirty. The port is natural, but has
all the appearance of an artificial dock, the gates excepted. The entrance does
not exceed two hundred feet; and yet the basin within, which lies surrounded by
the town, will contain five hundred sail, — vessels of any size, I believe,
finding sufficient water. There is a good roadstead, almost a port, outside of
this again, and capital anchorage behind an island, on which stands the
Lazaretto. As the quarantine laws of this sea are extremely rigid, it is
something to enjoy moorings so secure and picturesque.
An Egyptian frigate of French construction, however, was lying in the
port; and certes, if such cruisers are fobbed off on the Pasha, he may look
forward to many more Navarinos; this being one of your regular wafer-sided and
spider-kneed crafts. I might write a long description of Marseilles — and the
place merits it in its way; but such is not my cue, — which, you will always
remember, is rather to deal with things that others have omitted. The time was
spent in preparations to return to Florence, and, anxious to be afloat again on
the Mediterranean, I looked out for something about to sail in that direction.
Luckily a large English brig offered, and I took passage in her. This vessel
was of four hundred tons burthen, had a crew of eighteen men, and was commanded
by a half-pay naval officer, who was, in part, owner. She had just been in the
French transport service, in the expedition to Greece; as, indeed, had been the
case with several American vessels in the port. One needs no better evidence
than this fact, of the want of aptitude for the sea in the people of the
country; the government not being able to transport a few thousand men across a
small and tranquil sea, without drawing on the maritime enterprise and
resources of foreigners, and, in our instance, of a people in the other
hemisphere! One such circumstance is worth a folio on political economy, and,
coupled with the fact that France lies between two seas, sufficiently proves
that the bias of the national character is to terra firma.
One of the mauvaises
plaisanteries of Jack is to sing songs at the expense of the soldiers. Our
crew were heaving round on the capstan, accompanying their tramp with some
pretty rude poetry, one line of which was, "A soldier's wife is a sailor's
__." You will judge of my surprise at hearing this well-known and pathetic
sentiment suddenly travestied by the substitution of "Yankee's" for
"soldier's," and "Englishman's" for "sailor's." A
young Englishman on board felt ashamed of this coarse proof of national
antipathy, and he endeavoured to explain it by saying, that the people of the
brig had had a quarrel with the crew of an American which lay within hearing.
It might have been so; but abuse of America flows so easily from the English
tongue, that it was probably owing to the old grudge. I felt gratified,
however, in the reflection that on board an American of the same size such
coarseness and vulgarity in the people would not have been tolerated. I
question if it would have been so in this brig, had the master been on board;
but, at the moment, he was ashore; for though a good hater as respects America,
he kept up a manly discipline.
We were towed out of the harbour some distance into the roads, when
the brig was cast, with a light but fair wind from the north-west. This was the
commencement of a mistral, a breeze
that has much reputation in this part of France, on account of its freshness,
as well as for its invigorating properties. We took things leisurely, however,
aboard the brig, and the night had passed before we were up with Toulon. The
next morning, on turning out, I found a gallant breeze, and our vessel rolling
through it as fast as a kettle bottom, a narrow spread of canvass and short
masts would permit. Being in light ballast, we got along about seven knots,
with the wind over the taffrail, while I am persuaded the brig had nine in her.
It is at all times a delicate matter to give a hint to a sea-officer;
but I could not refrain making some inquiries about the light sails. The
boom-irons were not on the yards, with a fair wind, and fifteen hours out! By
dint of jokes, however, I got an order to have them put on. This was about ten
in the forenoon. At meridian two were on, and then the order was countermanded.
The master had methodically and deliberately taken the sun, and worked up his
longitude; and, judging from his position, he thought we should reach Leghorn
in the night, if we carried more sail. While he was at work with his quadrant,
we had the peaks of the Maritime Alps, and those of Corsica, both glittering
with snow, in plain sight. The chart lay spread on the companion-way, and
taking the bearings of the land by the eye, I guessed our position —if guess it
might be called — within ten miles. Now all this an American master would have
seen at a glance; and, I will engage, his quadrant would not have budged,
though all his cloth would have been spread. Not so with our methodical
mariner: he took counsel of his instruments, and the boom-irons were sent down
again, in spite of several broad hints from me, that one might always lie-to
after he had made his run, and that Gorgona would be a capital land-fall, if he
was afraid of overrunning his reckoning, in the dark. It would not do, however;
the irons were sent down, and instead of making more sail, we unbent a
top-gallant-sail to mend it. The wind began to fall, and just at sunset we were
up with the head of Corsica, with the topsails flapping against the masts.
Belonging to another parish, I could only shrug my shoulders. It is too late in
the day to deny the seamanship of the English, who, in some particulars, are
probably our betters; but the go-ahead properties of the Yankee, and the
go-by-rule habits of the Englishman, are every day lessening the distance
between the wealth and power of the two people.
The evening was pleasant, and as we gradually rolled past the land, I
had a calm pleasure in looking at it. The northern extremity of the island is
an attenuated bluff, low in comparison with the ice-covered mountains behind
it, seemingly sterile, and with but few signs of habitations. A small rocky
island forms an advanced work. Against this, and against the bluff itself, the
sea was beating in sullen surge; and we were near enough to see its spray, and
to note the marine birds hovering over their nests. The sun set while I was
lost in the contemplation of this scene, and of the rocky and indented coasts
beyond.
The master of the brig was a respectable man, and he endeavoured to
compensate for his want of energy by entertaining me with the marvellous riches
of the "nobility and gentry," — a subject of which Englishmen of his
class seldom weary. He commenced with an account of the value of the plate of
the Duke of Northumberland, who had just been appointed lord-lieutenant of
Ireland, and who had paid a premium of 9o,ooo l. to get it insured between London and Dublin. As the rate was a
half per cent. this made the plate itself worth 1,8oo,ooo l.! But Englishmen of this class do not often stick at trifles on
such a subject, — and yet they coolly accuse us of exaggerating! Another of the
tales of my shipmate was an account of a Mr. W— P—, who had got 500,000l. a year by his wife, and who was in
the habit of losing whole streets in London on a game of cards. And yet this
man, with all his imagination about guineas, never bethought him of the
necessity of a ship's having boom-irons to make a passage, which is making
money. We can talk more "dollar" than the English in a given time, I
believe; but we have no parallel to their cool accumulations of tens of
thousands a year in the way of incomes.
I got into my berth about nine, and waking up in the morning, I soon
discovered that we were pitching instead of rolling. Going on deck, I found the
brig under double-reefed topsails, on the wind, and Gorgona just visible in the haze on our weather-bow, the vessel
heading to the eastward. In other words, the wind was blowing hard, directly in
our teeth. The boom-irons would have carried us up to our port before this
change occurred. An hour later, we passed an English brig running before it,
and the master manifested a wish to follow her, as she was in ballast, — a sign
that freights were scarce in Leghorn; but I encouraged him to stand in, with
the assurance that Monte Neve would give timely notice of the dangers of the
coast. By three the wind had moderated, so that we carried whole sail, and it
hauled sufficiently to enable us to head up to the point where I thought the
town lay; though it became so thick, we could not see half a league. Suddenly,
the coast appeared; our master became alarmed, and hove-to his brig. At that
moment, a boat came in sight, and a pilot soon jumped aboard of us. Had we
stood on, we should have made the mole without fail. Instead of shortening
sail, the pilot steered straight for the mole-head, under both topsails. We
weathered it by about fifty yards, and shot in astern of a tier of vessels that
lay moored behind it. These vessels were Americans and English, and they rode
by anchors ahead, while they were steadied by fasts run out to the mole. These
fasts were slackened as we came sweeping in, and we ran over them, gradually
losing our way by backing the maintopsail, and fetching up on the bights of the
hawsers. I never witnessed bolder or better handling of a vessel of that size,
for we came up to the mole-head with four knot way on us. Nothing was parted. A
hawser was thrown upon the mole; a line or two, fastened to the ties, steadied
us, and brought us head to wind; a kedge was carried off into the port, up to
which we hauled, where we dropped a bower-anchor, and by hauling in on the
stern-fasts we were moored. We could not take the outer berth, for it was
occupied, and we thus became the fourth vessel in the tier. Altogether, I
repeat, it was one of the prettiest things I ever witnessed, albeit it was
performed by an Italian. I fancy Columbus must have had some such men with him.
The public coaches of Italy are peculiar. If a sufficient number of
passengers are ready, (in our case four sufficed,) a small, carriage is sent
off with them, drawn by post-horses. In this mode I got up to Florence next
day, paying about five dollars for myself and man, a distance of sixty miles.
The season soon became sufficiently advanced to give us a sight of an Italian
spring. The birds of passage had flown, some north and some south, but all in
quest of pleasure. The members of parliament had run up to London to take their
seats, the peers excepted, for they can do their duty by proxy. As for the
Russians and French, they had chiefly gone to Naples, or taken refuge in the
mountains. The poor political exiles, of whom Florence has a large number, are
still seen walking on the shady sides of the streets, but filled with lassitude
and ennui. The town is as hot as Philadelphia.
We left our palazzo within the walls, and went to a villa, called St.
Ilario just without them. All the eminences around Florence are dotted with
these retreats, many of which are large and princely. That we occupy is on a
smaller scale; but it has numerous rooms, is near the town, and has many
conveniences. Among other recommendations, it has two covered belvederes, where
one can sit in the breeze and overlook the groves of olive-trees, with all the
crowded objects of an Italian landscape.
But, to give you some idea of the region in which we dwell: The valley
of the Arno, though sufficiently wide, and cultivated chiefly with the spade,
is broken by many abrupt and irregular heights, the advanced spurs of the
ranges of the Apennines that bound it. On nearly all of these eminences, stands
a stone edifice topped by a belvedere sometimes with, and sometimes without
terraces; here and there a tree, and with olive-groves beneath. The whole
country is intersected by narrow roads leading up the heights; and these lanes
usually run between high walls. They are commonly paved to prevent the wash of
the rains, and nothing can be less attractive than the objects they present;
though we find the shade of the walls beginning to be necessary as the season
advances. To obtain a view, one is obliged to ascend to some one of the
look-outs on the hills, of which
there are a good many; though the rides and walks on the level land, that lies
above and behind us, occasionally furnish us glorious glimpses. We are much in
the habit of going to one of these places, which is rightly enough called Bellosguardo, for a better bird's-eye
view of a town is not often had than this affords of Florence. In addition, we
get the panorama of the valley and mountains, and the delicate lights and
shades of the misty Apennines. Some of the latter I rank among the best things
in their way that I have seen. These mountains are generally to be
distinguished from the lower ranges of the Alps, or those whose elevation comes
nearest to their own, by a softer and more sunny hue, which is often rendered
dreamy and indolent by the sleepy haziness of the atmosphere. Indeed,
everything in these regions appears to invite to contemplation and repose at
this particular season. There is an admixture of the savage and the refined in
the ragged ravines of the hills, the villas, the polished town, the cultivated
plain, the distant and chestnut-covered peaks, the costumes, the songs of the
peasants, the Oriental olive, the monasteries and churches, that keeps the mind
constantly attuned to poetry.
The songs of Tuscany are often remarkable. There is one air in
particular that is heard on every key, used to all sorts of words, and is in
the mouth of all the lower classes of both sexes. The soldier sings of war to
it, the sailor of storms and seas, the gallant of his adventures, and the young
girl of her love. The air is full of melody, a requisite of all popular music,
while it has the science and finish of a high school, and is altogether
superior to anything of the kind which you might fancy in use by the same
classes of society at home. It is withal a little wild, and has a la ral lal la to it, that just suits the
idea of heartiness, which is perhaps necessary, for the simplicity of such a
thing may be hurt by too much sophistication.
I first heard this air in the town, at a particular hour every
evening. On inquiry, I found it was a baker's boy singing it in the streets, as
he dispensed his cakes. I often hear it, as I sit in my belvedere, rising from
among the vines or olives, on different heights: sometimes it is sung in
falsetto, sometimes in deep bass, and now and then in a rich contr'alto.
Walking to Bellosguardo the other day, I heard it in a vineyard in the latter
key, and getting on a stone that overlooked the wall, I found it came from a
beautiful young contadina who was
singing of love as she trimmed her vines: disturbed by my motions, she turned,
blushed, laughed, hid her face, and ran among the leaves.
This is not the only music I get gratis. One of the narrow lanes
separates my end of the house from the church of St. Ilario and the dwelling of
the priest. From the belvedere, which communicates with my own room, we have
frequent passages of civility across the lane with the good old curato, who discusses the weather and
the state of the crops with unction. The old man has some excellent figs, and
our cook having discovered it, lays his trees under contribution. And here I
will record what I conceive to be the very perfection of epicurism, or rather of
taste, in the matter of eating. A single fresh fig, as a corrective after the
soup, I hold to be one of those sublime touches of art, that are oftener
discovered by accident, than by the investigations of knowledge. I do not mean
that I have even the equivocal merit of this accidental discovery, for I was
told the secret, and I believe French ingenuity had got pretty near it already,
in the way of the melons. But no melon is like a fig; nor will a French fig,
certainly not a Paris fig, answer the purpose at all. It must he such a fig as
one gets in Italy. At Paris you are always offered a glass of Madeira after the
soup, the only one taken at table; but it is a pitiful substitute for the fig.
After communicating this improvement on human happiness, let me add that it is
almost destructive of the pleasure derived from the first, to take a second.
One small, greencoated, fresh fig, is the precise point of gastronomic felicity
in this respect.
But the good curato besides
his figs, has a pair of uneasy hells in his church tower, which are exactly
forty-three feet from my ears, and which invariably ring in pairs six or eight
times daily. There are matins, noon-tide, angelus vespers, and heaven knows
what, regularly; to say nothing of extra-masses, christenings, funerals, and
weddings. The effect of the bells is often delightful when heard in the
distance, for they are ringing all over the valley and on the heights, morning,
noon, and night; but these are too near. Still, I get, now and then, rare
touches of the picturesque from this proximity to the church The contadini assemble in their costumes
beneath my belvedere, and I have an excellent opportunity of overlooking, and
overhearing them too.
The Lingua Toscana applies
rather to the people of the towns than to the rural population, I fancy; for
these worthy peasants speak a harsh patois.
Walking in sight of the duomo lately,
with a gentleman of Florence, I desired him to put a question to a group of
peasants; and I found that. while he was perfectly understood, he had great
difficulty in understanding them. The aspirated words of Florence itself are
well known to all who have been in Italy. We had a droll proof of this just
before we left the town; for desiring my man to give our address to a
shopkeeper, he gave, “Il Signor [Cooper], Hasa
Rihasole via del Hohomero.”[2]
One of the most picturesque of our relations with the church arises from
the funerals. Lounging in the clerical belvedere lately, we saw torches
gleaming in a distant lane. Presently the sounds of the funeral song reached
us: and these gradually deepened, until we had the imposing and solemn chant
for the dead, echoing between our own walls, as if in the nave of a church. It
is necessary to witness such a scene to appreciate its beauty, on a still and
dark night, beneath an Italian sky.
In one of the dreamy walks that I take in company with a Florentine, I
strolled near a league along the road to Rome. The country is broken; the road
winding among naked and abrupt hills, that constantly remind me of the scenery
that one usually finds attached to subjects painted from Holy Writ. On a small
bit of table-land, that rises in one of the valleys, is a Carthusian convent;
and finding ourselves beneath its walls, my companion proposed entering.
The ascent was easy, and the outer gate open. We saw no one, but,
following a carriage way that resembled the approach to an ancient castle, we
soon reached the door that communicates with the cloisters. Here we
accidentally met with a lay brother, who amused himself with cooking for the
worthy fathers, and our application for admission was favourably but silently
received. The place was the image of solitude and silence; not a soul besides
the lay brother was visible, and even he soon disappeared.
You may imagine the effect of strolling through vast, tenantless,
echoing. monastic cloisters, corridors and halls, on a sleepy Italian day,
grateful for the shade and coolness, but wondering for whom these vast edifices
were constructed. We positively entered, remained an hour, and left this
structure without seeing a soul but the lay brother. The gates were open,
apparently, for all who chose to enter; the chapel, sacristy, and cloisters
were all accessible, not a door or a gate requiring the hand, and yet no one
was visible. We departed as we had come; and the only evidence we had that
there was a fraternity within, was to be found in a list of the fathers who
were to perform certain masses, which was suspended in the chapel, and on which
the priests were all designated by the Latin abbreviation Dom. or Dominus. As we
returned along the highway, however, a Carthusian, dressed in his white robe,
was seen mending a pen at a window of his small tenement: for each father has a
tiny house to himself, with a garden and yard; the rules requiring that they
shall live separately, and deny themselves, as much as may be, the comforts and
solace of speech. These habitations form a court, all opening on the cloisters,
of which they compose, in fact, the several sides. A covered gallery makes the
usual means of intercourse within, while the distinct character of the
structures is only apparent from without. The gardens lie between the small
houses, or apartments.
The great Florentine fete was celebrated a short time since. One of
the ceremonies is so peculiar, that it may amuse you to have a short account of
it. There are several considerable squares in the town, but the largest is that
of Santa Maria Novella. At the festival of St. John, who is the patron saint of
the city, an imitation of the ancient chariot-races held in this square, which
affords the most space. The games are called the corse dei cocchi. There are two. small obelisks on opposite
extremities of the square, and the temporary circus is constructed by their
means. A cord is stretched from one to the other; a sort of amphitheatre is
formed by scaffoldings around the whole, the royal and diplomatic boxes being
prepared near the goal. As there is much scenic painting, a good parade of
guards both horse and foot, a well-dressed population, and a background of
balconies garnished by tapestry and fine women, to say nothing of roofs and
chimneys, the general effect is quite imposing.
The falling off is in the chariots. The ancient vehicle was small and
had but two wheels; whereas these were large and clumsy, had four wheels, and
unusually long and straggling perches, — an invention to keep them from
upsetting. In other respects the form was preserved, and the charioteers were
in costume.
Four chariots, to use the modern language, entered for the race. The
start was pretty fair, and the distance twice round the obelisks. If you ask me
for the effect, I shall tell you that, apart from the appliances, —such as the
court, the guards, the spectators and the dresses, and perhaps I might add the
turns, — one may witness the same any fine evening in New York, between two
drunken Irish cartmen who are on their way home. There was certainly a little
skill manifested at the turns, and it was easy to see that betting should have
been on the outside chariot; for those nearer to the obelisks were obliged to
go considerably beyond them before they could come round, while the one
farthest from the poles just cleared them. This outside chariot won the race,
the charioteer having the sagacity not to make his push before the last turn.
After the chariot-races, we had the corsa dei barberi, or a
race between barbs. The horses were without riders, and the track was the
longest street of the town. To this amusement every one who could went in a carriage,
and the corso of vehicles was much
the most interesting part of the exhibition. Two lines are made, and the
coaches move in opposite directions through the same street, on a walk. Of
course, everybody sees everybody, — and pretty often the somebodies see
nobodies, for the mania to make one on these occasions is so strong, that half
the artisans are abroad in carriages, as well as their betters. The royal
equipages moved in the line, the same as that of the milliner. When we were
well tired of looking at each other, the grand duke went into a gallery
prepared for him, and the race was run. The latter does not merit a syllable;
but so strong is the rage for sporting, that I heard some Englishmen betting on
the winner.
But the amusements of the evening were really fine. They consisted of
fireworks and illuminations, besides an odd scene on the river. It is only for
a few of the summer months that the "Silver Arno" deserves its
reputation: for I scarcely know a more turbid or dingy stream during the period
of high water. Indeed, it brings down with it from the mountains so much yellow
earth, that "Golden Arno" would better express its tint. But, at this
season, it is placid and silvery. Care has been taken to make it a river all
the year round, in the town at least, by raising a dam just at the suburbs,
which causes the water to fill the bed between the quays even in the dry
months. Below this dam, it would be possible for an active man, aided by a
leaping-staff, to jump across the channel. This is the common character of the
Italian rivers, which, fed by the mountains, are turbulent torrents in the
winter, and ribands of water in the hot months. Many are absolutely dry in
mid-summer.
We were kindly invited to witness the fete on the Arno, from the
palace of the Comte de St. Leu, the windows of which overlook the river. The
party was small, but it contained several members of the Bonaparte family.
Among others was the Comtesse de Survilliers, or, a name she is better known
by, la Reine Julie; and that fine
young man the Prince Napoleon, with his wife, the Princess Charlotte, so well
known in America. The Prince and Princess of Musignano, with their children,
made up the family party.
I believe I have not spoken to you of the Comte de St. Leu. He is one
of the handsomest men of his age I have ever met with; but it is the beauty of
expression more than of features, though the latter are noble and regular. I
can scarcely recall a more winning countenance; and his manner, though calm and
dignified, is kind and unpretending. I should think his stature materially
above that of Napoleon, though he is not of more than the middle height, and
his figure is compact and square. The Comte de Survilliers is short, inclining
to fat, and, though rather handsome, particularly as to expression, is not by
any means so striking in appearance as his brother. The Prince of Canino
(Loden) is taller than either, thin, and has a decided Italian countenance, one
that is shrewd, quick, and animated. The Prince de Montfort (Jerome) is short
and slight, and resembles his brother Lucien more than the others. He is said
to have most of the expression of Napoleon; but I should think, judging from
the busts and likenesses, that Louis has most of the noble outline of the
Emperor. The whole family, so far as I have known them, are certainly very
intellectual and well-informed. The Comte de St. Leu lives here in a good
style; having a fine villa, where I dined lately, and this palace in the town,
which is altogether suited to his rank and past life. He is styled "your
majesty" by those around him, as was the Countess of Survilliers: and a
little, though not much, of the etiquette of royalty is maintained in his
intercourse with others.[3]
As for the fete, it consisted of a display of boats, with a multitude
of coloured paper lanterns. The former were filled with company, and as they
floated about, with their lights and music, they made both a singular and a
pleasing exhibition. There were extremely fine fireworks on one of the bridges,
which terminated the amusements. One sees the influences of climate in the
Italian fireworks generally, which are brilliant beyond comparison. On
returning to the villa St. Illario, we found that the dome of the cathedral was
illuminated; and you may judge of the effect produced by showing the outlines
of so noble a piece of architecture at night, by the aid of artificial and
well-disposed lights. It looked like a line-engraving of fire.
Notwithstanding the constant practice of men, one is constantly surprised
at the ignorance of the commonest laws of philosophy that is betrayed on such
occasions. I have often seen the gardens of the Tuileries illuminated, when the
torches have been placed on the pedestals of the statues, but in plain view;
the eye necessarily taking in the flame, to the exclusion of all the minor
light. Were these torches concealed in a way to exclude them from the view,
while their rays fell on the statuary, — a thing easily enough done, — the
effect would be infinitely more agreeable, though perhaps less vulgarly
flaring. I remember to have once beheld a drop scene, at a theatre, formed of
mirrors. A flood of light was on and near the stage, and, as a matter of
course, the audience, instead of seeing itself when the curtain fell, as was
the intention, had a glorious view of the reflection of a thousand lamps and
candles! Had the lights been so disposed in the boxes, as to illuminate the
audience, while they were not
seen from the stage, the desired effect would have been produced.
Franklin, speaking of some of the coarse contrivances of French industry,
pithily remarks, that "a respectable instinct would he better than such a reason!"[4]
Still, the
illuminations of architecture are usually good; and I remember one particular
thing at Paris, that is quite unrivalled in its way. The Hotel of the Legion of
Honour is the ancient Hotel de Salm, of which Jefferson speaks so much in
praise, in his letters. It is a low building, though a very pretty one; and on
the occasion of the great fetes it is the practice to raise a tall spar from
the roof, and to hoist at it an imitation of the star of the order, formed by
coloured lamps. This star, seen on a dark night, shining, as it were, in the
heavens, is, in its way, the prettiest thing I know.
We have also had the
Corpus Domini, which is the great Catholic fete of the year. The royal family
walked in the procession, as usual; and there was a parade of the Knights of
St. Stephen, in their robes, — an order of chivalry that, I believe, had some
connexion with the suppression of the piracies of the barbarians from Africa.
The heat in July
became intense, and we began to think of quitting Florence, where we had then
been nearly nine months. I found the sun intolerable out of the shade; and the
hills, which render the valley cold in winter, have the effect of converting it
into an oven in the summer. Accordingly, I announced an intention to depart,
and soon had occasion to remark that birds of passage like ourselves have
little hold on those we employ beyond their gains. Two of our Florentine
domestics conducted themselves in such a manner, as soon as they ascertained
the day we were to quit the place, that I was compelled to discharge them; and,
as this occurred on the third day of their respective months, both demanded an
entire month's wages! This, you will perceive, was just doubly their time. I
resisted, and gained both my causes; and it is to be hoped that these people
are the wiser for their defeat.
A little occurrence
that took place soon after our arrival in Florence is worthy to be related, as
it may serve to put other Americans on their guard, and to let you understand
the nature of European intrigues. We commenced housekeeping with a man-cook, a
housemaid, and two footmen, with the Swiss maid whom we brought with us. One of
the footmen was discharged for drunkenness, within a fortnight, and I did not
think it worth while to fill his place. The other proved an excellent servant,
but a great scoundrel. It was not long before [Mrs. Cooper] complained to me of
the bills of the cook, which, on examination, turned out to be about double
what they were at Paris, though Florence has a reputation for cheapness. The
housemaid, who was a Lucchese woman, offered her services, and the man being
discharged, she was promoted to the kitchen, and her place was otherwise
filled. Her name was Bettina.
About this time, a
poor Neapolitan, who had fallen under the notice of [Mrs. Cooper] just before
her confinement, came to return her thanks for certain little comforts she had
received. "You got the money I sent you?" asked [Mrs. Cooper].
"Si, signora." — " How much?" — "Three pauls, each
time, signora." — Now these three pauls should have been ten pauls, or a
frances-cone each time, and Bettina had been the messenger. On demanding an
explanation, the newly-made cook admitted the fraud, giving as a reason for
keeping back seven-tenths of the money, that she thought it was too much for
the Neapolitan. Notwithstanding this flagrant dereliction, there was something
so naif in her confessions, that the
woman was not discharged. But some dissatisfaction caused [Mrs. Cooper] to
change the milkman. A day or two after this change, the milk for the coffee was
found to be turned. Bettina was sent for, and she attributed it to the bad milk
of the new milkman. When she went out, Luigi the footman quietly observed that
he happened to have a little of the milk put away cold for the tea, and by
setting it before the fire in the breakfast-room, we might soon ascertain
whether it was really bad or not. The experiment was made, and the milk proved
to be good. Bettina was again examined, and on my threatening to take her to
the police, she confessed that the old milkman had bribed her to put vinegar in
the new milk. Of course she was now discharged.
As Luigi had hitherto
behaved perfectly well, and had gained a reputation by his expedient, his
counsel was attended to, and he was permitted to put a friend of his own into
the kitchen. The explanation of the whole is as follows: — The man-cook, though
out of reason a rogue, was got rid of
by a combination between Luigi and Bettina; Bettina next lost her place, by the
management of Luigi, who reaped the advantage of his intrigues, as I afterwards
learned, to the tune of about two hundred francesconi, beyond his wages. When
he obtained his discharge, he actually had the audacity to chase my little son
with a carving-knife, threatening to cut his throat. He was paid his wages
regularly every month, and towards the close of the time half-monthly, at his
own request, — an expedient to prevent stoppages, as I subsequently found, on
account of his frauds, — and I owed him a dollar when he was sent away. This he
refused, claiming ten; and before the cause was decided, he claimed his entire
wages for the whole nine months, affirming I had paid him nothing! In other
respects he proved to be a thorough villain. I do not tell you this as a
specimen of Tuscan or Italian character, but as a proof of the impositions to
which strangers are liable. After an experience of nine months, I am disposed
to think well of the Italians, who seem a kind, and who certainly are a clever
people; but the great throng of strangers in these towns loosens the ordinary
social ties, by releasing the evil-disposed from many of the usual
responsibilities. It may be taken as a general rule, I think, that travellers,
unless greatly favoured by circumstances, see the worst portion of every
country; the better classes, and the well-disposed, waiting to be sought, while
those of the opposite character must seek acquaintances and connexions where
they are least known, and where it is easiest to practise their deceptions.
The time for quitting Florence having arrived, I wrote to ask an
audience of leave of the royal family. The answer was favourable, the grand
duke naming the following morning at the Pitti, and the grand duchess an hour a
little later at the Poggio Imperiale, a palace just without the walls, and in
the immediate vicinity of St. Illario.
Ten was the hour at which I presented myself at the Pitti, in an
ordinary morning-dress, wearing shoes instead of boots. I was shown into an
ante-chamber, where I was desired to take a seat. A servant soon after passed
through the room with a salver, bearing a chocolate-cup and a bit of toast, — a
proof that his imperial highness had just been making a light breakfast. I was
then told that the grand duke would receive me.
The door opened on a large room, shaped like a parallelogram, which
had the appearance of a private library, or cabinet. There were tables, books,
maps, drawings, and all the appliances of work. The library of the palace,
however, is in another part of the edifice, and contains many thousand volumes,
among which are some that are very precious, and their disposition is one of
the most convenient, though not the most imposing as to show, of any library I
know.
The grand duke was standing alone, at the upper end of a long table
that was covered by some drawings and plans of the Maremme, a part of his territories in reclaiming which he is said
to be just now much occupied. As I entered, he advanced and gave me a very
civil reception. I paid my compliments, and made an offering of a book which I
had caused to be printed in Florence. This he accepted with great politeness;
and then he told me, in the simplest manner, that "his wife" was so
ill, she could not see me that morning. I had a book for her imperial highness
also, and he said it might he left at the Poggio Imperiale.
As soon as these little matters were disposed of, the grand duke
walked to a small round table, in a corner, near which stood two chairs, and,
requesting me to take one, he seated himself in the other, when he began a
conversation that lasted near an hour. The prince was, as before, very curious
on the subject of America, going over again some of the old topics. He spoke of
Washington with great respect, and evidently felt no hostility to him on
account of his political career. Indeed, I could not trace in the conversation
of the prince the slightest evidence of a harsh feeling, distrust, or jealousy
towards America; but, on the other hand, I thought he was disposed to view us
kindly, — a thing so unusual among political men in Europe as to be worthy of
mention. He left on my mind, at this interview, the same impression of
simplicity and integrity of feeling as at the other.
He observed that fewer Americans travelled now than formerly, he
believed. So far from this, I told him, the number had greatly increased within
the last few years. "I used to see a good many," he answered,
"but now I see but few." I was obliged to tell him, what is the
truth, — that most of those who came to Europe knew little of courts, that they
did not give themselves time to see more than the commoner sights, and that
they were but indifferent courtiers. He spoke highly of our ships, several of
which he had seen at Leghorn, and on board of one or two of which he had
actually been.
I found him better informed than usual on the subject of our history;
though, of course, many of his notions had the usual European vagueness. He
seemed aware, for instance, of the great difficulty with which we had to
contend in the revolution, for the want of the commonest munitions of war, such
as arms and powder. He related an anecdote of Washington connected with this
subject, with a feeling and spirit that showed his sympathies were on the right
side of that great question, on whichever side his policy might have been.
We had some conversation on the subject of the discovery of America,
and I took the occasion to compliment him on there having been a Florentine
concerned in that great enterprise — Americus Vespucius. But he did not seem
disposed to rob Columbus of any glory on account of his own countryman, though
he admitted that the circumstance in a degree connected his own town with the
event.
At length he rose, and I took my leave of him, after thanking him for
the facilities that had been afforded me in Tuscany. When we separated, he went
quietly to his maps; and as I turned at the door to make a parting salute, I
found his eyes on the paper, as if he expected no such ceremony.
Two or three days from this interview, we got into our carriages,
after dinner, and went down the valley of the Arno at night, to avoid the
intense heat of the days, which, Americans as we were, completely overcame us
all. We reached the gates of Pisa just as the sun rose, and stopped a few hours
to see the curiosities.
By twelve we were completely melted with the heat, and were glad to
get into our comfortable seats in the carriages again: I say, carriages, for I
had hired an extra conveyance at Florence, our little flock having increased
too much in size, though not in numbers. to be conveniently put into one, as
formerly.
We were all in our corners, half sleeping, half waking, when, about
five miles from Leghorn, the whole party revived as suddenly as people awake
from a doze. We had passed into the current of the sea air, and it acted on our
spirits like a bath. I have known these veins of invigorating humidity drawn
along the coast almost as accurately as the sands, so that one did not feel
them two hundred feet from the water: but on this occasion we met the salt air
at least a mile from the sea, though I never knew the effect greater or more
sudden. Even the horses appeared to feel it, for they began to trot merrily,
and soon brought us to the door of the Locanda San Marco.
The honest Scotchman who keeps this inn gave us a large airy
apartment, whose windows overlook both the sea and the mountains; two objects
at which I never tire of gazing. As for the rest of the party to whom the
Mediterranean was entirely new, they had eyes for nothing else; and really, for
those who had now passed years excluded from any sea finer than the North Sea,
the bright glittering blue expanse was an object to be gazed at. To this was to
be added the luxury of Italian rooms at the commencement of August; and, taking
all together, I do not remember a happier party than we were for the two or
three days we remained in this inn.
I have frequently spoken of the difference between commercial towns
and capitals: a distinction that you, who never saw any other than towns of the
former class, will not readily comprehend, but which it is essential to know in
order to understand Europe. I had the same embarrassment on first coming to
this hemisphere, for it is quite common here to speak of our towns as being purely commercial. A short experience,
however, has shown me so much, that there is nothing I now perceive sooner, or
which strikes me with greater force, than the peculiarities of these places
that are entirely devoted to trade. If you ask me what these peculiarities are
beyond the outward signs of commerce, I shall answer, a certain absence of
taste, a want of leisure and of tone; a substitution of bustle for elegance,
care for enjoyment, and show for refinement. Leghorn and Marseilles have
betrayed these visible signs of their pursuits more particularly after a long
residence in Florence though neither of these towns is so obnoxious to the
charge as any one of our own large maritime towns. I think, however, that all
our own great towns, while they are unquestionably provincial, as any one will
allow who has lived in a real capital, have also many of the distinctive marks
of the better towns of Europe that these have not. When a European speaks of
New York as a provincial town, notwithstanding defer to his greater experience
(unless he happen to be cockney); for, rely on it, such is peculiarly the
character and appearance of your Gotham.
Walking through the streets of Leghorn, a shop filled with statuary,
Venuses, Apollos, and Bacchantes, caught my eye, and I had the curiosity to
enter. If I was struck with admiration on first visiting the tribune of the
gallery of Florence, I was still more so here. On inquiry, I found that this
was a warehouse that sent its goods principally to the English and American
markets: I dare say Russia, too, may come in for a share. Where the things were
made I do not know, though probably at Carrara; for I question if any man would
have the impudence to display such objects in the immediate vicinity of the
collections that contain the originals. Grosser caricatures were never
fabricated: attenuated Nymphs and Venuses, clumsy Herculeses, hobbledehoy
Apollos, and grinning Fauns, composed the treasures. The quantity of the stuff
had evidently been consulted, and, I dare say, the Medicean beauty has lost
many a charm for the want of more marble.
The day after our arrival, we were refreshed with a delightful sea-breeze;
a luxury, after being heated in Florence from April to August, that must be
enjoyed to be appreciated. I can only liken Philadelphia to the latter town in
this respect. On visiting the port, I found only one American, though three lay
in the roads. Time was, when thirty would have been a trifle. There were ten
Englishmen behind the mole, and a good many Sardinians lay scattered about the
harbour. Of Tuscans there were but few, and these all small. Three Russians
were laid up on account of the war with Turkey! They were fine-looking ships,
however. Rowing under the bows of the Yankee, I found one of his people seated
on the windlass, playing on the flute; as cool an act of impudence as can well
be imagined for a Massachusetts man to practise in Italy.
I inquired for a conveyance to Naples, and the result was my engaging
a Genoese felucca, for one hundred francesconi, for my own exclusive use. This
vessel was about thirty tons burthen, and of beautiful mould. She was decked,
and had a hold, but no cabin. In lieu of the latter, the quarter-deck, with the
exception of a small space aft for the play of the tiller, &c. and a narrow
gangway on each side, was covered with a painted tarpaulin, having a rounded
roof like the tilt of a waggon, stretched on large hoops: the space beneath was
sufficiently large, and as the covering was ample, and high enough to walk
under, it gave us a room far preferable to one below. She was latine-rigged,
carrying two sails of that description, and a jib. This little craft had a complement
of ten men! I have myself been one of eleven hands, officers included, to
navigate a ship of near three hundred tons across the Atlantic Ocean and, what
is more, we often reefed topsails with the watch.[5]
Having engaged the
felucca, we passed another day in gazing at the hazy Apennines, whose lights
and shadows, particularly the noble piles that buttress the coast to the
northward, rendered them pictures to study; and in driving along the low land
that lies between the sea and Monte Nero, where we fairly rioted in the
pleasures of the cool breezes. But the entire northern shore of this luxurious
sea, in summer, is one scene of magnificent nature, relieved by a bewitching
softness, such as perhaps no other portion of the globe can equal. I can best liken
it to an extremely fine woman, whose stateliness and beauty are relieved by the
eloquent and speaking expression of feminine sentiment.
The next day, at
noon, we embarked, and took possession of our new lodgings. The wheels had been
taken from the carriage, and the body of the vehicle was placed athwart the
deck, so as to form a forward bulk-head. W[illiam] had the interior for a
state-room. Roberto was put into the hold. There were tarpaulin curtains at
both extremities of the tilt, and by the aid of a few counterpanes we
subdivided the interior as much as was necessary. Each person had a mattress at
night, which pretty well covered the deck; while, piled on each other, they
made comfortable sofas during the day. A table, eight or ten chairs, with a few
trunks and stools, completed the furniture. Of course, we had the necessary
articles of nourishment and refreshment, which our own servants prepared. I
never dared to look at the kitchen, but I dare say it was quite as clean as
that we had left at Florence.
With this outfit,
then, the little Bella Genovese
(Beautiful Genoese) got her
anchor, with a light wind at north-west, about five in the afternoon, and began
to turn out of the harbour. In half an hour we had made three or four
stretches, which enabled us to weather the head of the mole, when we stood to
the southward, with flowing sheets.
By examining the map,
you will perceive that our course lay between a succession of islands and the
main, in a south-easterly direction. Of these islands Gorgona and Capraja were
in sight on quitting the port, and our first object was to run through, what
here is called, the canal of Elba; a
streight between that island and the head-land, or cape of Piombino. The wind
was so light that our progress was slow; and when we took to our mattresses,
Leghorn was but two or three leagues behind us.
On turning out next
morning, early, I found the felucca close hauled, beating up for the channel,
with a fresh breeze at the southward. The brown mountains of Elba formed the background
to windward; Porto Ferrajo lying about two leagues from us, directly on our
weather-beam. The prospect of beating through the pass, against the lively
little sea, which would he certain to get up, was not pleasant to the ladies;
and I ordered the padrone to tack, and stretch in under the land.
We fetched in just
beneath the cliff, or promontory, that forms the north-eastern extremity of the
town of Porto Ferrajo, a rocky eminence of some elevation. It was crowned by
the government house, which had been the palace of Napoleon during his insular
reign. My object had been to get into smooth water, by making a lee; but this
near view of a place so celebrated was too tempting to be resisted, and I
determined to beat up into the bay, even if we should run out again without
anchoring. This bay is several miles deep, and at its mouth near a league wide;
the land being chiefly mountain and cotes.
The promontory, on which stands the town, makes a bend on its inner side, like
the curve of a hook; and this, aided a little by some artificial works, forms a
beautiful and secure little harbour, of which the entrance is towards the head
of the bay, the water being everywhere deep, with bold shores.
By ten o'clock we had
weathered the mouth of the little haven, and the wind still continuing foul, I
determined to run in and anchor. This was accordingly done, and I had called to
a boat to come and put us on shore, when the padrone announced the appalling
news of there being a quarantine of fifteen days between Elba and Naples! We
immediately hauled out of the harbour, and only waited to breakfast, before we
went to sea again. While discussing this meal on deck, the padrone was
discussing matters with a brother of the craft, on board another felucca; and
he came to me to say, that, though there was a quarantine of fifteen days
between Elba and Naples, there was none at all between the Roman states and
Tuscany, or the Roman states and Naples: and that, by running into Civita
Vecchia, we might get clean bills of health, and all would be plain sailing. —
So much for a Mediterranean quarantine! I accepted the terms, and we landed.
Porto Ferrajo is a
small crowded town, populous for its size, containing five thousand souls,
lying on the acclivity on the inner side of the promontory. It is pretty well
fortified, though the works are old, it being walled, and having two little
citadels, or forts, on the heights. It was garrisoned by five hundred men, they
told me; and there were two hundred galley-slaves kept in the place. The town
was clean enough, the streets having steps, or narrow terraces, by which we
ascended the hills.
The arrival of a
party of strangers created a sensation; for, with the exception of the brief
interruption of the presence of Napoleon, there are few more retired spots in
Europe than this. We went to the best inn, which bears the imposing title of
the Quattro Nazioni. It Was far from
bad, and it gave us a reasonably good dinner; furthermore, it promised us four
beds and a sofa, should we pass the night there. The art of colouring the
bricks of the floors has not reached this inn; for the room in which we dined
had a sofa and seven mirrors, while the floor was of coarse, dirt-coloured
bricks full of holes. Ireland and America are not the only countries in which
discrepancies in style occur. In short, England is the only country where they
do not; and even in England there is something inappropriate, in seeing three
or four powdered lackeys, and a well-appointed equipage, before the door of a
mean, dingy town-house of bricks, with three or four windows in front, and
quite destitute of all architectural taste.
I had some
conversation with the people of the house concerning their late sovereign.
Napoleon arrived in the evening, and remained in the frigate until next day.
One of his first acts was to send for the oldest known flag used by Elba, and
this he caused to be hoisted on the forts; a sign of independency. He was not
much seen in the town, though he often rode out on horseback, and a
carriage-road around the head of the bay was pointed out as his work.
We found it so
agreeable to be on a spot to which travellers do not resort, that, I think, the
felucca would have been discharged, and we should have remained on this island
two or three months, had good accommodations offered. There were also some
hints of malaria that did not encourage this notion.
While at the inn, I
saw what the Italians call a tarantola:
not a spider, but the lizard which bears this name. Perhaps nine-tenths of the
Italians fancy the bite of this animal mortal; though it cannot bite at all, I
believe. It is a perfectly inoffensive lizard, living on insects, and is found
in America, where no one ever hears of its poison. It is, however, a most
disgusting-looking object; which is probably the reason it bears so bad a name.
The scorpion of Italy, also, is not in favour. We found several at St. Illario,
but they are not dangerous in this latitude; the sting being about as bad as
the bite of a spider. Both these animals are held in great respect by ordinary
travellers; Mr. Carter, among others, dwelling on their horrors. This amiable
and well-intentioned man saw more important things through quite as mistaken a
medium.
After dinner we
walked up to the head of the promontory to see the house of Napoleon. It stands
conspicuously, is low and small, being composed of a main body and two wings,
showing a front, in all, of ten windows. The entire length may have been ninety
feet, or a little less; but the other dimensions were not on a proportionate scale.
It was now inhabited by the governor of the island, and we could not obtain
admission, as he was at dinner. Near this building is another, that stands on
the street, against the acclivity, and which has a better air, as to comfort.
It has but one principal story, but it showed fifteen windows in a row. This
was the house occupied by Madame Mere,
we were told.
We might have
lingered longer on this height, which overlooks the sea, but I found the wind
blowing fresh from the north-west, which was as fair as could be desired.
Hurrying down to the port, I directed the felucca to be got under way. This
order was a commencement of the difficulties of Mediterranean navigation. I was
covered with protestations of the impossibility of putting to sea in such weather,
blowing as it did. At this I laughed, telling my padrone that I was an old
sailor myself, and was not to be imposed on in this manner. The wind was fair,
and we could make a lee behind Elba in an hour if we found too much sea; but to
this he would not listen. I then pointed to the females, and asked him if he
were not ashamed to pretend fear, when they wished to go to sea. This touched
his pride a little, and, after a good deal of wrangling, I got him out of the
port, just as the sun was setting.
We found the wind
fresh outside, but as fair as could be wished. Our course was to double the
eastern end of the island, where there was a narrow passage between it and a
small rocky islet, the place of which Napoleon is said to have taken possession
with a corporal's guard, as soon as he was established. It was a dependency of
the new empire. This act of his has been laughed at, and is cited as a proof of
his passion for conquest; but it strikes me as more probable that he did it to
prevent an unpleasant neighbourhood. The insignificance of the spot had caused
it to be overlooked in the treaty by which his sovereignty over Elba had been
retained, and it belonged to him only by
construction. Political constructions are useful to the managing; and as it
is probable he already meditated the events of 1815 in 1814, it was a measure
of forethought to occupy a spot that might otherwise have proved embarrassing
in the possession of spies.
When I pointed to
this passage to leeward, the padrone pointed to the sky to windward. There was
a lively sea on, but the little felucca skimmed it beautifully. The people,
however, began to murmur, and [Mrs. Cooper] begging that we might have no
difficulty, they were permitted to take their own course, which was to run
across the streight, under the lee of Piombino where we anchored, at nine.
At day-light next
day, the wind being still fair, but very light, we got under way, and stood to
the southward, having lost at least forty miles of our run, by stopping in at
Piombino. About eight, the wind came ahead, and we made several stretches,
until ten, when it fell calm. There was a small rocky islet, about a mile from
us, and we swept the felucca up to it, and anchored in a little sandy bay. The
padrone said this island was called Troia. It contained about thirty acres,
being a high rock with a little shrubbery, and it was surmounted by an ancient
and ruined watch-tower.
We landed and
explored the country. Our arrival gave the alarm to some thousands of gulls,
and other marine birds, who probably had not been disturbed before for years.
W[illiam] undertook
to ascend to the tower, — an exploit that was more easily achieved than the
descent was effected. He found it the remains of a watch-tower, of which this
coast has hundreds, erected as a protection against the invasions of the
Barbary corsairs. The sight of such objects brought the former condition of
these seas vividly to the mind. With one coast peopled by those who were at the
head of civilization, and the other by those that were just civilized enough to
be formidable, preferring constant warfare, the habits of slavery, and the
harem, one can understand the uses of all these towers. Difficulties existing
between France and Algiers just at this moment, several of our French acquaintances
had tried to persuade us there was danger in even making this little voyage:
and when at Marseilles, lately, I witnessed the departure of a brig, which was
accompanied by the prayers of hundreds, her sailing having been actually
delayed some time on the same account! The impression of the risks must have
been strong, to prove so lasting. As to the tower on the little island, it
could only have been used as a look-out to give notice of the approach of
corsairs, and as a protection to the coasters, for there were no people to take
refuge in it.
The north wind made
at noon, and we embarked. We had a good run for the rest of the day, at the
distance of a league or two, from a coast lower than common; off which there
were many islets, and some banks of sand visible. The channel lay near one of
the latter, which might have offered some danger, had we stood on the previous
night. The padrone pointed to it with exultation, asking me how I should have
liked to be laid on it in the dark. I pointed into the offing, and inquired, in
turn, if there were not water enough for the Bella Genovese between the sands
and Monte Cristo, a small island that was dimly visible to the westward, and
which lies about half way between Corsica and the main. My Genoese shrugged his
shoulders as he muttered, "As if one would like to be out there, in a
little felucca, in a mistral!" It was quite obvious this fellow was no
Columbus.
Just before sunset we
came up with a high headland that looked like an island, but which in fact was
Monte Argentaro; a peninsula connected with the continent by a low spit of
sand. Behind it lies one of the best harbours for small craft in Italy, and the
town of Orbitello. Directly abreast of it, and at no great distance, are
several small islands, and we took the course between them. This was delightful
navigation, at the close of a fine day in August, with a cool north wind, and
in such a sea. We ran so near the mountain as to discern the smallest objects,
and were constantly changing the scene. On this headland I counted seven
watch-towers, all in sight at the same moment, and all within the space of a
league or two. Including Elba, we must have seen and passed this day, in a run
of about twenty miles, some twenty islands.
The wind died away
with the disappearance of the sun, and when we took to the mattresses it was a
flat calm. I was awoke, next morning, by the creaking of the yards; and rising
I found we were working up to Civita Vecchia, with a foul but light wind, — a
business we had been engaged in nearly all night. The Roman coast commenced as
soon as we were clear of Argentaro and we were now stretching in towards it,
approaching within half a mile. It was low; and the watch-towers, better
constructed than common, — a sort of martello tower, —were so near each other
as completely to sweep the beach with their guns. They appeared so well that I
attributed them to Napoleon, but the padrone affirmed they were constructed a
long time since.
Civita Vecchia soon
became distinctly visible. It lies around a shallow cove, with an artificial
basin witbin it, and a mole stretching athwart the mouth of the cove. There is
good holding-ground off the mole, and against easterly or north-easterly
weather a good roadstead, but not much better than is to be found anywhere else
on the west side of the boot. At ten we doubled the mole and ran into the port,
where we found about fifty vessels, principally feluccas.
We landed and went to
an inn, a miserable place at the best. Here we ordered breakfast; but the coffee,
almost always bad in Italy, is getting to be worse as we proceed south, though
better in the large towns at the south than in the small ones at the north.
There was no milk, and even fish was difficult to be had.
Civita Vecchia is
small, but not dirty. There is an ancient mole, and a basin that once contained
Roman galleys. The bronze rings by which they made fast to the quays still
remain! To my surprise I was told there was an American consul here. He proved
to be a consular agent, appointed by the consul at Rome; and I found him in a
shop weighing some sugar, with a cockade in his hat as large as a small plate.
He was civil and useful, however, for he obtained our passports, which had been
taken from us on landing, without delay, and was serviceable in getting the
necessary papers for the felucca.
After breakfasting
and walking through the little town, we were anxious to proceed, for there was
not time to look at some curious objects in the vicinity, and as for the town
itself it was soon exhausted. By dint of two hours of pretty hard work I got
the padrone on board, and compelled him to get under way. We beat into the
offing at five, and then made a fair wind of it. The run this evening was
delightful. The wind soon hauled and blew fresh from the land, leaving us
perfectly smooth water, and we glided along at the rate of seven knots, so near
the shore as to discern everything of moment. Among other objects we passed a
fortress of some magnitude. At first the land was high, but, as the day declined,
it melted away, until it got to be a low waste. This, we knew, was the
water-margin of the celebrated Campagna of Rome; and about nine the padrone
pointed out to us the position of Ostia, and the mouths of the Tiber. He kept
the vessel well off the shore, pretending that the malaria at this season was
so penetrating as to render it dangerous to be closer in with the wind off the
land. As this was plausible, and at least safe, I commended his caution.
I was singularly
struck by the existence of this subtle and secret danger in the midst of a
scene otherwise so lovely. The night was as bright a starlight as I remember to
have seen. Nothing could surpass the diamond-like lustre of the placid and
thoughtful stars; and the blue waters through which we were gliding, betrayed
our passage by a track of molten silver. While we were gazing at this beautiful
spectacle, a meteor crossed the heavens, illuminating everything to the
brightness of a clear moonlight. It was much the finest meteor I ever saw, and
its course included more than half of the arch above us. The movement,
apparently, was not swifter than that of a rocket, nor was the size of the
meteor much less than one of the ordinary dimensions. Its light, however, was
much more vivid and purer, having something intense, and much beyond the reach
of art, in it. Soon after this beautiful sight, we retired to our mattresses.
Next morning we were
off the Pontine Marshes, with Cape Circello the insulated bluff in which they
terminate, and the islands of Ponza and Palmarola, in sight. The latter were
the first Neapolitan land we saw. The wind came ahead and light, as had
invariably been the case since we left Leghorn in the morning. We gave
ourselves no uneasiness on this account, feeling almost certain of a shift to
the westward; a change as ancient as the Romans, this being their zephyr, which
blows in summer almost daily in this part of the Mediterranean. From the sea
the Pontine Marshes did not present an appearance sensibly different from that
of the coast near Ostia. Both were low, and in some places reedy; and yet we
saw dwellings along them immediately on the coast. One large, naked, treeless
house, we were told. was the residence of a cardinal. There was even a small
town visible, though nothing of importance, immediately next the marshes. The
lowest part of the Pontine Marshes, however, is not on the coast to the west of
them, but on the south, near Terracina; the stream that passes through them, as
well as the canal, having that direction. The margin of the marshes next the
sea, I take it, is higher than their centre, the drains running north and
south.
A favourable slant of
wind enabled us to double Cape Circello at noon, when we opened the Gulf of
Gaeta, Terracina, and all the grand coast of that vicinity. The volcanic peaks
of Ischia loomed in the distance, and the zephyr coming fresh and fair, we soon
raised other objects of interest along the Neapolitan shore. Our course was, as
near as might be, to the south-east, across the mouth of the gulf, and, as the
coast receded, the fine mountains fell away in haze; but our mariners having an
instinct for the land, we got better views than might have been expected, as we
did not make a perfectly straight wake.
Towards the middle of
the afternoon we had the town and citadel of Gaeta abeam, dimly visible. A
thunder-storm among the mountains produced a magnificent effect, though it
frightened the padrone into shifting his sails, and even spars, for he sent
down the old ones, and sent up a lighter set. We lost time unnecessarily by
this precaution, for the wind did not increase. He showed me, however, two
Neapolitan gun-vessels struggling through it, two or three leagues in shore of
us; and we had the consolation of knowing that, had we been in their places,
our smaller sails might have been of use.
Just before the gust
appeared, I discovered a conical isolated mountain to the south-east, looming
up in the haze. It proved to be Vesuvius. We saw it over the nearer but lower
land of Baiae and its vicinity. As usual, the wind fell at sunset, and finally
it shifted. We had a little rain, and went to sleep uncertain of the result.
The next was the
sixth day we had passed on board the
Bella Genovese. Going on deck at sun-rise, I found the felucca contending
with a head wind, but luckily in smooth water. On our right, lay high dark
mountains thrown into picturesque forms, with a shore lined with hamlets and
towns. This was Ischia. Ahead was another island, of the same character,
resembling a gigantic sea-wall thrown before the bay. This was Capri. On our
left, lay a small, low, level island, teeming with life; and to the north and
east of us, opened the glorious Bay of Naples, with thousands of objects of
interest, that, by their recollections, embrace nearly all of known time.
The wind blew
directly in our teeth, and we beat up the whole distance, making short
stretches close in with the western, or rather northern side of the bay. The
multitude of things of interest we saw and passed, rendered the time short,
though it took us three hours.
As the day opened,
and we advanced farther into this glorious bay, we could not help exclaiming,
"What dunce first thought of instituting a comparison between the bay of
New York and this?" It is scarcely possible for two things composed of the
same elements to be less alike, in the first place; nor are their excellencies
the same in a single essential point. The harbour of New York is barely pretty;
there being, within my own knowledge, some fifty ports that equal, or surpass
it, even, in beauty. These may not be in England, a country in which we seek
every standard of excellence; but the Mediterranean alone is full of them. No
one would think of applying the term pretty, or even handsome, to the Bay of
Naples; it has glorious and sublime scenery, embellished by a bewitching
softness. Neither the water nor the land is the same. In New York the water is
turbid and of a dullish green colour, for in its purer moments, it is, at the
best, of the greenish hue of the entire American mast; while that of the Bay of
Naples has the cerulean tint and limpidity of the ocean. At New York, the land,
low and tame in its best months, offers nothing but the verdure and foliage of
spring and summer, while the coasts of this gulf, or bay, are thrown into the peaks
and faces of grand mountains, with the purple and rose-coloured tints of a pure
atmosphere and a low latitude. If New York does possess a sort of back-ground
of rocks, in the Palisadoes, which vary in height from three to five hundred
feet, Naples has a natural wall, in the rear of the Campania Felice, among the
Apennines, of almost as many thousands. This is speaking only of nature. As
regards artificial accessories, to say nothing of recollections, the shores of
this bay are teeming with them of every kind; not Grecian monstrosities, and
Gothic absurdities in wood, but palaces, villas, gardens, towers, castles,
cities, villages, churches, convents, and hamlets, crowded in a way to leave no
point fit for the eye unoccupied, no picturesque site unimproved. On the
subject of the scale on which these things are done, I will only say, that we
tacked the felucca, in beating up to the town, under the empty windows of a
ruined palace, whose very base is laved by the water, and whose stones would
more than build all the public works on the shores of our own harbour, united.
The public mind in
America has got to be so sickly on such subjects, that men shrink from telling
the truth: and many of our people not only render themselves, but some render
the nation, ridiculous, by the inflated follies to which they give utterance. I
can safely say, I never have seen any twenty miles square of Lower Italy, if
the marshes and campagnas be excepted, in which there is not more glorious
scenery than I can recall in all those parts of America with which I am
acquainted. Our lakes will scarcely bear any comparison with the finer lakes of
Upper Italy; our mountains are insipid as compared with these, both as to hues
and forms; and our seas and bays are not to be named with these. If it be
patriotism to deem all our geese swans, I am no patriot, nor ever was; for, of
all species of sentiments. it strikes me that your "property
patriotism" is the most equivocal. Be on your guard against the statements
of certain low political adventurers, who are as notorious for abusing
everything American, while in Europe, as they are for extolling them, when in
America.
I am far from
underrating the importance of fine natural scenery to a nation; I believe it
not only aids character, but that it strengthens attachments. But calling a
second-rate, or an inferior thing, a first-rate and a superior, is not making
it so. There is, in America. enough of beautiful nature, coupled with the moral
advantages we enjoy, to effect all necessary ends, without straining the point
to the absurd: but there is very little of the grand, or the magnificent.
We got up with the
head of the mole, (the only harbour of Naples being the small basin behind this
mole,) about noon, and immediately landed and sought an inn. As we drove along
the streets, we met one of the royal equipages, a coach and six, and one of
four, with a portly, well-looking man, with a Bourbon face, in the former. It
was the Prince of Salerno, a brother of the king. Our guide took us to the
hotel delle Crocelle, one of the
principal inns in the Chiaja, where we found excellent and roomy
accommodations.
You know the conditions on which these letters are written. I shall go
on, in my own desultory manner, gleaning what it appears to me others have
left, and speaking of such things only as I know from experience I should most
like to have been set right in, did I depend on reading for my own information.
Our first night at Naples was absolutely delicious. There was a young
moon, and everything was soft and lovely. It reminded us of an evening in
August at New York, when people walk without their hats, and enjoy themselves
after the intense heat of the day. But Naples has one great advantage over our
own town. It lies literally on the sea; for the bay has all the advantages of
the sea itself, and scarcely ever wants its refreshing influence. In the deep
ravines of streets, one is entirely sheltered from the sun, and on the shore,
one feels the air from the water. We have built a northern town in a southern
latitude, though not without some excuse for it.
But the two towns are as unlike as their scenery. One is condensed,
the houses clinging, in places, to rocky cliffs, some of the streets actually
lying a hundred or two feet above their immediate neighbours; while the other
is straggling, and has a surface shaved down nearly to a water level. One is
overflowing with population; the other, properly peopled, would contain five
times its present numbers. One is all commerce, shipping, drays, and stevedores,
the particles of taste and beauty existing in fragments; the other all
picturesque, the trade and the port forming the exception. Immediately beneath
our windows, here, is a line of sea-beach, of more than a mile in extent, that
has no sign of trade about it beyond the boats of fishermen, which lie
scattered on the sands and shingle as if disposed there for the study of the
painter. But I must not anticipate.
Vesuvius alone disappointed our expectation. It appeared low and
insignificant compared with the mountains we had seen, filled the eye less in
the view than we had imagined, and was altogether differently placed. As to its
height, it varies essentially by the rising and falling of the crater, and I am
told it is several hundred feet lower now than it was a year since. Indeed, one
well-informed person says, its last great fall exceeded a thousand feet. You
may easily imagine, however, that a mountain that could bear such a loss must
be of respectable dimensions. I should think the present height of Vesuvius not
far from three thousand feet; but there are peaks behind Castel-a-mare of
double this altitude. The summits of Ischia and Capri are also high, and the
whole southern shore of the bay is a noble outline of mountains.
Vesuvius, and indeed Naples, stand differently from what I had
thought. The bay itself may be near twenty miles in depth, and its width varies
from about fourteen, to something like eighteen miles, it being a little wider
at its mouth than at its head. The general direction is east a little north,
perhaps east-north-east. Now, the head of this bay, though irregular, is
square, rather than rounded. Of the two, it presents a convex line to the
water, rather than one that is concave. Naples stands at the north-east corner,
and Castel-a-mare at its south-east, distant from each other about fifteen
miles in a direct line; and Vesuvius occupies the centre, a little nearer to
the first than to the last. All idea of danger to either of these places from
lava, is an absurdity. They have reason to apprehend earthquakes, and internal
convulsions, but nothing that comes out of the crater can ever harm either.
Even Portici, which stands on the base of the mountain itself, is deemed to be
reasonably safe.
The hazards of this volcano are easily estimated. Lava, the only
serious cause of danger, breaks out of the sides of the mountain. It resembles
the boiling over of a pot, and its descent can be calculated like that of
water. The interposition of a ravine offers an effectual barrier. As to the
stones and other fiery missiles that are projected into the air, they
necessarily fall in the crater, or on the sides of the mountain; and their
flight does not much exceed that of a bullet, at the most. It is probably two
miles in an air line, from the limits of their fall to the nearest habitation,
if we except the Hermitage, which is near half that distance. The ashes
certainly are borne to a great distance; but they do good rather than harm,
greatly fertilizing the surrounding country. Vesuvius is, in fact, as far from
Naples as the heights of Staten Island are from New York, and the water
actually lies between them.
One of our first visits was to Pompeii, which lies, perhaps, more
properly at the head of the bay than Castel-a-mare though they are not far
asunder. The distance between the summit of the mountain and Pompeii is about
five miles; the direction is from north-west to south-east, Vesuvius lying most
northerly. This, of course, brings Pompeii on the side opposite to that of
Naples, and about one half nearer to the crater. But lava could no more touch
this place, than it could touch Naples, the formation of the land carrying it
more towards the water. The road winds round the head of the bay, which has a
succession of hamlets, villas, towns, and palaces. Indeed, I scarcely know a
spot that is more teeming with population than the base of this terrible
mountain. It is true that there is a broad belt of broken rising ground between
the sea and the regular ascent, of three or four miles in width; but even this
is dotted with habitations, and the lava does find its way across it. We saw
two or three towns and villages in ruins, from the great eruption of 1822. The
lava had passed directly over houses, when they were strong enough to resist
it, and through them, when not. Of course, that which had cooled, remained, and
it is not easier to fancy a more complete picture of desolation than these
black belts of ruin present in the midst of a moving population; even the road
had been cut through them. These towns are populous, Torre del Greco having
twelve or thirteen thousand souls, Castel-a-mare more, and Portici several
thousands. The celebrated palace at the latter is so placed that the public
highway passes directly through its great court, a singular caprice of royalty.
I think we were all a little disappointed with Pompeii. Perhaps our
expectations were wrought up too high, for, certainly, I have approached no
place in Europe with the same feverish excitement. Still it is an extraordinary
thing to see even these remains of a Roman town, brought to light, as they have
been, in their ancient appearance. As some popular errors, however, exist on
the subject of this place, and touching the catastrophe by which it was
overwhelmed, I shall first endeavour to tell you what I have ascertained on
these points on the spot.
You probably know that, while all this region afforded geological
evidence of a volcanic origin, as is the fact with Ischia, Sorrento, and so
much more of it today, including Naples itself, there was no historical
account, prior to the great eruption, of there having been an active volcano.
The peak of Vesuvius has now three distinct summits, separated by tolerably
deep valleys, and it is probable that these three peaks were formerly united in
one, the separation being owing to the explosion. Lest you should form an
erroneous notion of the present appearance, however, of this celebrated
mountain, it may be necessary to add that the cone, or the peak, which is
actually called Vesuvius, is so much higher and more conspicuous than the
others, that its form of a cone is not much impaired by the fact, not at all as
seen from many points, particularly from the direction of the sea. The three
mountains, too, if they can be so termed, stand near each other, on a common
base, their dividing valleys, or ravines, not descending more than a few
hundred feet, and they are entirely insulated from the ordinary ranges of the
Apennines.
The great eruption, which occurred in the year 79. was preceded by the
usual signs, but, there being no crater, or, at the most, only an old one, the
first explosion was necessarily tremendous. Pliny describes the smoke as
resembling a gigantic pine, which rose to a vast height, and veiled the sun. He
meant a pine of this region, or what is sometimes called a stone pine, of which
many are now to be seen in Lower Italy. It is a tall tree, with an
umbrella-shaped top, very different from any pine we have, and which resembles
the smoke of a fire, before it is driven away by the wind. Boiling water,
pumice stones, ashes, and heated sulphureous air, accompanied the explosion,
and lava succeeded. The wind must have been at the north, for Pliny the elder
lost his life on the beach near Castel-a-mare, by inhaling the heated gas, a distance
of at least seven miles from the crater. As no one else near him appears to
have suffered, his death, it is to be presumed, was owing to a particular
condition of the body; defective lungs, most probably. The people of Pompeii
had time to remove many of their effects: but the greatest of the popular
errors has arisen from a misapprehension of the nature of the interment Even
now, the buildings are scarcely covered, and the dirt, or ashes, that lie on
them, is so light, that it may be shoveled like dry sand. The country is
principally in the vine, and there is a light soil of course: but, this
removed, in dry weather nothing can be more easily worked than these ancient
ashes. Now, every object of any elevation, such as the towers, must have been
left above ground. These would serve as land-marks; and, as very few things are
found in the houses, it is probable that their owners dug into them, after the
alarm was over, and took away everything of value that could be found. The few
human remains prove that the danger was not instantaneous, or without notice;
for thousands would have been destroyed in such a case, instead of one or two
hundreds.
It is usual to say that the site of Pompeii was discovered about
eighty years since. This may be true as respects the generation then in being,
but could not be true as to very many that went before it. Discoveries of this
nature are a little equivocal. If a man of letters stumbles on any ancient
remains, or a fine valley, or a statue, he calls himself a discoverer, though
thousands in the neighbourhood know all about them; the latter do not write
books on the subject. The ashes are only about eighteen feet deep, and the
walls, in some places, are even higher than this. The temples, amphitheatre,
and even some of the houses, must have exceeded this height. It is probable
that adventurers have been down into these ruins, in places, in every age since
the accident occurred, though the state of intelligence has prevented the facts
from being published. A Neapolitan poet who wrote near two centuries since,
alludes to the towers as visible in his time. Nothing but alarm could have
prevented the people from clearing away the ashes, and taking possession of
their town again: for the expense could not greatly exceed that of clearing the
streets of New York after a hard winter.
To me, much the most interesting object at Pompeii is the
amphitheatre. It is complete with the exception of its ornaments, and the
marble seats, of which just enough remain to prove that they once existed:
their disappearance demonstrates that the place had been pretty thoroughly
explored, probably soon after the eruption. This amphitheatre stands by itself,
in a corner of the town, against the walls, and is large for the place. Were
those of Rome, Verona, and Nismes, and one or two more, not in existence, it
would be thought prodigious.
The houses of Pompeii, you will readily conceive, were low, and they
had the flat roofs, of cement, that are still used in all this region, the
shape being a little rounded so as to turn the water. I should think few of
them could have been destroyed by the weight of the ashes immediately, though
time would be certain to cause their beams to rot. Most of the dwellings were
connected with shops, but there are enough of a better sort, to give one a very
respectful opinion of the luxury of the Romans. They are built around courts,
which, in this mild climate, would answer all the purposes of halls for most of
the year, and which, probably, were often veiled from the heat of the sun by
awnings. The diminutive size, and the want of light and other conveniences of
the sleeping-rooms, however, rather detract from our estimate of ancient
comfort. The scale on which the places of public resort existed, such as the
amphitheatre and theatres, the forum, temples, and baths, coupled with the
showy character of the greater, and the meaner character of the more private,
apartments of the dwellings, I think, leave an impression against the individuality of the people. I do not
know whether the public meddled as
much among the Romans as among us Anglo-Saxons, but the inference seems to be
pretty fair, that the man lived voluntarily more before it than is our
practice.
Here I first saw a small fragment of the Appian Way. This road was far
from straight, making deviations from the direct line to communicate with towns
and posts, as well as to avoid natural impediments; as is proved both here and
at Pozzuoli, as well as in other places. It entered Pompeii by the Naples gate,
and left it near the amphitheatre. It has been uncovered for some little
distance in the former direction: and, as usual, it was bordered by tombs.
Cicero somewhere speaks of sitting with a friend in a certain seat. without
this gate, near to a particular tomb, reading one of his Offices. The seat and
tomb are both there!
Pompeii certainly offers a multitude of objects of intense interest,
(but which I shall not describe for the thousandth time;) but whoever fancies
he sees in it a disinterred town that needs only to be peopled to be perfect,
has an imagination more fertile than mine. It wears the aspect of a ruin. It is
true that the modern towns and villages of this region are not without
something of the same appearance; for the absence of visible roofs, the
apertures of the windows, which, when open, show no glass, — and open they
generally are in summer,— and the dun hue, conspire to give them a look not
unlike that of this Roman city. But Pompeii has still more of this character,
from the manner in which its temples were destroyed, (as is thought,) by a
severe earthquake a few years previously to the eruption. The broken columns,
and the other fragments, sufficiently testify to this fact.
The walls are well preserved, and I walked for some distance on them.
The summits of their towers have principally disappeared, for they must have
risen above the ashes, and were probably the towers spoken of by the poet
mentioned, the Romans seldom building any other. They have a strong resemblance
to the walls of the towns of France, which were used before artillery was much
improved. The inscriptions, signs, scribbling on the walls, and divers other
little usages of the sort, certainly produce a startling effect, referring as
they do to the most familiar things of an
age so very remote, and in a manner of so little design. These things
savour more of peopled streets, than the houses.
The Neapolitan government keeps slowly at work, disinterring. Its
deliberation has been idly censured, as are many other things of this nature,
by inconsiderate travelers; but I believe it prudent and even necessary. The
town is probably near half disinterred, and it would be possible to lay it
entirely bare in a twelvemonth, — perhaps in a single month; but it would be at
the risk of injuring paintings, as well as of loss by frauds and haste. A small
piece of coin mixed with ashes and cinders, or a child's toy, is easily
overlooked in a scramble. This much derided deliberation is probably in the
interest of knowledge, besides the fact that nothing presses. A house had been
laid open just before our visit, that showed the necessity for caution. Among
other curious things, in its court was a small fountain, ornamented with
shells, which came out as fresh and uninjured as if they had just been put
together. Another house nearly adjoining, has a similar fountain. In both cases
the courts are rather small, though one of the buildings has the appearance of
a dwelling of some pretension. You will understand that these courts did not
receive carriages, like ours, or rather like the European courts, but they were
a species of domestic cloisters, by which the light was admitted, and by means
of which the communications with the different rooms were maintained. In a few
instances there were small gardens in addition to the courts; but I suspect
that the street which contains most of the good houses remains to be opened.
Looking about at the forum, theatres, and temples, I find it difficult to
believe that such edifices would have been erected for the uses of those only
who dwelt in habitations like most of these which have already been
disinterred.
It would be possible to render Pompeii immeasurably more interesting
than it is at present, by roofing a few of the houses: or by covering them with
arches, and using them as places in which to exhibit the different articles
found there, and which are now assembled in the Studio at Naples. Perhaps one
of the buildings might be nearly furnished in such a manner. I think, as things
now are, the ruins lose in interest by the absence of these articles, and the
articles by the absence of the ruins. There would be a certain inconvenience in
this arrangement, it is true, but I think it would be more than compensated
for, by the intensity of the interest that would be created, to say nothing of
the greater distinctness that would be afforded to our idea of the ancient
domestic economy.
Pompeii once stood on a low promontory, and was a port, but the land
has made in a way to throw the sea back, fully a mile. Through this low bottom
the Sarno now flows into the bay. In the present state of the entrance of the
river, no vessel could approach the town, it being difficult to get a common
boat into it when there is any wind. A portion of this stream was led through
the town, and the water still flows in the artificial channel beneath the
houses and temples!
Our guide went through the usual routine tolerably well, but he had
obtained a droll jumble of languages from the different strangers who frequent
the place. With him the conversation
was principally in Italian and French, while among ourselves we occasionally
spoke English. Ambitious to show his knowledge, be called out to me, as I
stepped into a building to examine it, with a strange confusion of grammar and
tongues —"Eh! Signore celui-la sono tutti
shops."
Returning from Pompeii, we stopped to visit Herculaneum. This place,
in very many particulars, is of far greater interest than the other. It was
much more important of itself, and, instead of being barely covered with ashes
and cinders, it was indeed, buried; the distance between the pit of the theatre
that is opened, and the surface of the ground, being about seventy feet. Lava
did the work here, and as everything was covered while the rolling mass was in
a state of fusion, the fiery fluid found its way into every crevice, cooling
around them, so as to preserve the forms of the things it enveloped. You know
that Herculaneum was discovered by digging a well. Since that time, which was
more than a century since, the hole has been enlarged so as to disinter the
entire pit of the theatre, and galleries have been cut around it, enabling one
to examine nearly all of that particular edifice. Owing to the formation of the
ground, this city has been covered very unequally, not only as to depth, but as
to substance. The lava is a hundred feet deep in places, while, towards Resina,
the covering is very like that of Pompeii, and not essentially deeper. This
thin and light coat of earth, however, is unfortunately over the suburbs,
rather than over the town itself. A portion of these suburbs have been laid
bare, and the result has been the discovery of several houses, and even
portions of streets, that are very like those of Pompeii. One is called a
villa, that is not much, if any, inferior to the well-known villa of the latter
town.
It is fair to presume that this region was much visited by
earthquakes, previously to the great eruption. A pent volcano is certain to
produce calamities of this nature, and we know from history, that the
earthquake of 63 did great injury to these two towns in particular. Slight
earthquakes are even now quite common. To this cause is probably owing the
lowness of the dwellings; those of Herculaneum, that are quite laid open, being
no higher than those of Pompeii. There were also a forum and a temple opened,
but parts have been filled again in receiving the debris of new diggings. Some
apprehensions for the town above may have caused this provision; as Portici and
Resina both stand, more or less, over the buried city.
We descended into the theatre by a passage cut through the lava, and
explored its neighbourhood by torchlight. The stage, proscenium, consular
seats, orchestra, and lobbies, are open; and it was a curious sensation to
wander through such places under such circumstances. The general appearance was
that of a mine: but when the eye came to scrutinize the details, and to find
that the place was once actually a populous city, which exists as near as
possible in its ancient condition, embedded, filled gorged with lava, a feeling
of awe and of intense admiration comes over one. I think this place, out of all
comparison, the most imposing sight of the two. Pompeii offers more to
investigation, and more for the gratification of common curiosity; but there is
a sublimity in the catastrophe of Herculaneum, a grandeur in its desolation,
that has no parallel. One is like examining a mummy carelessly prepared, in
which the mass has been so far preserved, it is true, as to show a general but
a hideous likeness to humanity, while the other is opening one of those graves
that, owing to some property of the soil, preserves the body with most of the
peculiarities of the living man. The lava and the stone of the edifices are so
intimately united, that one does not, at first, distinguish between them in
those places where the separation has not been made; and cannot describe the
effect on the feelings, when it is suddenly ascertained that the hand is
actually resting on a portion of a human structure.
As the light descends by the large opening that was made around the
well, the stage and pit of the theatre, with all its more principal parts, are
sufficiently obvious. But even this excites a sensation different from any
other ruin (the word is misapplied, for everything is nearly as perfect as on
the day when the catastrophe occurred) when the frightful interment is
contemplated. Judge for yourself of the appearance of a large and even elegant
structure, placed in the bosom of rocks, eighty feet beneath the surface, and
of the crowd of associations that press upon the mind at contemplating such an
object. Of the magnitude of the edifice you may form some notion by that of the
proscenium, which is set down in the books at one hundred and thirty feet in
length, the rest of the building being in proportion of course. It is said this
theatre would hold ten thousand people, but the number strikes me as
extravagant. When it was first opened, everything that was not liable to be
removed, or destroyed, by the motion and heat of the lava, was found as it stood
at the moment of the disaster. Thus the stage had all its permanent
decorations, though some were displaced and injured, such as bronzes, alabaster
columns, &c. These fragments have been preserved in the museums. You know
that the celebrated equestrian statues of the Balbi came from Herculaneum.
I have only given you my first impressions on visiting these two
remarkable places, as volumes exist filled with their details, arranged with
care, and collected with accuracy. To the American, to whom a quaint
chimney-top, half a century old, is a matter of interest, I should think few
objects in Europe would present more attractions than either; for though much
older and even better specimens of ancient arts and ancient manners are
certainly to be found, none others exist surrounded by so many of the evidences
of familiar life.
The entire base of Vesuvius, which in former times, as now, seems to
have been a favourite residence, offers the same species of remains, wherever a
shaft is sunk or an opening made, though there are but two or three buried
cities. Many villas and hamlets have been discovered, and I have seen one or
two of them in the distance. A much more wonderful thing, as is said, I know
not with what truth, is the fact, that Pompeii stands on lava, which in itself
covers another town. This may be true, for the site might induce the occupation
of the spot; but if true, what a miserable figure human annals make!
On returning from this visit I witnessed a droll scene beneath our
windows. There is a small garden, with a pavilion, directly opposite the hotel.
It stands on the margin of the sea, is enclosed with a high wall, and is the
property of the crown; the royal children frequently coming to it to take
exercise. While we were seated in the balconies, enjoying the sea-breeze, a
carriage and four, with a piqueur,
and the royal liveries, drove to the door of the pavilion, and set down a
gentleman and a lady, with a boy and a girl, the latter about six, and the
former perhaps four years old. These were two of the younger children of the
king. They went together into the house. It was not long, however, before they
all came out again. A crowd had collected by this time, and every one stood
uncovered, the guards, at the gate of the garden, with presented arms. The
children were lifted into the hind seats of the carriage, an open barouche,
with great respect, and their attendants were about to take the front seats,
when the little creatures sprang on them, with the zest that forbidden
pleasures are apt to excite. The gentleman
and lady remonstrated without success; the sight of the horses overcoming
the sense of etiquette. The boy, in particular, was for driving. The lady then
entered the carriage, carefully avoiding seating herself on the hind seat, and
finally succeeded in persuading the girl to take her proper place; but his
royal highness, the Conte d'Aquila, for such is the appellation of the boy,
resolutely refused to budge. At last, the whole affair consuming several
minutes, the gentleman entered, seated himself by the side of the lady, took
the young prince in his lap, and whispered his remonstrance; but all in vain,
the little fellow struggling manfully to get a sight of the horses again. Tired
with his pertinacity, he was put, by respectful violence, in his proper place,
the servant closed the doors in haste, the coachman whipped his horses, and the
equipage dashed off, with the obstinate little prince pinned by force on the
precise spot that etiquette enjoined he should occupy. The whole time the crowd
was uncovered, and the soldiers stood at presented arms.
Deference to royalty is carried very far here. W[illiam] and myself
were strolling in one of the public buildings lately, and I stopped to read a
proclamation. While carelessly running my eyes over it, a sentinel ordered me
to take off my hat. It was commanded that the royal proclamation should be read
uncovered. As this was a little too much in the spirit of Gessler, I preferred
not reading any more to submission.
I do not mention these things to deride them, for they have their use,
though proper substitutes exist; but simply as touches of the country. I wish
there was a little less of this abstract deference for station and authority
here, as I sincerely wish there were a good deal more of both (under certain
limitations of common sense) in America. Society loses nothing by causing those
who do not know how to reason, to feel. Besides, there is great danger that, in
the absence of respect for station, men will get to have a respect for mere
money, which is the most abject and contemptible of all conditions of the mind,
to say nothing of its direct tendency to corruption. I should deem it a pas en avant, could we hear it said at
home, "That fellow is proud of his descent, his manners, his knowledge of
the world, his conversation, his connections," his any thing, in short,
instead of the vulgar accusation of being "purse-proud."
Having determined to pass the remainder of the season in the vicinity
of Naples, we have been employed, for the last week, in looking for a house.
Our aim has been the vicinity of the town; so far from it, as to escape its
confusion and noise, and yet so near as to possess its conveniences. The
occupation has enabled us to see more of the modes of ordinary life, than a
traveller usually gets in a hurried visit. At the same time we have given
glances at the different objects of curiosity as they presented themselves.
The Bay of Naples, which is truly "un pezzo di cielo caduto in terra,"[6] is surrounded by country houses, of which a large
number are to be let. We may have been in fifty of them, and we find them
possessing very generally a common character; large edifices, with spacious,
sometimes vast apartments, terraces
that overlook the sea, and furniture that is rich though commonly decayed. Some
of the chairs and tables that we have found in these places, appear to he more
than a century old, being carved, gilded, and heavy. We entered houses, that
are palaces in extent, in the size and in the number of the rooms, that were
utterly destitute of conveniences on the score of furniture, but which were not
without a certain air of comfortless magnificence. The views were almost always
fine, though perhaps a majority of the situations had objections on account of
their vicinity to roads, hamlets. or dusty thoroughfares of some sort or other.
Others, again, were more modern, were freshly and even elegantly furnished, but
they were too dear. The rents were generally high, for this is the very season
when the villas are frequented; the Italians of condition, like the French,
seldom visiting their country houses, except for a short time in midsummer, or
near the vintage. The latter is their villeggiatura.
These residences around Naples, however, are not, of course, the old baronial
hotels on the estates, but merely
temporary retreats. The gardens are seldom of much extent, or very well kept,
though there are exceptions.
One of the places
that we visited in the course of our inquiries, was so remarkable as to merit a
particular notice. It was the villa of Cardinal Ruffo; not the prelate who was
so celebrated in the revolutionary movements of the last century, for he, I
believe, perished at the time, but one of the same dignity, name, and family.
Naples, I have told you,
in part occupies broken ground. A volcanic rock tops the city; and here is
placed the well known castle of St. Elmo; a citadel, or fortress, that can
almost send its shot down the chimneys of the place, as well as possessing a
formidable range for its fire, in the way of marine defence. The view from this
castle is singularly beautiful, and, owing to the proximity of the town, and
the formation of the land, one can vary it in fifty ways, by slight changes of
position. I know no other capital that possesses such a look-out, as it were,
in its bosom; that of Montmartre, though fine and even extraordinary, from its
extreme contrasts between town and country, wanting altogether the softened
sublimity which reigns all through this region. Immediately below the citadel
stands a convent, which is now converted into an hospital, I believe, on the
extremest verge of the cliffs; for the part of the town that lies nearest the
sea, or the south-western quarter, is placed on terraces, which are separated
by perpendicular walls of tufa. From the balconies of this convent there is a
terrific bird's-eye view of the more level quarter of the town; — terrific,
after all, is not precisely the word I ought to use, for, as I have so often
intimated, there is a softness thrown around every natural object here, that
lessens all the harsher features of the landscapes. From this convent I looked
into the streets, which resembled narrow ravines, and not even the sounds of a
town proverbially noisy, ascended to our ears. It required no great stretch of
the imagination to fancy the venerable fathers seated at their windows, now
contemplating the mites beneath them, engaged in the boisterous and selfish
pursuits of their lives, now turning their looks upwards at the serene calm of
the blue vacuum, through which, as habit has taught us to imagine, lies the
path to heaven. This is the poetical side of the picture, for, were the truth
known, I dare say the sight was as often gloating on the baskets of green figs,
and luscious grapes, and other delicious objects, that are always to be seen in
the streets, as on any thing else. Before proceeding to the villa, I shall add,
that we went through this convent, which amply repaid the examination, by its
scented and carved sacristy, its picture by Spagnoletto, and its
"incense-breathing" chapels. Some of its passages and apartments were
the very quintessence of pious architecture, being cool, fragrant, rich,
quaint, and clerkly. Really, one occasionally finds in Italy religious
retreats, that are so suited to the climate, the dreamy existence of the
country, and the priestly tastes, that there are moments when a monkish feeling
comes over me, and even a monkish life has its attractions. I believe, however,
that I was not created for vigils and fasts.
The villa of Cardinal
Ruffo lies on a terrace a little lower than this convent, facing more to
seaward. I do not know the precise elevation of these rocks, but I think St.
Elmo cannot be much less than four hundred feet above the bay, if it be any
less, and the villa is about two hundred and fifty to three hundred. The garden
is pretty, extensive, and is well shaded with trees and shrubs, though the
motive appears to be, principally, to exclude the objects in the rear. The
house is extensive, though low, standing also on the verge of the cliffs. It
was in good order, neat, and reasonably well furnished, having just been
occupied by an Englishman of rank. But no language can do justice to the scene
which presented itself, when we reached its balconies. I shall attempt to
describe it, however; for, having heard so much of the beauty of this spot, you
will feel some desire to get more distinct ideas than can be gained by general
eulogiums.
You know the position and
magnitude of the bay, and the exquisite beauty of its water. No American who
has never been off soundings, can appreciate the latter beauty, I repeat, for I
know of no blue water in all America. Our most limpid lakes are nearer the
colour of amber than any other, and the entire coast is a sea-green. The
Mediterranean, on the other hand, is unusually blue, and its bays and gulphs
appear to have as deep a tint as the open sea.[7]
The house commands a view of all that part of the bay which lies in the
direction of Capri, the opposite coast, with the open sea, in the distance. The
foreground was the lower terraces, and the portions of the town that were not
hid by the cliffs, on the side of the Chiaja.
The bay itself was
asleep, with its bosom dotted with a thousand boats, and crafts of different
sizes. The deathlike calm that pervaded everything was in exquisite accordance
with the character of the entire view. The mountains were dreamy, the air was
tilled with a drowsy repose, while the different objects of historical interest
over which the eye rather lingered than glanced, gave the whole the semblance
of a physical representation of things past, adorned and relieved by a glorious
grouping of so much that is exquisite in the usages of the present.
Of fishing-boats
alone, I feel certain of being within bounds when I say, they were out in
hundreds. A long line of them stretched away from near the town, in the
direction of Capri, not one of which appeared to have motion. Clusters of them
lay scattered about in every direction, and the sails were drooping on board of
vessels of nearly every sort of rig known in this picturesque sea. These
elements of beauty might have been assembled elsewhere, though scarcely in such
numbers and in so much perfection; but you will remember that, besides the
peculiarities of the vessels, their varieties, the boats, the union of sublime
land and glorious water, there was also a coast teeming with places over which
history, from remote antiquity, had thrown its recollections and its charms.
That bewitching and almost indescribable softness of which I have so often
spoken, a blending of all the parts in one harmonious whole, a mellowing of
every tint and trait, with the total absence of everything unseemly or out of
keeping, threw around the picture a seductive ideal, that blended with the
known reality in a way I have never before witnessed, nor ever expect to
witness again.
Travellers often come
to this place on a hasty visit, and, encountering bad weather, or an
unpropitious state of the atmosphere, they go away with false notions of the
comparative excellence of things. We have now been ten months in Italy, and,
certainly, had we gone away without visiting this portion of the country, we
should have formed no accurate opinion of Italian nature. Had we come here
during the bad weather, it is equally probable that, by transferring to a time
of the year when no nature is seen to advantage the descriptions that refer to
the more genial months, we might have felt disposed to accuse those who made
them of exaggeration and fraud. Even now, the atmosphere is not of
extraordinary purity. It has a sleepy haziness about it, that I find in
admirable harmony with the season and the region; but experience has taught me
to distinguish between months, and to look for its most peculiar and its greatest
charm at a still later season of the year.
It is not an easy
thing to find a residence for a family that has no material objection. The
price was the great obstacle to taking the villa of Cardinal Ruffo, and we
reluctantly turned our eyes in another direction. We had now been three weeks
in taverns, and one must experience it to feel the relief that is afforded by
getting out of these public places into a private dwelling with a family. Our
inn, notwithstanding, offered fewer objections and more attractions than any I
was ever in. It was nearly empty at this season — a great advantage in itself,
was well kept, had noble rooms, and overlooked the bay.
The choice was
finally made at Sorrento, a town of a few thousand inhabitants, directly
opposite to Naples, and at the distance of eighteen miles. The house we took
has a reputation from having been the one in which Tasso was born, or, at
least, is said to have been born; and although it is not the villa of Cardinal
Ruffo, it is little inferior to it in scenery. The greater part of the plain on
which Sorrento stands is surrounded in a half circle by mountains, the segment
facing the bay. The whole formation is volcanic, large fissures of the tufa
appearing in the shape of deep ravines in various places. Advantage was taken
of the accidental position of these ravines, so as to form a deep natural ditch
around most of the place, which stands on the immediate margin of the plain.
This plain is six or seven miles in length, is a continued village, very
fertile, and extremely populous. Its elevation above the bay varies from one to
two hundred feet, the verge being a perpendicular cliff of tufa nearly the
whole distance. Sorrento lies near the south-western extremity, the heights
overlooking it. The house we have taken is on the cliffs, within the walls, and
in plain sight of every object of interest on the bay, from Ischia to the
promontory of Vico, Castel-a-mare and a short reach of the coast in its
vicinity excepted.
Having settled the
material point of a residence for the remainder of the warm months, we passed a
few more days in looking at sights. I shall say nothing of the Museum, and of
similar things, for you can read of them at any time, but confine myself to
what has struck me as peculiarities. The first of these shall be the Campo
Santo, or the place of interment. A large proportion of the people of Naples
die in the hospitals; and even of those who do not, perhaps half are unable to
leave means for their interment. A place has accordingly been provided for
those who are interred at the public expense and this is the spot to which we
will now go.
The Campo Santo is a
short distance from the city, enclosed by high walls. There is a chapel near
the entrance, with a few rooms for the use of the officials. As I understand
the arrangement, the earth was removed from the entire area, when the cavity
was walled up into three hundred and sixty-five separate vaults. As there is,
however, so much of that soft material in this vicinity, I am not certain that
the desired number of vaults has not been cut in the tufa, the effect being the
same in the two cases. Each vault has a large hole in the centre, that is
covered by a stone fitting closely. This stone has a ring, and a movable lever,
with its fulcrum, all of which are on wheels, is in readiness to remove it.
Each night the lever is applied to a new ring, and a stone is removed. At an
appointed hour the dead arrive in covered carts. Our guide affirmed that, after
the religious service, they were then dumped,
to use a New York term, from the
cart into the hole; and judging by what I witnessed, I think this probable. The
bodies are next sprinkled with quick lime, and the stone is replaced and closed
with cement. At the end of the year, little is found besides bones, which are
removed to a bone-house, or vault, kept for that purpose. The hole, however, is
not closed for twenty-four hours, the fees paid by the curious being an
inducement to keep it in readiness to be opened during that time.
When W[illiam] and I
presented ourselves, we were received by a cadaverous-looking priest and
sexton, on whose appearance this constant communication with the remains of
mortality had produced anything but an aspect of devotion. Our wishes being
known, after examining the place generally, we were desired to look into an
open vault: it was quite empty, and indeed clean. The lever was then applied to
the ring of the covering of the vault last filled, and a more revolting and
hideous spectacle has been seldom witnessed than the one we saw. Seventeen dead
bodies were lying naked beneath the hole, in a way that I can only compare to
the manner in which Jack-straws fall! If they had not actually been dropped
from the cart, no care had been taken even to lay them side by side, but they
were placed just as chance had ordered it. A few rags served as apologies to
decency, and even these were not always used. Whether they were actually
brought from the hospitals in this state, I cannot tell you: the guide affirmed
that they were; but one cannot confide in the information of guides.
While the poor meet
with the fate of the "unhonoured dead," the taste of the Neapolitans
of means is for gorgeous funerals. I have met several in the streets, in which
there was more of pageantry than about any private ceremonies of the sort I
have ever witnessed. Led horses are one of the standing honours of a gentleman,
— I presume, from some connexion with a chivalrous origin. We observe the same
usage, even to this day, in all our own military funerals of field-officers.
The body, I find, is often exposed here, as in other parts of Italy, though I
have not yet seen it on any of the great occasions just named.
Naples has a corso in
the Toledo; but at this season the carriage promenade appears to be by the
Chiaja, and along a road that leads to the south-western point of the bay. This
is one of the most delightful drives in the world. The road follows the strand
for two miles, having houses and villas on one hand, and the water on the
other. It passes the Villa Reale, one of the prettiest gardens imaginable, and
the celebrated gallery of Pozzuoli, or the grotto, as it is usually called.
This passage, which is of great antiquity, is of immense convenience, though of
no great cost or labour, the rock through which it is cut being soft. The
effect on looking through it is singular, for it is never empty, during the day
at least; and as a proof of its utility, it smells like a stable. The reputed
tomb of Virgil is on the side of the hill, immediately over the entrance of this
grotto. The best reason for believing it to have been erected in honour of the
Great Mantuan, is, that if it be not his tomb, no one can say whose tomb it is.
After all, Virgil had a tomb, he died here, and this is an ancient work. It may
be the tomb of Virgil.
The mole of Naples,
and the entire strand from the Castel Nuovo, near it, to the eastern extremity
of the town, offer extraordinary exhibitions. This was the region of the
Lazzaroni; and finer-looking or merrier vagabonds than those who are now found
in it, it is not easy to meet. The streets that they frequent, and in which
they may be said to live, lie in this quarter, and are altogether unique.
Brawling, laughing, cooking, flirting, eating, drinking, sleeping, together
with most of the other concerns of life, are all transacted here beneath the
canopy of heaven. The throng resembles the quays of Paris in the neighbourhood
of the Pont Neuf during a fete with this difference, that as everybody of a certain class appears to
be out in the French capital on such occasions, the streets of Naples also
include every thing. The serenity,
and, what is of more influence, the security of the weather, convert the
streets into dwellings; and if these people have lodgings at all, they must be
far less agreeable than the open air.
The veritable
Lazzaroni, however, — the houseless fellows who look to Abraham's bosom as
their first regular lodgings, — have greatly diminished of late years, if they
exist at all. Murat made soldiers of them, and otherwise gave them something to
do, and they are now less averse to regular employment than formerly. I saw
many at work, quite as near a state of nature as our Indians in a war dress,
the paint and feathers being so much the more in favour of the latter. The only
garment was a pair of very unsophisticated breeches, that did not cover a fourth of the thighs. The colour, as
may be imagined from exposure under such a sun, was not essentially different.
The day we arrived,
while the felucca was hauling into her berth, I observed a pair of feet, soles
uppermost, just out of water, not far from the shore. Watching them for some
time, they gradually sunk, when a swarthy face came up in their place. This was
one of the Lazzaroni getting his dinner from the smaller shell-fish. A long resident
here tells me that these people can exist in summer on incredibly small sums;
such as three or four grani a day.
Coarse bread, grapes, and most fruits are cheap: "and recollect,"
added my friend, "when you give a Neapolitan beggar a grano (which is less
than a cent) you give him a meal." The figs are delicious, and I make it a
point to eat one of the luscious little green fellows, with a blood-red
interior, every day immediately after the soup. This has got to be a matter of
conscience with me. The water melons are much like our own, and about the same
price; but the musk melons are greatly inferior to those of New York. The
peaches seem to be merely tolerable. Notwithstanding this, fruits are abundant,
and, so far as the markets are concerned, better than ours; though he who
judges of the fruits of New York from the public-houses and the markets, knows
nothing about them. We have tried the ices in the Toledo, and, notwithstanding
their reputation, think them greatly inferior to those of other towns we know.
Contoit need not hide his head in comparison with anything, in the way of
simple creams, that are to be found in Europe. But I have found good coffee in
one cafe here, and it is the first I have found in Italy. The house is kept by
a Frenchman.
Naples and New York
lie within a few miles of the same latitude. There are marked differences
between the climates, certainly; and yet there are also, at this season in
particular, marked points of resemblance. Our proximity to the West Indies
gives us some advantages as regards the markets, as does the mixed character of
our temperature. I believe America to be almost the only country in which the
peach and apple come to perfection in the same field without resorting to
forcing.
The streets of Naples
at night are like our own, or rather like one or two in America, when there is
a bright moon, and there has been a warm day. The absence of side-walks here,
and the greater throngs, make the difference. But I know no place that offers a
scene like this towards the setting of the sun. Imagine the effect in a street,
or perhaps on the side of a hill, where the houses are six or seven stories in
height, the windows all opening on hinges, and having balconies, and these
balconies filled with people enjoying the cool air. I have literally seen
streets with scarcely a balcony unoccupied. Fancy also the pleasure of sitting
in such a spot, at such an hour, and overlooking a town like Naples, and such a
bay! Most of the houses that face in the right direction, and which stand on
the hill-sides, possess this advantage.
The common public
vehicle for single passengers is a sort of sulky, which is driven by the
passenger, the keeper standing behind him and using the whip. It goes with
great velocity; and what struck me as daring in streets so crowded and with
chance drivers, the horses have no bits, being entirely controlled by a
noseband, like a halter, to which the reins are attached.
The population of
Naples is generally short, and both sexes, as a rule, incline early to obesity.
This applies particularly to the class of the bourgeoisie. But I have never seen so fine a display of muscle
anywhere else as among the labourers of this place. The habit of ascending and
descending the precipices of the coast gives to all the porters on the bay an
extraordinary development of the muscles of the legs. Those of Genoa have a
reputation in this respect; but I think them, though of larger proportions in
general, inferior to those of Naples, or rather to those of the Bay of Naples.
We did not get into our residence at Sorrento until the 20th of
August, and here we have now been several weeks. Everybody is delighted with
the place, and I think we have not in any other abode, in or out of Europe,
enjoyed ourselves so much as in this. The house is not particularly elegant,
though large; but as it has a name, and may be taken as a specimen of an
Italian country abode, I shall describe it.
To begin at the foundation, ours rests on narrow shelves of the cliffs,
which cliffs, just at this spot, are about one hundred and fifty feet in
perpendicular height, or possibly a little more. It has a treacherous look to
see the substratum of a building standing on a projection of this sort; but I
presume sufficient heed has been taken to security. Of this substratum I know
but little, though there appear to be two or three stories down among the
cliffs. All the dwellings along these rocks, many of which are convents, have
subterraneous communications with the sea, the outlets being sufficiently
visible as we row along beneath the heights. The government, however, has
caused them to be closed, without distinction, to prevent smuggling.
Towards the water there is a little terrace, which forms the great
attraction of the house. It is only some fifty feet long, and perhaps half as
wide; but it hangs over the blue
As I sit at the foot of the dinner-table, I look, through a vista of
five large rooms, by means of doors, at the panorama presented by Naples, which
town lies directly across the bay, at the reputed distance of eighteen miles;
though I see St. Elmo so distinctly, that it appears not half as far. Of
course, when seated on the terrace, the view is infinitely more extended. The
sea limits it to the west. Ischia, dark, broken, and volcanic, but softened by
vegetation and the tints of this luxurious atmosphere, comes next: then
Procida, low, verdant, and peopled. The misty abrupt bluff of Misenum is the
first land on the continent, with the Elysian fields, the port of the Roman
galleys, and the "Hundred Chambers." The site of delicious Baiae is
pointed out by the huge pile of castle that lies on the hill-side, and by the
ruined condition of all the neighbouring objects of curiosity, such as the
Sibyl's cave, the lake of Avernus, and the bridge or mole of Agrippa. Behind a
little island called Nisida, the bark of St. Paul must have sailed when he
landed at Puteoli, on his way to Rome. The palace of Queen Joan, the grotto of
Pausilippo, the teeming city, and the bay dotted with sails, follow. Then the
eye passes over a broad expanse of rich level country, between Vesuvius and the
heights of the town. This is the celebrated Felice Campania, with Capua in its
bosom; and the misty background is a wall of broken rocks, which in form are
not unlike our own palisadoes, but which, a grand range of the Apennines, have
probably six or seven times their height. These mountains, at times, are
scarcely visible, just marking the outline of the view in a sort of shadowy
frame, and then, again, they come forth distinct, noble, and dark, the piles
they really are. On particular days they do not appear to be a dozen miles from
us. I have seen them already, more than once, glittering with snow, when they
are indeed glorious. The base of Vesuvius, a continued hamlet of white
edifices, including palaces and cottages, with its cone for the background,
follows; and a pile of dingy earth, or ashes, just marks the position of
Pompeii.
There is a little room partitioned off from the terrace, that I use as
a cabinet, and where I can sit at its window and see most of these objects. The
distance impairs the effect but little; for so great is the purity of the
atmosphere, at times, that we have even fancied we could hear the din of Naples
across the water. In all this, too, I have said nothing of the movement of the
bay, which is getting to be of great interest.
Our communication with Naples is daily, and exceedingly regular. Large
boats, carrying a single latine sail, and, at need, pulled by fifteen or twenty
oars, leave all the places on this side of the bay with the dawn, at which hour
there is almost always a wind from the northward. They make the passage
sometimes in two hours, and it is usually made in four. About noon, the zephyr
springs up, and we see our little fleet bearing up from under the town,
spreading as it advances, one steering in this direction, another in that; for
there are a dozen havens, or landings, on our side of the bay. We usually get
the papers and letters by two o'clock. I have one boatman in pay, and this man
brings me even dollars with rigid honesty.
We are in the midst of antiquities. The foundations of a large edifice
are visible in the limpid water, directly beneath the terrace. They are said to
have belonged to a temple of Neptune, and there are caverns in the cliffs, at
no great distance from these ruins, which are supposed to have belonged to
them, for they have evidently been intended for baths. We appropriate them to
their ancient use, seldom suffering a day to pass without bathing in them. The
place can only be approached with a boat, and we go in a body, there being
accommodations for us all. A large circular cavern, arched like an oven, is the
room of the ladies. The water passes in and out of it, by means of two channels
cut in the rock (tufa), and an orifice serves for a window. There is a seat cut
in the stone all round the circle, and a beautiful soft sand has collected on
the bottom, so as to render the water of the desired depth. A ship might float
against the cliffs on the outside. I land the ladies at the window, where there
is sufficient room to receive them and to answer the purposes of the toilette,
and then I pull round to the entrance of the gallery by which the sea enters.
This gallery is crooked, of sufficient height to walk in, and has a narrow trottoir by the side of the water, along
which one can walk. Midway between the sea and the circular bath, is a deep cut
about twelve feet long and half as wide, and five feet deep. This is my bath,
while W[ill iam] has one near the entrance; both of us occasionally striking
out into the bay. All these works are artificial, and perfectly retired; and
you may fancy what a luxury it is to bathe daily in sea-water, sheltered from
all eyes, as well as from the sun. The circular bath is about fifty feet in
diameter, and twenty in height above the water. We have a little difficulty in
landing sometimes, on account of the sea; but it is not one day in ten that we
cannot effect it.
Carriages here are nearly useless. There is but a single wheel-track,
of a few miles in extent; and that runs, the whole distance, through villages,
or between high dead walls. When we wish to make excursions on the land, we
walk in the ravines that form the ditches of the place, a most picturesque and
remarkable promenade, or we take to the adjacent hills. Sometimes donkeys are
commanded, but we usually prefer our own feet.
On the water we do better still. I have a good and safe boat, that one
man can manage with ease, and in which W[illiam] or myself commonly pull the family for an hour or two, under the
cliffs, of an afternoon, or when the bay near us is in shadow. Then there is a
handsome pinnace with two lug sails and six oars, that can be had any day for a
dollar. In this we cross the bay, or go to Pompeii. For longer excursions, I
get the Divina Providenza, one of the crafts that ply to Naples. This
vessel, in which we have weathered a heavy gale, is pulled by twenty oars in a
calm, sails fast, and costs me just five Neapolitan dollars a day!
Our daily excursions under the cliffs are peculiarly Italian. We
cannot move until the day is drawing towards a close; but about four, the
shadows of the rocks are thrown so far on the water as to form a complete
protection against the rays of a fierce sun. At that hour, too, it is commonly
a flat calm, and we glide along sometimes with a boatman, but oftener by
ourselves, as far as a rocky point, where are the ruins of a palace, or of a
temple, (tradition has it both ways,) and where, by rowing through a rocky arch,
we can enter a little haven of a very extraordinary character. At this place
the boat is almost in a cavern Here we land and get new views of the unrivalled
bay. Every excursion that we make, we return more and more delighted with the
region in which we dwell, and deriding the opinions of those who pass eight or
ten days on the Chiaja, or in Santa Lucia, running from sight to sight at any
season of the year that may offer,
and then go away fancying they have seen the country of Naples!
There is a good deal of the "dolce
far niente" in all this; but it is a feeling admirably suited to this
luxurious climate, and to a country of recollections. In other places one is
obliged to submit to much toil and some privation, in order to see many objects
of curiosity; but they are assembled around the noble amphitheatre of this bay
in such numbers, that one is only obliged to turn his head to get a view of
them. If more curious, he can approach them in a boat, shaded by an awning,
without at all deranging the "far
niente"
And yet we as much affect the inland walks, as this lazy navigation.
Our excursions are of two sorts, which may be divided into the
"donkey" and the "non-donkey." In the
"non-donkey," we roam over the hills near the town, which are covered
with fruit-trees, and are intersected with paths, the kind and gentle peasants
smiling as we pass, never offering rudeness of any sort.
There is a spot called Capo di
Monte, a term that always designates the best look-out of a neighbourhood,
from which I think one finds the prettiest bit of scenery, in its way, I have
ever met with; nor do I remember any picture that surpasses it. The landings on
this coast are necessarily made on some small beach, or at a ravine which
admits of an ascent to the plain, or piano,
above. At Sorrento there are two, the "large" and the
"little" landing.[8] The latter is in the heart of the town, and has a
sort of wharf, at which one can embark in smooth water. This is the port of the
Divina Providenza, but all the craft,
big and little, are hauled on the beach at night; the other is a crescent of
sandy beach, lined the whole distance with the houses of fishermen. It is at
the verge of the town and without its walls, extending to the mountain, which
here juts out into a low promontory, forming a protection against the sea. The Capo di Monte is so placed as to have
this landing for its foreground. The view of the beach strewed with crafts of
different sizes, including boats, to the number of a hundred, — the domestic
groups between them and the houses, — the children sporting on the sands, the
costumes and flaring colours of the female dresses, with nets spread to dry,
and all the other little accessories of such a spot that you can so readily
imagine, — make a perfect Flemish picture. The men usually have a shirt and
loose trowsers that descend but little below the kne; and they wear a Phrygian
cap, that is oftener red than any other colour. The pleasure of a residence in
such a spot is enhanced by the circumstance that, on the continent of Europe
generally, the inhabitants of these country towns, though they are often large,
seldom affect the airs of a capital, but are mere assemblages of rustics, and
not children in wigs and hoops, like those of our own small places. Here, the
distinctions between a capital, a country town, a village, and a hamlet, are
all freely acknowledged and maintained; but the aspiring qualities of our
population will not submit to this. The great number of beggars that torment
one like gnats was at first a drawback on our pleasures. It was no unusual
thing to have a dozen of them in chase; and, if unprovided with change, we were often harassed by them until we
returned to our own gate: for the poor Neapolitans, unlike the beggars of
Paris, are not often provided with change. We have got relieved from them,
however, by mere accident; and as the incident is characteristic, it is worth
mentioning.
Walking one day on
the terrace that overhangs the bay, I happened to cast my eyes over the
balustrade into the street, where there is a public seat that is much
frequented by idlers, immediately beneath our drawing-room window. It was occupied at the moment by an old fellow
with a lame leg, as fine an old mendicant as one shall see in a thousand. This
man was enjoying himself, and keeping an eye on the gate, in expectation of our
daily sortie; for we had been a little irregular of late, and had given our
tormentors the slip. Seeing me, the beggar rose and pulled off his cap. As I
had no change, I called a servant to bring me a grano. This little ceremony established a sort of intercourse
between us. The next day, the thing was repeated. As I usually wrote in the
cabinet of a morning, and walked on the terrace at stated hours, my new
acquaintance became very punctual; and there is such a pleasure in thinking you
are making a fellow-creature comfortable for a day at so cheap a rate, that I
began to expect him. This lasted ten days, perhaps, when I found two one fine morning, instead of the one I had known. The other grano was given, and the next day I had three pensioners. These three swelled
like the men in buckram, and were soon a dozen. From that moment no one asked
charity of us in our walks: we frequently met beggars, but they invariably drew
modestly aside, permitting us to pass without question. We might have been a
month getting up to the dozen; after which, my ranks increased with singular
rapidity. Seeing many strange faces, I inquired of Roberto whence they came;
and he told me that many of the new visiters were from villages five or six
miles distant, it having been bruited that, at noon each day, all applicants
were accommodated with a grano apiece
by the American admiral. By this fact alone, you learn the extreme poverty of
the poor and the value of money in this country.
We went on
recruiting, until I now daily review some forty or fifty gaberlunzies. As my time here is limited, I have determined to
persevere, and the only precaution taken is to drive off those who do not seem
worthy to be enrolled on a list so eminently mendicant; for a good many of the
wives of the fishermen began to appear in our ranks. A new-comer from Sta.
Agata, a village across the mountains, had the indiscretion lately, as he got
his grano, to wish me only a hundred
years of life. "A hundred years!" repeated the king of the gang;
"you blackguard, do you wish a signore who gives you a grano every day, only a hundred years?
Knock him down! away with him!" "Mille
anni, signore, — a thousand years: may you live a thousand years!"
shouted the blunderer, amid some such tumult as one would see around a kettle
of maccaroni in the streets of Naples, were its contents declared free. "A
thousand years, and long ones
too."[9]
0ur aquatic excursions have extended, by this time, to the whole coast
of the bay. We have visited all the islands, and nearly every object of
interest, from Ischia to Capri. As some of the pictures may amuse you, we will
make a short cruise in company over the same ground. We embarked at the Marina Grande. in La Divina Providenza with
our twenty-one oars (the odd one falling to the share of the padrone), and your
humble servant at the helm. The day had just opened, and the bay was radiant,
while all the mountains stood out distinct and clear. This was a sign of
northerly weather, and of a pure sky. We had now been more than a month on the
bay, and scarcely a drop of rain had fallen. At our first arrival, we had
frequently distrusted the day; but our acquaintances laughed at the omens, and
told us to go forth in security, on occasions when I should have expected a
thunder-shower. The advice is good, and in no instance have we suffered. As the
season advances, however, we perceive symptoms of change, and we are told that,
ere long, we shall see rain.
Our boatmen made the water foam, and we soon saw the dark pile of
Capri looking out from behind the western headland, and the shore of Massa.
When one is at Naples, this fine island appears to lie directly in the mouth of
the bay; but, in fact, it is posted, like a sentinel, at one of its corners,
and Ischia is at the other.
Our course was north-westerly, for the headland of Pausilippo, which lay
about eighteen miles distant, directly across the bay. We pulled several miles
before we caught the land-breeze, which soon sent us in under the romantic
coast for which we were steering. Passing between Pausilippo and Nisida, the
island that is said to have been the temporary retreat of Brutus after the
death of Caesar, we hauled up into the little bay beyond, which is that of
Baiae. Here the town of Pozzuoli stands, on a low projection that runs into the
water. There is little, perhaps no doubt, that this is the Puteoli of Paul. I
thought of this apostle and of his perilous voyage as we rounded to at the
quay, and pictured to myself the sort of vessel in which he had arrived, nearly
eighteen centuries since, in the same harbour. She was called the Castor and
Pollux, (what a thing to know even her name!) the ship of Alexandria, that had
wintered in Melita, and which put into Syracuse, where she lay three days.
Thence "we fetched a compass, and came to Rhegium." This is the
Reggio of Lower Calabria, which lies nearly opposite to Messina. "And
after one day, the south wind blew, and we came the next day to Puteoli."
We learn some curious facts by the simple narrative of the apostle. He sailed,
first, in a ship of Adramyttium, bound to some port that lay on the way to
Rome. This was a regular convoy of prisoners; and we may gain some idea of the
means of communication between the different parts of the empire, and of the
relative insignificance of Jerusalem, at that period, by the circumstance that
no direct conveyance offered. It has been objected to the authenticity of the
Books of the Apostles, that the Roman writers did not speak of Christ. That the
Jewish writers did not, (the well-known allusion of Josephus being generally
admitted to be an interpolation,) must be ascribed to his appearance
conflicting with their own notions of the Messiah. There certainly was a sect
called Christians, who took their origin from a reputed Christ. and these facts
must have been known to the contemporary Hebrews, and yet they are silent. But
with the Romans it was different. The means of communication were so few, and
Jerusalem was so unimportant in the eyes of the mistress of the world, that the
philosophers who prided themselves in an elaborate system of mythology, in
which an attempt is made to personify the attributes of the Deity, — a system
that bears some such mystified relation to divine truths, as the black-letter
notions of an old-school lawyer bear to abstract justice, — did not think such
provincial opinions of sufficient interest to occupy their time and attention.
On this point an error is sometimes committed by confounding the importance of
Christianity at a later day, with the importance previously to, and immediately
after, the Crucifixion.
Paul was put into a ship of Alexandria, in "Myra, a city of
Lycia." At Lasea in Crete, they put into port, although the vessel was large
enough to hold two hundred and seventy-six souls. Here there were serious
notions of wintering! When they did put to sea again, it was merely with the
intention of running as far as Phenice, another port in the same island. They
took a moment to do this, when "the south wind blew softly," but were "caught" by the gale, that drove
them up into the Adriatic, as is commonly thought, but into what was, more
probably, no more than the Ionian sea. When they struck soundings, "four
anchors" were let go by the stern. There are still relics of this usage,
the smaller craft carrying many light anchors. I have seen as many as eleven on
the deck of one small bark on the Lake of Geneva, and seven or eight are the
common number. They lie in a row bristling on the forecastle. Anchoring by the
stern is an old expedient: Nelson did it at the Nile. These anchors, however,
are a proof that the vessel, notwithstanding her "two hundred three score
and sixteen souls," was small; as was also the fact that the crew, who
were about to desert, were lowering the boat under the plea of carrying out
anchors from the bows in a gale of wind!
The seamen of the Mediterranean appear to have had the same practice
of running into port, at every adverse turn of the wind, in the time of St.
Paul, that they have to-day. An ordinary run from Palestine to Puteoli, in a
good ship, would not exceed six or eight days, and here we find men wintering
by the way, and putting into half a dozen ports, besides attempting to make
several they could not enter. The ships of Alexandria were probably among the
best of the sea, and yet even the one in which Paul arrived saw fit to winter
in Malta, bound to Italy!
We passed close to a fragment of the ancient mole, which is commonly
called the Bridge of Caligula, and which probably was used as a part of it; but
I thought more of this arrival of Paul, as the different objects presented
themselves than of the luxury of Rome, and of all her emperors united.
"Where are the doctrines that Saul of Tarsus taught, and where now is
Rome!"
The whole shore of Baiae is a succession of antiquities, or of natural
curiosities. Puteoli, judging from its remains, was a place of some size; and
this is the more probable from its proximity to the Baian shore, a spot devoted
to taste and poetry. We saw the remains of the amphitheatre, and of various
temples; but the ruins were indistinct, and much dilapidated. We walked, also,
to the Solfatara, which may be termed the pulse of Vesuvius. When it is quiet,
the mountain is deemed dangerous; but when it is in action, the volcano is
thought to be in subjection. The distance between the two cannot be less than
fifteen miles. This is a sort of low crater, out of which smoke and heat escape
through cracks in the surface, rather than by a regular orifice. The surface is
not unlike that of a brick-yard; and a large stone cast on it, gives a hollow
menacing sound. The idea of breaking through into a mass of burning sulphur
accompanies the experiment, though the crust is really too thick to make it at
all dangerous.
In the Solfatara, we were joined by Mr. Hammett, the consul, who had
come from Naples by land, to join our party. To this gentleman, whose education
and long residence in Naples so well qualify him for the office, we have been
indebted for a great deal of local information, and information that we prize
the more as it is always, on such occasions, a source of happiness to exchange
the marvels of a laquais de place for
the more accurate and chastened knowledge of a gentleman.
With this addition to our party, we reembarked, and pulled across the
bay, the distance of a mile or more,
to the Lucrine Lake. The water was smooth as a mirror, and as our swarthy
people, each of whom stood with his face towards the bows of the speronara,
pushed their heavy oars, I could almost fancy we were in a Roman galley,
passing from one villa of Baiae to another. It is scarcely possible to imagine
a region that was once so renowned for its luxury and magnificence, — so
teeming with historical associations, temples, palaces, baths, bridges, groves,
and gardens, — that has more completely changed its character, than this. Of
remains, and those of a nature to establish localities, there are abundance. It
might be difficult to find another place in Italy, out of Rome, where so many
are crowded into so small a space; but they are hidden, require to be sought,
and all the glories of the past, so far as mere outward appearances are
concerned, are completely supplanted by the present negligent and half-wasted
aspect of the whole shore. The Lucrine Lake has almost disappeared, little
remaining beyond a sort of pond in the sands; but, in its place, a natural
curiosity has thrust itself, which serves strangely to add to the jumble of
wonders that this extraordinary district offers. It is a small cone, or
mountain, of volcanic embers and sand, which was forced upwards by a convulsion
of nature, in 1538, and which is properly enough, in such a neighbourhood,
called Monte Nuovo. It may be two or
three hundred feet high, and has a sterile, naked look, the meagre verdure it
possesses being altogether of a different hue from that of the rest of the
soil. We can see this cone from the terrace at Sorrento.
We did not stop at the Lucrine to eat oysters, but followed a tangled
path, between the upstart hill, and some of the more venerable heights that
once groaned beneath palaces and Roman villas, to the shores of Avernus. Why
Virgil chose this spot as the entrance to hell, I cannot tell you; unless it
were for its reputed depth. It is a circular sheet of dark water, with shores
that rise on every side except that by which we approached, and which are
deserted and tangled. The ruins of a temple stand in the solitude, erected, it
is said, in honour of Pluto.
Agrippa is thought to have cut a canal from this lake to the sea, in
order to form a port. The cost of such an undertaking at present would not be
great, and it would make one of the best man-of-war harbours in the world; easy
of access and of defence, and as snug as a boudoir.
But to need a harbour a people must have ships.
The path conducted us to the Sibyl's Cave, a long narrow cavern cut in
the rocks, beneath the palaces and villas, and which leads to nothing. These
cuttings are curious as connected with the religious rites of antiquity, and
Virgil probably had an eye to them in his descent to the nether world. We found
a Styx within them, and seeing no Charon, but one who offered to carry us on
his shoulders, we returned to try another route.
We retraced our steps to the beach, and visited some hot springs and
remains of baths, which, right or wrong, have the reputation of once belonging
to a country palace of Nero. The frequent occurrence of ruins in all this
region is to me a constant matter of wonder. They embrace all ages, down to our
own. Here is a broken pile on a rock, — it is a retreat of Tiberius; that on
the opposite peak was inhabited by some Goth. This is the dilapidated residence
of a Bourbon; yonder is a fallen citadel of the barbarians; and temples to all
the gods of antiquity, with remains of churches erected in honour of the
Ancient of Days, dot the eminences and valleys!
We embarked and proceeded to Baiae itself, a mere hamlet, to-day. Here
are some tolerable remains, one in particular of a temple in honour of Venus,
and also the heavy pile of citadel that is visible from Sorrento. We lingered
on this site of Roman taste and indulgence several hours, and finding the day
on the wane, bethought us of the coming night. The consul recommended Ischia,
when we embarked with a light wind, and made sail in that direction. We glided
immediately beneath Misenum, which, for a novelty in this part of the world, is
a high sandy bluff; though all the
Baiaean shore is more or less of sand. We looked into the little port, where
the Roman galleys formerly lay, and whence Pliny departed when he proceeded to
Stabia, to meet his death from the volcano. It is a small circular haven, with
a very shallow draught of water at present, the padrone saying that the Divina Providenza would find little
enough for her wants. It was in part artificial, and the remains of the works
are still distinctly to be traced.
We hauled up to windward of Procida, sailing through an element so
limpid that we saw every rush and stone on the bottom in five fathom water.
Having opened the channel between the two islands, we bore up for the town of
Ischia, where we arrived a little before sunset. Here a scene presented itself
which more resembled a fairy picture than one of the realities of this everyday
world of ours. I think it was the most ravishing thing, in its way, eye of mine
ever looked upon. We had the black volcanic peaks of the island for a
background, with the ravine-like valleys and mountain-faces, covered with
country-houses and groves, in front. The town is near the southern extremity of
the land, and lies along the shore for more than a mile on a bit of level
formation; but, after passing a sort of bridge or terrace, which I took to be a
public promenade, the rocks rose suddenly, and terminated in two or three
lofty, fantastic, broken fragment-like crags, which make the south-eastern end
of the island. On these rocks were perched some old castles, so beautifully
wild and picturesque, that they seemed placed there for no other purpose than
to adorn the landscape. By a curvature of the land, these rocks sheltered the
roadstead, and the quaint old structures were brought almost to impend over our heads. The whole population seemed
to be out enjoying themselves after the heat of the day, and a scene in which a
movement of life was so mingled with a superb but lovely nature, it is indeed
rare to witness. Until that moment I was not fully sensible of the vast
superiority of the Italian landscapes over all others. Switzerland astonishes,
and it even often delights, by its union of the pastoral with the sublime; but
Italian nature wins upon you until you come to love it like a friend. I can
only liken the perfection of the scene we gazed upon this evening to a feeling
almost allied to transport; to the manner in which we dwell upon the serene
expression of a beloved and lovely countenance. Other scenes have the tints,
the hues, the outlines, the proportions, the grandeur, and even the softness of
beauty; but these have the character that marks the existence of a soul. The
effect is to pour a flood of sensations on the mind, that are as distinct from
the commoner feelings of wonder that are excited by vastness and magnificence,
as the ideas awakened by an exquisite landscape by Claude are different from
those we entertain in looking at a Salvator Rosa. The refinement of Italian nature appears to distinguish it as much from
that of other countries, as the same quality distinguishes the man of sentiment
and intellect from the man of mere impulses. In sublimity of a certain sort,
more especially in the sublimity of desolation, Switzerland probably has no
equal on earth; and perhaps to this is to be added a certain unearthly aspect
which the upper glaciers assume in particular conditions of the atmosphere; but
these Italian scenes rise to a sublimity of a different kind, which, though it
does not awe, leaves behind it a tender sensation allied to that of love. I can
conceive of even an ardent admirer of Nature wearying in time of the grandeur
of the Alps; but I can scarce imagine one who could ever tire of the witchery
of Italy.
Climate has a great influence in bringing about these results. As the
greater portion of the United States lies south of Naples, you may wish to know
why we do not possess the same advantages. We want the accessories. A volcanic
formation puts all competition at defiance in the way of the picturesque. This
feature alone frequently renders mountains of no great elevation in themselves
sublime, while others of twice their height are tame. We want the water, the
promontories, the bays, the peninsulas, the grand islands, and lastly, we want
all the quaint and time-honoured forms that art assumed, in this region, three
thousand years ago, seemingly never to abandon them.
Our attempts to obtain lodgings at the town of Ischia were
unsuccessful, and we shaped our course for a villa on the coast two or three
miles distant, where we were received. Our couchee
was a little unsophisticated, most of the party using mattresses on the
floo; but we had brought tea with us, and made a good supper. Italy pays the
penalty for the warmth that is thrown around its landscapes, in having little
milk, the article, of all others, in which its great rival Switzerland abounds.
Wine can be had anywhere, as may oil: but the excellent tribute of the cow is
hard to be got. We found maccaroni, however, which is as much a standing dish
in Naples as rice in Carolina.
Arrangements for the night were soon made. Everybody had a mattress;
though I afterwards found that Gelsomina slept in an open gallery, and Roberto
in the cellar. The idea of putting two people in the same bed, even if married,
scarcely ever comes into the heads of the Europeans of the Continent; nearly
every bed-room of the least pretension, if intended for the use of two, having
its two beds. I have seen double-beds in Italy, it is true; but they were as
large as small houses. That peculiar sentiment of the Western American, who
"wondered that any man should be such a hog as to wish a bed all to
himself," appears never to have suggested itself to a people so destitute
of "energy."
We took a light breakfast, and left the shores of Ischia just as the
sun rose. The island is volcanic, and blocks of lava, looking as fresh as that
at the foot of Vesuvius, lie along the margin of the sea; and yet no tradition,
or history, speaks of the volcano as active! These visible proofs of the
imperfection of our records, and of the course of time, have a tendency to
create new views of things. I am glad to hear that theologians and philosophers
are beginning to see the possibility of reconciling the text of sacred history
with the evidences of science, and to be of a mind in believing this world
vastly older than the vulgar understanding of the Mosaic account has, hitherto,
led us to think. You are not to infer, however, that I believe the lava of
Ischia so very ancient; the five thousand years will very well suffice for all
the geological phenomena that I am acquainted with, and which lie on the
surface of the earth.
The morning was calm, and we pulled towards the western point of
Procida. This is one of the few islands of this region that is without any
mountain. It is extremely populous, though quite small, having a good deal of
shipping. We landed on the point, and, by way of exploring the island, walked
to the town. It is the fashion to see a Greek character in this people, who
were originally a Greek colony (as indeed were those on the adjacent main); but
we saw no more than the same swarthy, dark-eyed race that throngs the streets
of Naples.
Re-embarking at the port, we pulled towards the promontory of Misenum,
and landed behind the bluff, directing our galley to proceed and meet us near
Baize. Nearly every foot of the shore, for several miles, was now historical,
offering, amid a fatiguing sameness, and a sterility of surface, some relic of
antiquity. An ordinary traveller, in passing along this place, would see as
little to please him, or to attract his attention, as in any part of Italy I
know; and yet Pompeii itself is scarcely more pregnant with recollections. The
Elysian Fields of Virgil are now a tangled brake: the Mare Morto is dead
enough, and is scarcely worthy to be called a pool. Some imagine that the first
was a place of interment for the wealthy, converted by the imagination of the
poet into an arena of souls: and that the sea
was merely an inner basin of the port of Misenum, transformed by the same
subtle process into the Styx. It is more probable that the imaginations of
other people converted the Elysian Fields of the poet into this, and the inner
basin, if inner basin it ever was, into his Styx. It struck me that the popular
notions about this place are altogether too sublimated for a true poet, and
that the popular genius, instead of that of Virgil, has been at work here.
The remains of the Romans are in better keeping. The Piscina Mirabile
is a stupendous work, and almost perfect; and it puts all modern reservoirs to
shame. It is under ground, vast, and contains arches and piers fit for the
foundations of a palace. My respect for the Roman marine has never been very
profound: but, if it be true that this place was intended to water their fleet,
I know no modern nation that, under similar circumstances, would be likely to
effect the same object on a scale so magnificent and noble. The supposed
prisons of the Hundred Chambers have the same character of vastness and
durability. But everything Roman appears to be of this nature, and, in studying
the remains, one is constantly provoked to make comparisons to the prejudice of
us moderns. Were Naples to be deserted to-morrow, and this entire region
depopulated, it is my opinion that they who visited the country a thousand
years hence, would still find remains of the Romans, where every trace of the
Neapolitans had disappeared. As for ourselves, the case is still worse. A
period as short as that during which the country has been occupied, would
probably obliterate every mark of our possession. We have a few forts, and a
sea wall or two, that might resist the wear of a few centuries; but New York
would not leave a trace, beyond imperishable fragments of stone, in two hundred
years. Something may be ascribed to climate, certainly; but more is owing to
the grand and just ideas of these ancients, who built for posterity as well as for
themselves.
After looking at ruins, if works almost as perfect as they were the
day they were completed can be so termed, we embarked, and made sail for the
point of Pausilippo, with a light but fair wind. The little island of Nisida,
which once had its villas too, is now the Lazaretto, and was filled with
travellers in quarantine. The breeze served to carry us half across the bay,
and it then deserted us. Our galley put out its oars, and we swept in towards
the cliffs, on as lovely an evening as ever fell on this pezzo di cielo. Just as the day closed, the black mass of Capri
became shut in by the head-lands of Massa, and we approached the rocky shore of
Sorrento beneath the light of a placid moon. Before nine, we were all safely
housed in the Casa detta del Tasso.
To Capri we went in the six-oared pinnace. This island, which, as you
know, stands sentinel at one side of the bay, as Ischia does at the other, seen
at Naples appears to lie in its mouth. This is owing to the position of Naples
itself, which is placed at the northern corner of the gulph; Vesuvius, as you
have been already told, occupying the bottom. I repeat these things, for, my
own notions having been all wrong about them, I have fancied yours might be so
too.
Capri is divided into two mountains by a deep gorge, or valley, in
which stands the town. The southern mountain is the highest, and is truly a
noble object, as one approaches the spot. It rises almost to a peak which is,
probably, two thousand feet high; and the ruins that crown it are said to have
belonged to a castle of Frederick Barbarossa, and to stand on the site of a
villa of Tiberius! There is a tradition that Tiberius had many villas on this
remarkable little island; which may be true, as there are numberless remains.
At all events, the place was in favour among the Romans, Augustus passing much
of his time here, towards the end of his career. The lowest of the mountains is
called Ana Capri, and can only be reached by actually ascending a flight of steps
cut in the rocks, of half a mile in length, which ascend by a zigzag. P[aul]
was mounted on a donkey; and, making a line of pocket-handkerchiefs, which I
fastened to the girth, the ladies were greatly aided in this fatiguing ascent.
The picturesque seems exhausted in such beautiful spots. Here we had the bay;
the teeming and magnificent coast for leagues; the path, itself a curiosity,
with a little chapel, at which the devout were kneeling as we passed. A
thousand recollections crowded on the mind. Among other beautiful objects, were
the different crafts, of which a fleet lay becalmed under Vesuvius.
The English seized Capri, and held it for some time, while Murat was
king. Several unsuccessful attempts were made to retake it, and one finally
succeeded, under Lamarque. That officer surprised the place by scaling the
rocks of Ana Capri, in the night; and, once in possession of this elevated
plain, he was in possession of the entire island.
We found Ana Capri a hamlet of cottages. Every building had the low
circular roof of cement; and, as is the case with most of the houses of this
region, those in the towns and the villas excepted, they were all of one story,
like the buildings of Pompeii. A dread of earthquakes has probably introduced
this style; though Naples has unusually high houses. Several streets of the
capital, however, at this very moment, have beams between the buildings which
are said to be departing from the perpendicular, in consequence of the working
of the fires beneath. One of these fine mornings; the whole of this
"little bit of heaven fallen upon earth" will probably fall into the
cauldron beneath it; and then travellers will come to see it as an object of
frightful desolation! Such was probably the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah. I
wonder if New York will ever experience a similar calamity.
Besides the cruise to Capri, we have made two to Pompeii, the first of
which was attempted in a fresh breeze and a heavy sea. When we had got half
way, W[illiam], who, though a very bad sailor, swims like a fish, began to make
some inquiries about the probability of his art being required in landing; when
we learned from the boatmen that any attempt to approach the shore would most
likely put us all in the water. I had been told we might ascend the Sarno,
about a mile, to the ruins of the town, and, quite like a mariner as I contend,
had presumed on smooth water in port. It appeared, however, on inquiry, that
there is a bar at the mouth, and that in a flat calm the rollers sometimes make
crossing it hazardous. Nothing remained but to down-helm, and haul up again for
the Marina Grande. We were rewarded for the excursion, notwithstanding, by
enjoying the bay in a tumult. The heavy seas that set into it, are not unlike
those of the ocean in moderate weather; and, since the season has advanced into
October, we have witnessed the waves dashing against our cliffs in a manner to
send the spray upon the terrace.
The next expedition was better timed, and we reached the mouth of the
river in good season. Here we found so little water, that the boat grounded a
cable's length from the shore, and the only way to enter was for the crew to
jump into the water, when, by watching the roll of the ground-swell. and
lifting, they succeeded in forcing us over the bar.
The Sarno is about as wide as the Bronx at West-Farms, and much such a
river. Like the Bronx, it meanders through low meadows, all of which have
probably been formed since the destruction of Pompeii. We could not get quite
up to the town, as it was; but, leaving the boat, we walked, by a footpath, to
the highway, entering the ruins on the side of the tombs. In this visit we
examined the walls, and entered more into details than at the former. The
progress of the workmen had been slow; but an entire house, and that of some
importance, had been opened in the interval. I endeavoured to find some traces
of the port, unsuccessfully; but, judging from the present appearance of the
country, I think there can be little question that the town stood on a low
promontory, and that the haven lay considerably below it. Excavations in the
right spot would very probably bring to light a mole.
We left Pompeii, on this occasion, an hour sooner than we should
otherwise have done, on account of an approaching gust. For nearly two months,
and this in August and September, we had seen nothing resembling a storm in the
bay, and scarcely any rain. Indeed, I can safely say, after having now passed
near a twelvemonth on this side the Alps, that I have witnessed neither thunder
nor lightning that would attract any attention in America. This may have been a
peculiar season; but, after all I had been told, especially by the English, I
had expected something of the sort particularly awful. While we were among the
ruins, however, there was every symptom of something better than common in this
way, or certainly better than anything we had yet seen; and fearing a swell
would get up on the bar, I hurried the party off to the boat.
We got out of the Sarno better than we had come into it, and were soon
in the bay. The wind was light at the north-west, and as we stretched over,
under the promontory of Vico the heavens in the direction of Pausilippo became
lowering and grand. A polacre was beating out of the bight of Castel-a-mare,
and was tacking, about half a league to windward of us. Just as she filled,
with her head to the northward, I observed that she was starting her tacks and
sheets, or whatever else these nondescript craft term their gear. I ordered our
own lugs to be taken in, and the oars shipped. It was a grand moment, for I
scarcely remember a more beautiful opening of a gust, and the effect was
greatly increased by the sublimity of the surrounding land. As for the bay
itself, it reminded me of a beauty covered with frowns. The water curled and foamed,
but retained its limpid blue; and there were openings between the lurid and
wheeling clouds through which the void of heaven gleamed brightly, and of its
deepest tint, giving one the idea of nature in a mask.
The stroke-oarsman of the boat advised me to pull in under the
promontory, as near as we could go. I hesitated about complying, for the sea
was getting up fast, and if we found it irresistible, there was no alternative
but drowning: for the rocks impended over the water almost to the height of a
thousand feet. This noble pile is, in truth, one of the finest objects in its
way that I know on any coast. The man, however, explained himself. He said,
that the squall would not blow "home," against the rocks, and that,
contrary to the general rule, we should find smoother water, and less wind, by
running to leeward. As this was plausible, and matters were becoming awkward
where we were, I followed his direction, and in a few minutes we were as close
under the beetling precipice as we could conveniently go. I confess I had
doubts of the experiment; but it succeeded perfectly. We got ahead with
tolerable speed, had no other than a fair rolling sea, and came out handsomely
into the bay of Sorrento within half an hour. I was not sorry, notwithstanding,
when I again saw the polacre showing his light sails to windward.
With similar symptoms we should have been deluged with rain in
America, and yet we were barely sprinkled. The wind was fresh inshore, and
violent a league or two in the offing; for the polacre bore up before it, until
she had run a mile or more; and yet we did not ship a gallon of water, or
"catch crabs" with a single oar. These Sorrentines are noble boatmen,
as bold and as skilful as any I have ever met with; athletic, active and steady,
while they understand their waters perfectly. Much as I have boated with them,
and on two or three occasions I have seen them in serious weather, I have never
seen any praying to saints, or a
disposition to do anything unworthy of mariners. I consider the common
population of this country, by nature, one of the finest I know.
The weather, soon after this excursion, changed, and interrupted our
boating. The siroccos set in, in earnest, and for two or three weeks we had a
continuation of strong south winds, occasionally accompanied by rain. The
influence of these winds is one of the great drawbacks on an Italian residence.
I can tell in my bed if there is a shift of wind to the westward, and no
language can describe the cheering effect the changes produce on my feelings.
We have had one or two days, in which the house has actually appeared to roll
with me, like a ship at sea; and the depression of the spirits, at such times,
is really awful — second only to a London November-day.
This is the season in which the vessels arrive from Sicily, and the
other southern ports, with wheat. For a fortnight there was scarcely a day in
which a dozen, and sometimes twenty sail, did not pass directly before us; for
they haul close round the Cape of Campanella, and run into Castel-a-mare, where
the great warehouses of the kingdom are placed. Some of the public works of
this nature are on a scale that is vast for the extent and commerce of the
nation. There is a single storehouse on the bay, by the side of the road that
leads from Naples to Portici, designed to be used in cases of quarantine, I
believe, that is one of the largest constructions I have ever seen. Its length
cannot be much less than half a mile. I counted the windows, and, estimating
the distance between them, made it out to be considerably more than two
thousand feet. But Europe is full of buildings that to us appear marvellous by
their magnitude and riches, and Italy, in particular, before all other parts of
it.
The passage of these vessels gave an entirely new appearance to our
side of the bay; and the daily arrival of our own little fleet, which sometimes
comes staggering along half under water, adds to the interest. Roberto went to
Naples a few days since, on business of his own, and he became so thoroughly
frightened by the fury of our lovely bay, that the poor fellow, in preference
to running the same risk over again, actually made a detour of forty miles, by the way of Castel-a-mare and the
mountains, in order to get back again to his duty. But the Bella Genovese can testify that he is a miserable sailor.
Our siroccos have not been perpetual, but some glorious autumnal days
succeeded the equinox. We have profited by them to explore the interior of the
peninsula on which we live, for the heat can now be borne even at noon-day. You
would laugh to see us start on one of these excursions. Half a dozen little
donkeys are paraded at the gate, with two or three swarthy drivers. As soon as
the ladies are seated on their beasts, in a species of pack-saddle, W[illiam]
and I mount, with our feet just clear of the ground, and away we go, by dint of
kicks, thumps, and applications on the flanks from the drivers. Once in motion,
we are by no means certain of the direction; for if urged beyond their humours,
the little long-eared gentry will put their noses down, and carry one of the
ladies just where he pleases. Cries of distress are constantly made; one being
run into a church door, another into the window of a hovel, or a third is
scampering down the road at a "will ye nill ye" pace. We have a good
deal of this amusement for the first mile or two, after which we commonly get
on better. No one thinks of laughing at our appearance; for it is as much
expected that one should ride on a donkey here, as that one should ride on a
horse with us.
We have been on all the heights in this manner. One of our visits was
to a ruined convent, a Camaldoli, on
the mountain that separates the piano
of Sorrento from that of Vico These Camaldoli
are always placed on heights; St. Bruno, the founder of the order, being
directed by a dream, or a vision, I believe, to adopt the plan. The effect is
poetical and good; for I cannot imagine a finer stimulant for religious
meditation, than a broad view of the glories of the earth; and this the more
especially, if it be chastened by a knowledge of the things practised on it.
One gets, in this way, an idea of what things might be without sin to contrast
with one's knowledge of what things are. In boyhood, my feeling on such places
was ever to fly, in order to cull the beauties by again approaching them; but,
as life glides away, I find the desire to recede increase, as if I would reduce
the whole earth to a picture in a camera obscura, in which the outlines and
general beauties are embraced, while the disgusting details are diminished to
atoms.
The view from the eminence north of the piano, like every other view in this region, is magnificent; but
one cannot go amiss, in this respect,
in a country in which rocks, plains, water, mountains, and life, are blended in
the affluence that distinguishes Naples. The convent-buildings are chiefly
destroyed, for there has been a great suppression of monastic orders in this
country; but the chapel still stands. It is used as a barn, and was half full
of hay. Still the altar-piece, a very good picture, remains!
There is a seat on the verge of the cliff, that overlooks the plain of
Sorrento, as one would overlook a garden from the belvedere of a house, or a
ship's decks from her mizen top. Here we were particularly struck with the
resemblance of the houses to those of Pompeii, all the roofs being low, with
the species of dome-like curvature, to turn the water, that has been before
mentioned.
An excursion in the opposite direction proved to be still finer. We
went up the heights, behind Sorrento, by a Swissish road, half stairs, half
path, until we gained a country that had a more pastoral character than usual.
A hamlet on the summit, that overlooked the Mediterranean towards the south,
and at an elevation of near, if not quite, a thousand feet, is called St.
Agata. Some small rocky islets, at no great distance from the coast, and around
which the sleeping billows, in their incessant rolling, just raised a circle of
white, are called the Islands of the Sirens; it being assumed that these are
the Islands where Ulysses encountered those sea ladies; and one of them is said
to contain the ruins of a temple. They are mere rocks, not larger than that on
which we landed near Piombino. Can these ruins once have been the abode of
nymphs, who seduced the wanderer from his path, on anchoring accidentally near
them?
There is another Camaldoli on
the summit of the land, between St. Agata and Massa, or about midway between
the Gulf of Salerno and that of Naples. I passed a morning lately in a memorable
manner, in exploring it on foot, and alone. The day was fine, it was the
Sabbath, the air from the west, invigorating, just cool enough to be agreeable,
and full of life. The ruins command a noble view, as usual; but so does every
eminence around us. One looks abroad here, in the full security of beholding
objects that are either sublime or beautiful, and commonly both, for the two
are so blended as to render it doubtful which most prevails. I cannot describe
to you the precise nature of the sensations with which I passed this morning.
It was the Sabbath of man, and it appeared to be also the Sabbath of nature;
one of those holy calms that sleep on the earth, as if the vegetable world
united with the animal to worship the great Source of all. As I flung myself
carelessly from height to height, and across downish uplands, every new point
that presented itself exhibited the great temple in a new and lovelier aspect;
and as I descended from the glorious solitude, (for the only habitations are in
the hamlets, or on the plains,) I felt as if I could almost become a monk, in
order to remain there for life. The conventual buildings were, as usual, vast,
and much of them still remains. Had it been my fortune to suppress monasteries,
I should certainly have commenced the work in the cities and on the plains, and
have left those on the hill-tops to the last; for I have a difficulty in
believing that the tenants of such abodes can do anything but adore God. At
least, this is the passing feeling; though I dare say one gets to be blase as respects a fine view, as well
as a fine sentiment. At all events, we are pretty certain the devil can climb,
as well as crawl: though most of our American devils, I believe, are of the genus demon, species reptile.
We never ramble in this manner without exclaiming against those who
visit Naples, perhaps in the bad season, pass a rainy week or two in
sight-seeing, fagged and even fatigued with wonders, and then go away and
pretend to describe its nature, its variety, its purity of atmosphere, its
pearly lustre of sky, and all its other glorious peculiarities. The environs of
Naples are quite another region to-day, than on that on which we arrived;
though they have always been lovely. Even a sirocco cannot spoil their charms;
for while, like other beauties, they have their good and bad-looking days, the
last are merely the bad looks of a Venus. I have never seen the bay when it did
not present an object of admiration and rare perfection.
You will be surprised to learn that we also riot here in the good
things of this world, in the shape of creature-comforts. The liquor of the
country is good, the lachrima christi of Vesuvius being really a choice wine.
Then the beccafichi are delicious, and plenty at this season, Sorrento being
the very nucleus of their sports: they cost a grano apiece! The quails, too,
just now, are as good as can be, very plenty, and quite cheap. They are caught
in nets extended among the trees, flying in large flocks. By some caprice in
the bird, Capri is a favourite stopping-place with them, and thousands are sent
weekly to the market of Naples. By a caprice of man, these birds compose a
material part of the revenues of the bishop, — at least so I hear; though I
find it odd that so small an island should have a bishop at all. But Sorrento
is an archbishopric; its diocesan is a learned man; and they tell me there are
near a dozen bishops in the capital, and in its immediate neighbourhood.
While on this subject, I will mention that we have lately had a
religious procession, in which an image of the Virgin has been made to take a
more prominent part than I have ever before witnessed. She has gone from altar
to altar, followed by half the pious of the town, among whom have figured
nearly the whole of my corps of gaberlunzies. There are so many churches and
convents in this small town, that an inhabitant whom I questioned lately had no
idea of their numbers. "There might be twenty, there might be fifty."
While walking on the terrace a few days since, I saw a priest coming
up the road from the Marina Grande. He was accompanied by an ecclesiastic, who
was chanting in concert with the father. A little distance behind these, came
one of the swarthy bare-legged fishermen of the place, carrying on his head the
usual flat willow basket, on which it is common to display the fish, and on
which, it appeared to me, he then had his game. As he kept a short distance in
the rear, I supposed he did not like to pass the others, who were engaged in
some religious office. Curiosity induced me to watch the party, and, as it drew
near, I discovered the chant was that of the dead. When near enough to be
distinguished, I saw on the basket the body of a little girl about six years
old. It was dressed in white, with gay ribands: and across its mouth lay an
oblong nosegay, or what was more probably an imitation of a nosegay. The
flowers contrasted strangely with the pallid colour of death. I called to me a
Sorrentine servant, and asked an explanation. The girl was the daughter of the
fisherman, and this was literally le
convoi du pauvre. It was even worse than the interment of the Isle of
Wight, though the manner of the priest was more reverent. I was told the body
would be taken to a church, stripped of its attire, and cast into a hole, in
common with all who are interred in the same manner. Cast was the word; but it is to be hoped it was lowered. I did not
go to see the process, for I particularly dislike obtruding the curiosity of a
stranger on the religious ceremonies of a strange people. The rude and indifferent
manner in which Protestants ordinarily violate the sanctity of Catholic
worship, does quite as much discredit to those who practise, as to those who
tolerate it; though, in the plenitude of self-complacency, we followers of
Luther are a little too apt to throw all the blame on the latter. I believe
pious Catholics are as much shocked by the practice, as pious Protestants would
be, were the case reversed.
We have now followed this dreamy mode of life so many weeks, that,
coupled with the invigorating airs of October, the desire to enter into a
little more activity begins to beset us. Boating is a lazy occupation, unless
one handles the oar; and even sight-seeing, usually an extremely laborious
business, on the shores of this luxurious bay is deprived of half its wear and
tear. I have forgotten to mention, by the way, that our own house is one of the
wonders of the district. Most travellers honour us with a call, much to the
advantage of Roberto's pocket, for he acts as master of ceremonies. Luckily,
there is nothing to show but the loggia and
the stairs, which one passes in entering, the great saloon, and the terrace.
The latter is worth the trouble of mounting a flight of steps to see, and I
believe most of the curious go away satisfied. There is, however, a medallion
in the great saloon that has the reputation of being an Alexander the Great. It
is an antique, I believe; but how far it deserves to be called an Alexander, I
cannot say. It is the head of an enthusiast, rather than of a man of intellect;
though I think one rarely finds any of the very magnificent bumps and foreheads
about the truly distinguished. There are also a bust of Bernardo Tasso, the
father of Torquato, and a medallion of Julius Caesar, representing him as a
youth. The Bernardo is probably authentic, as the family of the duke is said to
be connected with that of Tasso; but Roberto shows the others, without remorse,
as beyond cavil.
Of course we retire when the admirers of Tasso come to look at his
residence; but taking a peep the other day at a visitor, I recognized a young
Austrian, Baron — whom I had seen at Florence, and I went out to speak to him.
We chatted together half an hour; and
I mention the circumstance, because my companion betrayed a feeling that I find
is very prevalent here, on the subject of the recent accession of General
Jackson to the presidency. This feeling first discovered itself by some
questions relative to the age of the new president; for when I mentioned that
he was already an old man, I thought my acquaintance was surprised, not to say
disappointed. His expectation evidently was that our democracies had taken the
predicted course, and that we were already tasting the sweets of a military
despotism. A military despotism, forsooth, in a country containing 2,000,000
square miles of surface, and an army of 6,000 men!
I found that the exaggerated, electioneering trash of the opposition
prints at home had made an impression, and, as is usual with most men, that
which was ardently desired was readily believed. It is not easy for one living
in the retirement of America, for all America is but a villeggiatura, and Wall Street worse than retirement, so far as the
great political questions and knowledge of the day are concerned, compared with
the activity, principles, and designs of Europe; — it is therefore difficult
for one dwelling in the retirement of American life to form a correct notion of
the opinions that float about here in reference to ourselves. An eminent
Neapolitan, a man of singular shrewdness and of high political station, lately
asked me seriously, what was the object of the English in making their descent
on Washington in 1814. As I supposed a coup
de main of that nature, under the peculiar circumstances, spoke for itself,
I was as much surprised at the question as he could possibly be with the
answer; for when I explained to him that Washington at that time was an open,
straggling village, of some eight or nine thousand souls, of whom a good
portion were black slaves, — that it covered a surface of nine or ten square
miles, without works and without a garrison, — and moreover that its capture
would have no more influence on the result of the war, than the seizing and
holding for twenty-four hours of any other inland place of the same magnitude,
— he expressed his astonishment. I was given clearly to understand, that it was
viewed differently in Europe; and, owing to the influence of our enemy, I now
believe the war of 1812 is better known here by this useless expedition than by
anything else, notwithstanding all our own notions of the matter.
You are to feel no surprise at this; for the influence of England, at
this very moment, singularly controls opinion in America itself, of which I
have just seen an absurd proof, connected with this very subject. A New York
journal, one of those patriotic organs of sentiment which are constantly
sneering at the institutions, reserving their indignation and energies for the defence of the
illustrious cats and dogs of the country, (which, by the way, are generally much
inferior to the cats and dogs of Europe,) has just been quoting the statements
of a British officer in relation to the campaigns of New Orleans and
Washington, as proof that some of our own previous notions in reference to both
were untrue. Now, this very officer who affirms he was at Washington, calls it
a place, apparently, of about sixty thousand souls, and passes some
architectural strictures on the wings and main
body of the Capitol, the latter of
which at that time had never been erected! Some of our people will swallow an
English camel, when they strain at an American gnat.
You may be surprised that I have said so little about Vesuvius.
Notwithstanding my silence, we have not passed a day, scarcely an hour, unless at
night, — and many hours of the latter even are an exception, — without having
this beautiful mountain under our eyes. I say beautiful, for, including its
base, loaded with towns, palaces, ruins, villages, and villas, — its sides
seamed with ravines, and occasionally smiling with verdure, or dark with
forests, — and its cone of cinders, — it forms altogether an object of great
attraction. By day, there is usually a light cloud of smoke rising from the
crater, and hovering above it; and by night, occasional flashes illumine the
sky and the mouth of the mountain in the way that the fire of a forge brightens
and sinks in the darkness. I do not think we have seen any positive flame; but
of late we have had brighter gleamings from beneath than are usual.
The heat of the weather had hitherto prevented an attempt to ascend;
but W[illiam] and myself determined, not long since, that it was time to make
the excursion. To this end we crossed the bay to Naples, and passed the night
in town, having also an early start in view. Accordingly we drove to Portici,
where we breakfasted. We then mounted our horses, under the protection of a
guide of reputation, and proceeded. The ascent for four or five miles is
gradual; the road, an indifferent one at the best, and nearly impracticable for
wheels, leads at first through vineyards, then among copses, and often along
water-courses, or across beds of ancient lava. The summit of the mountain is
the cone of which I have spoken. Its form is regular, though the edges are
broken, some portions being much higher than others, though the side nearest
Naples and the bay, just now, is tolerably even. I believe the perpendicular
height of the lowest part of this cone is about eight hundred feet; though it
varies materially at different times. From its base, a ridge runs in a westerly
direction for the distance of a mile, when it falls away rapidly towards the
plain. The form of this ridge is favourable for the ascent as well as for
safety, since the land is lower near the cone than at its extremity, and before
lava could flow on the latter, it would run down the sides of the ridge both
north and south of it. On the extremity of this ridge, which forms a sort of
inland promontory, stands the celebrated Hermitage.
We reached this place in less than three hours after quitting Portici,
the ascent in its immediate neighbourhood being sharp, but not long. The
building is a simple stone structure, with a small chapel connected; but it has
all the peculiarities of a tavern, rather than of a religious residence. One
who had the appearance of a monk lived there, and administered to our wants,
for which consolations we punctually paid. His whole manner was that of an
official of the bar, rather than of the altar. In consequence of there having
been a few robberies between the Hermitage and the cone, a small guard of
soldiers was stationed at the former, with instructions to send one man with
each party of travellers.
We remained half an hour at the Hermitage, took a cup of wine, and
enjoyed the view, which was magnificent; but, as it was embraced in that from
the crater, I shall not speak further of it here. There are some fine trees in
front of the buildings, and, altogether, a lovelier spot could not be desired
for a recluse. The distance, in an air line, between the summit and the
Hermitage, must be about a mile; and although it sounds dangerous to live so near the crater, I would as soon be at
this spot in an eruption, as in any of the towns at the base of the mountain,
though these lie at five or six times the distance. A little explanation will
render the matter clear. Lava, from which most of the danger has arisen in
modern times, cannot touch the
Hermitage, on account of the formation of the ridge; and, as for the red-hot
stones and cinders that are always flying into the air, they ascend in nearly
perpendicular lines, and their descent is necessarily much the same. In point
of fact, they rarely fall at any distance from the crater. It is these, indeed,
of which the cone is entirely composed, and from the base of this cone the
Hermitage is distant about a mile. The quasi
hermit, therefore, is just that space out of the line of fire.
We left the spot on horseback, and rode near half a mile, by a pretty
path, through a wood, and nearly on a level line. We then emerged upon a plain
of lava, which lies materially lower than the wood, and from which the heated
metal has evidently flowed north and south. This low plain serves as a ditch to
the promontory or ridge of the Hermitage. No lava can possibly cross it until
it is filled; an event not likely to happen soon, as the lava flows off at each
side. Winding our way across it, we soon came to its eastern margin, and
dismounted. Here we left the horses, and prepared for the struggle that was to
follow.
The ascent is rather steeper than the sides of a pile of gravel would be,
supposing it to have been formed by the falling of the material on a given
place, without a force sufficient to change its outline. It appeared to me to
be at an angle of about fifty or fiftyflive degrees with the plane of the
horizon. As the cinders yield with the weight of a man, the foot sinking often
to the instep, it is a severe task to get up this place. We went at it coolly,
but steadily, stopping to take breath after short efforts: and I believe we
were about twenty minutes in reaching the summit. The cinders were warm in
spots, and a sulphurous smoke issued from the cone in a great many places that
we passed. I was too experienced a traveller to run myself out of breath, as
the moment of enjoyment approached. Having got within a few feet of the top, I
paused to recover breath; poor W[illiam], who had commenced with fury, being
still a hundred feet beneath me. The guide waited my leisure; but the guard,
whose duty compelled him to go no further than the foot of the cone, but who,
being on his first excursion, chose to ascend also, lay panting on the rim of
the cone, or crater, as I put my foot by his side.
This was another novel and beautiful coup d'oeil. As the place
was very different from what I had expected to see, I shall endeavour to make
you understand what it really is. It appeared to me that the depth of the great
crater, at the place where we stood, was a little more than half of the descent
of the cone itself, on its exterior; though its edge is ragged, and at one spot
was two or three hundred feet higher than that which we had reached. This edge
of the cone, or crater, overhung its sides in nearly the whole circuit, and the
distance round it was near or quite a mile. It follows, that the diameter of
the crater must be about a third of a mile. Its bottom was like a floor of
clay, resembling that of the Solfatara, smoke issuing from its crevices. Vivid
streaks of brimstone gave it wild, unnatural tints. It seemed quite as level as
an ordinary brick-yard, viewed from our stand. A little on one side of this
circular plain, rose a small cone, which might be a hundred and fifty or two
hundred feet high, formed of the same materials as the outer cone, with an
orifice perhaps some eighty or a hundred feet in width. This was the living, or
true crater. Out of this spot issued all the smoke, fire, stones, and cinders
of the ordinary workings of the mountain, of which, in truth, it is the safety
valve. This little haystack-looking cone was nearer to the eastern and southern
edges of the great crater than to the northern and western, and it is
altogether too low to be visible to any except those who ascend to the place we
occupied. The red-hot stones must therefore be propelled upwards many hundred
feet, perhaps six or eight, to be seen at Naples or Sorrento, where we have
often seen them, however, of late.
The scene that broke upon us, as we arrived, was one of the most
extraordinary I ever witnessed. At that instant an ordinary cloud enveloped the
summit of the cone, shutting out the whole view, with the exception of the
crater and the surrounding objects, and casting a sombre tint on everything. It
is probable a few rays from the sun struggled through this vapour, which was
not high above our heads, though it seemed to descend half way down the cone,
for the streaks of sulphur looked brighter and more unnatural than afterwards.
The yellow tint they cast around them, the unnatural, or rather supernatural
effect, coupled with the gaping crater, the rumbling of the volcano, and the
occasional explosions, combined to give the spot a resemblance to the entrance
of the infernal regions. If I could fancy I was obtaining glimpses in at the
glories and calm radiance of heaven, when I looked upon the high Alps, looming
above the Niesen and cut off from the lower world by a belt of vapour, I had no
difficulty in now fancying that I stood on the threshold of hell. Virgil died
about half a century before the volcano resumed its action, or he certainly would
never have taxed his imagination to use the Lake Avernus, Mare Morto, and
Elysian Fields of the Baian shore as machinery for his epic, when Vesuvius
presented objects so much more worthy of the subject. The Campagna was as good
an Elysian Field as heart could wish,
and the crater a Tartarus equal to the epic. It is true, there is no Styx: but
the monk I saw at the Hermitage would answer every reasonable purpose of a
Charon.
The "facilis descensus Averni" would, also, have been
physically true, supposing the crater always to maintain its present form; for
the circuit of the rim, or upper edge, is not made without hazard, as poor
W[illiam] was near demonstrating, in the workings of some of his goatism. The
crater, however, changes its appearance at every great convulsion; though the
one I have described, I am told, is its general character.
You may be surprised to hear it, but the volcano itself attracted very
little of my attention for the first half-hour after we reached the edge of the
crater; nor did it at any time, while on the mountain, fill the first place in
my admiration, or even thoughts. Still it was not idle. Five minutes scarcely
intervened between the explosions, which were much greater than I had
anticipated witnessing. They were preceded by a heavy rumbling, and went off
like the puffs of a safety valve to a huge steam-engine, though unaccompanied
by any hissing. The reports were not altogether unlike those of artillery; the
blowing of a whale had also some resemblance: though neither of these noises
was, in all respects, like that of the volcano. Stones were hurled several
hundred feet into the air, and fell on or near the little cone, which was
constantly growing by these accessions. Cinders, smoke, and flame accompanied
each explosion. There were many minor reports, that sounded like the crackings
of a great conflagration. Occasionally, large stones fell on the plane of the
great crater, at some distance from the little cone; but, I think, any one upon
it might easily have avoided them. They sounded, on the plain, like stones cast
on the Solfatara.
We did not descend into the crater, though there was a spot where it
might be done; but W[illiam] was too much exhausted by the ascent, and I saw
little to be gained by it but the right to say we had done it. The explosions
were so frequent as to render it impossible to ascend the little cone, and look
into the real crater; the fate of Pliny menacing all who did it, as the vapour
was constantly rising in sudden and violent puffs, inhaling which would
probably have been fatal. My principal enjoyment, moreover, proceeded from the
view, with its extraordinary contrasts. To the west, we had the bay, with the
islands, the gulf of Gaeta, an exquisite blending of land and water, and the
sea; while southward, the Apennines, and the Sorrentine shore, with the gulf of
Salerno, through vistas in the peaks, formed altogether a lovely panorama. Then
most of the Campagna Felice stretched beneath my eye, like an Eden, walled by
mountains. It was a Swiss view in extent, embellished by a true Italian
radiance. Naples lay, like a town seen in a camera obscura, against its hills,
a brilliant accessory, and the sails that hovered near the port resembled
specks. A heavy Russian frigate was riding off the mole, and her fair
proportions were distinctly visible through the pure medium, though diminished
and fairy-like. I say, the pure medium; for the clouds came and went
repeatedly, frequently shutting us in for minutes, and then sailing away, like
birds, towards some other peak. The contrasts of these moments were sublime;
for while nothing could be more infernal than the crater in its gloom, aided by
the accompaniments of the volcano, nothing was more soft and radiant than the
picture the earth presented when the veil was removed. The body sympathized
with the mind; for the clouds brought the chill of a fog, which the sun
relieved by its genial warmth as the vapour departed.
I could have passed the day on the mountain with pleasure; but
W[illiam] unaccountably betrayed a physical debility that was extraordinary for
one of his active habits, and we descended, after passing a couple of hours on
the summit. The descent of the cone was an affair of five minutes. All we had
to do was to keep the body perfectly erect, and to throw the leg forward
freely: the rapidity of the fall causing us to go down some six or eight feet
each step. The shock was completely destroyed by the yielding of the cinders:
and, in addition to preserving the perpendicular, the only precaution observed
was to stop occasionally, in order not to acquire too much momentum. At the
foot of the cone we mounted, and proceeded to Portici, without halting at the
Hermitage.
The next morning, previously to returning to Sorrento, the consul
accompanied us on board the Russian frigate. This vessel is called the Princess
of Lowerz, after the wife, by a Morganatic marriage, of the Grand Duke
Constantine. She is a noble frigate, though not very elegant. Her crew appeared
sturdy; but the officers had not sufficiently the air of Russians of rank to
prove that the service is in favour. No nation will ever have an efficient
marine unless its sympathies are strongly with it, as men removed from the
public eye, on the high seas, will not exert themselves sufficiently on any
other terms. It is a proof of a want of this sympathy, when men of the upper
classes avoid the service. This is one reason why the French marine has never
done anything in proportion to its cost. The nation knows so little of maritime
affairs, that anything passes for good; and the public feeling is altogether
with the army. Thus, France has been completely mystified with the affair of
Navarino; while England says as little about it as may be. Any seaman can
appreciate a battle, in which twelve line-of-battle ships are ranged against a
few heavy frigates, forts of no strength, and a maze of corvettes. Vessels of
the quality of those of Ibrahim could not, at anchor, be brought to act on any
one point in sufficient numbers to overcome a fleet like that under Sir Edward
Codrington, if indeed it could be done on the high seas. I see, by a trial now
going on in England, that the flagship fired less than three rounds in this
general engagement!
The season having advanced far enough to remove all
apprehension of malaria, we sent notice to our friend Mr. Hammett, at Naples,
and prepared to visit Paestum. On the appointed day the consul appeared, and,
the next morning, after an early breakfast, we left la Casa detta del Tasso, on
donkeys as usual, and took one of the mountain paths that led towards the gulf
of Salerno. We had often explored these very heights, and had often admired the
loveliness of the view, as from the elevations we overlooked both bays, and all
the radiant scenery, but never more so than on this occasion. The shores of
this promontory, on the gulf of Salerno, are, as a rule, much higher than those
of the bay of Naples, though they cannot well be more precipitous. At the
highest point of the road we dismissed the donkeys, and prepared to make the
descent on foot, followed by a man to carry the night-sack and the cloaks. The
place to which we were going, and, in particular, the path which leads to it,
has great local celebrity, and that deservedly, among the lovers of the
picturesque, under the name of the Scaricatojo,
which signifies, I believe, a place to discharge at, or a landing. W[illiam],
who justifies his Pennsylvanian descent by a love of puns, termed it the
"Scare-you, the toes, oh!" — and really it is one of the last places
on the coast I should have expected to find a marine landing at. The precipice
is very high, many times higher than that of Sorrento, and almost as steep. We
went down it by a zig-zag, half stairs and half path, or what _____ would call an
amphibious road, wondering what there
could be at the bottom, but the sea. We did find, however, a landing just large
enough to receive a boat or two, and the site of a small house, in which two or
three custom-house officers live; for so great is the jealousy of this
government, in matters of revenue, that every spot at which a boat can throw
its crew ashore is closely watched.
At the Scaricatojo,
we took a small boat with a pair of oars, and launched upon the water, bound to
Amalfi, which lies some six or eight miles further up the gulf towards Salerno.
Our party consisted of five; and these, with the two oars, gave us more freight
than would have been agreeable in a blow; but fortunately there was scarcely
any air, though the cradle of old Neptune was lazily rocking, as it is ever
known to be, gale or calm. Occasionally, as we rounded the cliffs, the send of
the sea would carry us close in, giving us the appearance of one of the
bubbles, though in fact there was no risk.
I had often rowed under mountains, in Switzerland,
though not often so immediately beneath rocks of the same elevation, for some
of the peaks between Amalfi and the Scaricatojo
are said to be six thousand feet high. This is almost equal to Mount
Washington, and all, too, in the distance of a mile, or even less, of base. In
Switzerland, certainly, one sees cottages, and even churches, convents, and
chateaux, on the spurs of mountains; but I do not remember to have ever met
with habitations of the same pretension so crowded on rocks so nearly
perpendicular, as was the case to-day, a few miles before we reached Amalfi.
Some of the country houses seemed to us, who were floating beneath, to be
absolutely stuck against the rocks: though I dare say there was ample room for
safety, and even for gardens. Just before reaching the town, a convent appeared
built into the cliffs, in a most picturesque manner, the wall of rock rising
above the buildings half way to the clouds.
Amalfi is in a sort of a gorge, and certainly has
as few commercial facilities, in the way of a port, as any ordinary mile of sea
beach. Beach it has, and that, in a region like this, is distinction enough to
form a town; for the light craft most in use by the ancients could be hauled on
it — an effectual mode of security. I never before witnessed a scene of
wrangling, begging, vociferations, and rapacity, equal to that which followed
our landing on the beach of Amalfi. Men, women, and children beset us in
schulls, particularly the two latter, until we were compelled to use strong
measures to get rid of them.
Amalfi would seem to have been built for pleasure,
for the situation is beautifully picturesque; though, the beach excepted, and a
gorge in the mountains that permits of a better path than is usual here, were the
only two practical advantages I could discover about its site. You may imagine
the effect of a town of some size, clinging to rocks between mountains and the
sea, with churches, convents, and villas, stuck about on shelves, according to
caprice or accident. These people are the very opposites of us Americans in
their urban economy; for while we level mole-hills with the sagacity and zeal
of speculators, they perch themselves on cliffs, and people ravines like poets.
We may have the best of it, considering a house as an article, in which a room must contain but two windows, since the third curtain
will prevent its letting; but they have greatly the best of it, considering a
house as a place, in which one is to indulge in his individuality, and in
pleasant thoughts. I believe we make money faster than any other nation, while
we spend it with less satisfaction. A copy of the lost Pandects of Justinian
was found at Amalfi, in 1137. I wonder where the Pandects of Trade were found?
As our time was short, we ordered a large boat with
six oars, and left Amalfi within an hour, taking some refreshments with us. The
country changed materially as we approached the head of the gulf, the peaks
becoming lower and less perpendicular, and the shores generally more accessible.
In the direction of Calabria the coast appeared low, the Apennines retiring
inland, though their blue and ridgy outlines were visible in the haze. A lad
who pulled the stroke oar, and who answered most of our questions, amused us
greatly with his patois. Signore, he
invariably pronounced like snore;
—"S'nore, si; s'nore, no;"—
as you may suppose, to W[illiam]'s great delight.
We found Salerno seated on the strand, with hills
behind it, and an amphitheatre of mountains in their rear, again. It occupies
some such situation on the gulf of Salerno as Naples occupies on her own bay,
though less picturesquely surrounded in some respects, while it is more so in
others. The southern, or rather the eastern, shore of the gulf, especially, is
comparatively tame, on account of the flat land bounding the water. The place
of our destination was in that direction, still distant some five-and-twenty or
thirty miles. Salerno is little more than a roadstead, for vessels of any size:
though it has a mole of some extent, behind which smaller craft can lie. The
sciroccos have a full rake into this bay; but against all winds from west,
northerly round to south-east, there is a tolerable protection.
As the great post-road from Naples to Calabria,
(the ancient Appian Way) passes through Salerno, we here took a carriage and
three horses, with which we proceeded, as soon as possible, towards Eboli. The
road was excellent, and the scenery enchanting. I can scarcely recall more
beautiful pastoral glimpses, of glades and meadows, all relieved by noble oaks,
than we passed this evening. The population, too, appeared admirably suited to
increase the effect. The dresses were in the highest degree picturesque, though
a little rude, and we met few men who did not carry guns. Some even wore short
swords. I believe the practice has arisen from the violence of the banditti,
who formerly frequented the mountains. The danger of descents by the Barbary corsairs, too, on a coast
so favourable, may have had its influence. A pointed, high-crowned hat,
occasionally decorated with ribands, leathern gaiters rising to the knees, a
jacket a little a la hussar, with a
gun thrown into the hollow of the arm, at all events, made a man fit for a
picture. Although we were not actually in Calabria, the peasants more resembled
Calabrians than Neapolitans.
We did not get to Eboli until after dark. The
carriage stopped at an inn without the walls, which had once been a convent. On
examining it, we found it little more than a coarse drinking-house, with a
table and two or three chairs placed in each cell, most of which were reeking
with wine, and the bed-rooms quite as unpromising. It was clear the ladies
could not sleep there, and yet it was the best public-house Eboli afforded.
From this awkward and uncomfortable situation we were extricated by the
kindness and forethought of the consul. That gentleman had bethought him,
before leaving Naples, of addressing a note to the Prince of Angri, —who is not
only lord of Eboli, but the proprietor of most of the adjacent country, —and
had received, in reply, a letter addressed to all the Prince's dependants or
stewards, commanding them to put any of his numerous houses at our disposal.
The head manager of the estate lived in Eboli, and to his dwelling Mr. Hammett
and myself forthwith proceeded. On reading the letter, we were told the castle
of Eboli should be immediately put at our disposition, and that we had only to
go and conduct the ladies up to it. This we did not require two invitations to
do.
Eboli is a small crowded town, lying against an
acclivity, at the foot of the Apennines, and is crowned by the castle, which
occupies, as was usual in the middle ages, the highest site. The place is
walled, and the streets are rather rapid and irregular. Most of the ancient
castle has disappeared, though a few towers remain; but, in its stead, a
spacious and comfortable hunting-seat has been erected. We entered a spacious
court, and were conducted by a private way to a large sala, in which a fire was
lighted, in a brazier placed in the chimney. Around this we gladly gathered,
for the cool air of the Apennines was beginning to chill us. A supper was
prepared, and we were furnished with good beds and excellent rooms. All was
done with great assiduity, and with a profound desire to do credit to the lord
of Eboli; two or three servants remaining always in the castle, whither,
however, the owner seldom comes, and then only to pass a few days.
In the morning I rose betimes, and went out on a
terrace to look at the scenery, for the darkness had hid everything from
observation the previous night. The elevation of the castle gave it a
commanding view, and we were enabled to see most of the country through which
we were to travel to reach Paestum, then distant from us twelve miles.
Eboli stands on the verge of the great plain, that
stretches leagues along the sea at this place. This country was probably once
fertile, and, of course, healthful, like the Campagna of Rome, or it never
would have been occupied as the site of such a town as Paestum. It is now
nearly deserted; though there are a few bunting-seats scattered about its
surface, which may be occupied in the cool months. Among others is Persano, a
house belonging to the king, and which was much frequented by the late sporting
monarch, Don Francesco. The sea was visible in the distance; and the site of
Paestum might also be discerned, across a wide reach of plain. This plain was
much covered with small trees in the foreground, though it was more naked
nearer to the sea.
After breakfast we left the castle of Eboli,
grateful for its hospitality, and very sensible of the politeness by which it
had been accorded. The road, for some distance, was beautiful; but it gradually
led us upon the plain, where soon little was visible besides bushes. Persano
was passed, lying on our left; and
then, for miles, it was a country that, while it was not positively pleasant,
offered nothing that was positively disagreeable.
Peasants soon began to appear that seemed not only
out of their region, but almost out of their hemisphere. The physical
peculiarities were certainly European; but in size, tint, and almost dress,
they might have passed for Esquimaux. Sheep-skins with the wool on were the
favourite jacket; and some actually wore blankets, like our own Indians. The
sallow hue made us shudder; for one saw it was not owing to climate and habits,
acting through centuries, but to disease. Had the same individual been so happy
as to pass his days on the adjacent mountains, the springs of life would have
remained pure: his colour might have been dark under this fierce sun, but it
would not have denoted disease; and his days, though numbered, would have
reached the allotted time of man. As it was, the fabulous adventurers of the
Bohan upas were not more certainly doomed than these poor wretches. The rice
fields of Carolina are kind in comparison with these wastes; for those kill,
and there is an end of it; and, unlike these, they do not much injure those
whose hard fortune compels them to dwell there, but merely those who yield to
cupidity, and not to necessity.
On reaching the Silaro, we found the bridge broken,
and we had to cross in a boat. The carriage was swamped, and buffaloes were
procured to drag it out. In all this country, buffaloes appear to be used
instead of oxen. The plains abound with them, and we saw them at work in all
directions. Of course, you are naturalist enough to know that the animal
familiarly called the buffalo in America, and which furnishes the sleigh-skins,
is not the buffalo, but the bison; the real buffalo differing little from the
ox. At Florence oxen are employed, and oxen too of a breed I was very desirous
of getting sent to America. They are of a cream colour, a little inclining to
the dun, and, besides having a handsome form, are admirably suited to a warm
climate, and are the fastest walkers I have ever seen in the yoke. I have
frequently walked by their sides at a quick pace, and have generally found them
as nimble as I am myself; nor do I remember ever to have seen one lolling. They
are said to fatten kindly, and have a good carcase, though certainly they are a
little longer- legged than our own. Their weight might fail a little in the
heavy toil of a clearing; but there is a vast deal of lighter American labour
in which their qualities would come admirably in use. I was told the breed is
Hungarian. I question if the cows are very good milkers; though this may be the
result of husbandry and climate, for milk is far more precious and scarcer in
Italy than wine, as I have already told you, and good pasture is very scarce —
almost unknown.
Passing a house or two of the Prince of Angri, we
trotted on by a straight even road, for a league or two farther. The country
had become more wild and sterile, though it could be hardly termed a desert. It
had the appearance of neglect rather than of barrenness, and, like the Campagna
of Rome, doubtless has gotten the upper hand of industry, by having been so
long permitted to go uncultivated. The coachman stopped the carriage by a copse
of bushes, and told us the spot was the scene of a recent robbery and murder. A
newly-married English couple were going into Paestum when their carriage was
stopped at this place. A lad was stationed with a musket by the copse, while
two or three others appeared in the road by the horse's head. This lad wanted
nerves for his task; for on the Englishman's remonstrating, most probably
against his holding the gun pointed, he fired, and shot man and wife through
their bodies, as they sat side by side. Both were killed, or both died of the
wounds, and the robbers were subsequently taken and executed. A hamlet, against
the Apennines, was pointed out to us as the place in which they had lived. It
was said, murder formed no part of their original intention. Since that time,
however, the police has been much more active, and no robbery has occurred. As
for ourselves, the affair of the "runner" between Bologna and
Florence has completely removed all uneasiness on the subject.
A few yards beyond the thicket of the robbers, we
came to the ruined fragments of a gateway and of walls, and then entered within
the precincts of the ancient city of Paestum There are three or four modern
houses within these walls, one or two of which are of respectable dimensions,
belonging to the proprietor of the country, and they injure the effect,
although, in the season when one may sleep here with impunity, they contribute
to the comfort of a visit. It would have aided the general effect, had the site
of the city itself been left to its solitude, and the dwellings might have
stood without the walls as well as within them.
The history of Paestum is not very well settled. It
is popularly said to have been built by a colony of marine adventurers, who
named the place after their own particular god, Neptune (Greek: Poseidon). The
temples that remain are certainly of very remote antiquity; probably little
less ancient, if any, than the Pyramids of Egypt. The Romans got possession of
the place, of course, and Augustus is said to have visited the very temples that
are now standing, as specimens of ancient architecture! The Saracens destroyed
the town about a thousand years since, and it has lain the whole of the
intervening time virtually a waste. So completely was the place forgotten and
lost, that standing on the coast, and at no great distance from what must have
been the great road into Calabria, since the time of Appius Claudius, at least
its site was unknown, to the reading and travelling portion of mankind, until
the year 1755, when a painter of Naples, who was out sketching from nature,
blundered on the ruins, and brought them into notice. This sounds extraordinary
in the ears of an American; but a little explanation removes half the causes of
wonder.
In the first place, Paestum, though it stands
within a mile of the sea, lies on the eastern side of the gulf of Salerno, and
away from the track of all but the small vessels of the adjoining country. The
temples are not high, and when first seen by the painter, were said to have
been nearly buried in vines and trees. A common Italian is so much accustomed
to see ruins, that the peasants of the neighbourhood would not be struck by
their existence; things to which we have been habituated appearing always as
things of course, and occasioning no surprise. Besides, Paestum was never a
place much noted in history, but is principally remarkable for containing a
rare specimen of architecture in its ruder state, and for the durability of its
works. Perhaps the ruins, concealed in tangled brakes, required the keen eye
and cultivated tastes of an artist, to attract the attention necessary to draw
them from obscurity. How many hunters, land surveyors, and even land
speculators, saw the Falls of Trenton before they were spoken of beyond their
own neighbourhood! I can well recollect the time when I first heard of them as
a thing that would well repay the trouble of walking a mile or two to see; and
yet it may be questioned if all Europe has a cascade that so well merits a
visit; — certainly it has not more than one or two, if it has any.
The size of Paestum is easily to be seen by the
remains of its walls. The guide-books say these walls were once fifty feet
high; though I saw nothing that would have led me to believe them so lofty.
Parts remain, notwithstanding, in a tolerable state of preservation. Their
circuit is stated at two miles, the form being elliptical; and this would give,
on the shortest side, a diameter a little exceeding half a mile, which is about
the real distance. We have few villages, containing fifteen hundred souls, in
America, that do not cover as much ground as this; although we have no edifice
to compare with the temples that have stood on this spot, near two thousand
years, as ruins, even in the largest towns. One of the gates still remains: but
it may be questioned if it is as old as the temples. There are also the remains
of an amphiteatre, or of a theatre, and of many other edifices that belonged to
the civilization of that remote age. It is probable the theatre was Roman.
It sounds odd to speak of antiquity as being
comparatively modern, because it was Roman; but comparing the temple of Neptune
with anything else of the sort, in Italy, would seem quite out of the question.
Its history and its style prove it to be one of the most venerable specimens of
human art of which we have any knowledge. The Pyramids themselves are scarcely
older. And yet, standing a few hundred feet in its front, and examining the
structure, one can scarcely fancy that he sees a blemish on its exterior. The
lightning has scathed it; but time appears to have wrought nearly in vain on
its massive columns. Some of the interior columns are gone, it is true, and a
little of the pediment is broken, but scarcely more than is absolutely
necessary to give the structure the air of a ruin.
The temple of Neptune is thought to be the oldest
of the remaining edifices of Paestum and it certainly is much the finest,
although that called of Ceres belongs to a more advanced taste in architecture.
The rudeness of the former, however, accords so admirably with its massiveness,
as well as its antiquity, that I believe few people hesitate about giving it
the preference. To me, it was much the most impressive, and I had almost said
the most imposing, edifice I know. The mind insensibly ran back to other ages
as I gazed at the pile, which, like the fresh-looking lava of Ischia, appeared
to laugh at human annals. Three centuries since, I said mentally, Columbus
discovered half the world, astonishing the inhabitants of the two hemispheres
equally, by bringing each to a knowledge of the other. At that period, which
more than swallowed the entire history of my own country, this temple lay
buried in vines and brambles, the haunt of serpents and birds. Seven centuries
would take us back to the period of the English Conquest, when England itself
was a nation scarcely emerged from barbarism. Four or five more might carry us
back to the age when marauders from the East laid waste the sickly town that
had succeeded the city of the original colonists, when the past, to even its
people, seemed remote and obscure. Four or five centuries more would take us up
to the Romans, who came to see this temple as an object of wonder, and as a
curious relic of distant ages. Another thousand years would probably bring us
to the period when the priests officiated at the altar, and homage was paid to
one of the attributes of Divine power, through the mysticisms of heathen
allegory. What a speck does the history of America become in this long vista of
events — what a point the life and adventures of a single man! And yet even
this temple does not reach to the last great convulsion, when the earth was
virtually destroyed, and animal life may be said to have taken a new
commencement: at the next even the temple of Neptune will disappear.
Some astronomers, by calculating the epochas of a
particular and a remarkable comet, that which was last seen in 1681, suppose it
possible that it may have struck the earth about the time of the Deluge,
causing that phenomenon, and producing most of those physical changes that
certainly have altered the face of the earth, destroying many of its animals,
and which may have actually given it new revolutions. Admitting that this
theory is substantially true, — and it is as likely to be so as any other that
has been broached, — we may regard the temple of Neptune as one of the best
specimens of architecture that succeeded the new civilization. At all events,
it is something even to fancy one has seen a work of human art that may be
esteemed a standard of human skill three thousand years ago.
A good deal has been written about the scenery of
Paestum, which is certainly not unsuited to the ruins. It would be better
without the half-dozen modern dwellings, perhaps; but the mind takes little
heed of these intruders, when once occupied with the temples. There is
something too engrossing in the study of structures like these, to admit of
interruption. The plain is not a desert, but it is covered rather with the
luxuriant vegetation of weeds, that associate with the spot the idea of
wildness, instead of that of solitude. In this respect, the Pyramids are the
most sublime; for there nature, and even vegetation, appear to have gone to
decay, while the works of man endure. Still, there are a homeliness and
familiarity in the wastes of Paestum that suit the nature of the ruins better,
perhaps, than a plain of sand. The site of each class of ruins is suited to its
particular character. This is a town, and the fancy endeavours to people its
streets, to crowd the altar, and to imagine the thousand familiar objects and
scenes that once enlivened its avenues. The tangled brake, the wild flower, the
luxuriant and negligent vine, while they are eloquent on the subject of
solitude, comport well with such recollections. In Egypt the grandeur of the
desolation, with the interminable and sterile plains, better suit the
magnificence of the works, and the mystery that conceals their origin and
history. Au reste, the moral of the entourage of Paestum is different from
that of the Pyramids; for the Apennines form a distant but beautiful
amphitheatre on one side, while the blue Mediterranean on the other, the
"eternal hills," and "the great sea" of antiquity, exhibit
all the glories of their nature, as they hover over and around these memorials
of man.
We sat down to the most disgusting and the nastiest
meal at Paestum I ever saw served; but nothing besides wine would seem to be
fit for use at the place. Our host did credit to the latter; and he frankly
admitted that, without plenty of good warm liquor, life was a slippery tenure
on this plain. What a happy apology for one who takes kindly to the remedy!
Several miserable-looking wretches, in whom life seemed to be withering hourly,
came round the hovel, and he pointed to them as proofs of the truth of his
theory.
We did not return to Eboli, but proceeded direct to
Salerno, on our return, reaching that place just as night closed. The inn at
this place struck me as being more thoroughly foreign and strange than any I
had yet been in. The grand sala was
in the centre of the house, and almost without external light. It also answered
the purposes of a kitchen; the travellers, who were seated around the vast
room; eating by dim lamps, enjoying the advantage of whetting their appetites
by the aid of the flavours of the different dishes. We succeeded in obtaining
three rooms, in one of which, that afterwards served me for a bed-room, we
contrived to eat a very unscientific supper.
After a better breakfast the next morning, we
proceeded by land, taking the road to Pompeii. The route was beautiful, running
over mountains and through gorges, with brilliant views of the sea; for we had
now to cross the broken range of the Apennines, that separates the two bays,
and which forms the promontory of Sorrento. The cliffs near Salerno were truly
magnificent, and a hermitage or two on their giddy shelves put everything of
the sort we had seen, even in Switzerland, to shame.
One of the great charms of Italy is the manner in
which the most picturesque sites are thus occupied. Pinnacles, peaks, rocks,
terraces, that, in other countries, the traveller might feel disposed to
embellish by some structure, in his fancy, poetical alike in its form and uses,
are here actually occupied, and frequently by objects whose beauty surpasses
even the workings of the imagination. Of this character was the extraordinary
scene already mentioned, in the island of Ischia. Then the softness of the
atmosphere and the skies throw a charm over all, to comprehend which, one must
be acquainted with the effect of light in low latitudes.
There were a great many small isolated towers
standing along the ridges and sides of the mountains, which, I was told, were
used for the field-sports of the King, though in what way I cannot tell you.
The mountains between Castel-a-mare and Sorrento also have several. If I
understood the explanation, they are not intended for hunting or
shooting-seats, for which they are too small and too numerous, but merely as
stands to shoot from! This may be set down as royal poaching.
Our visit to Pompeii was short, though we nearly
made the circuit of the walls. The amphitheatre is built against these walls,
at one end; for, standing on its uppermost point, I found I looked out of the
city. The house of the fountain was now completely disinterred, and we saw a
few small domestic articles that had been found in the ashes. I was more
strongly impressed than ever, at this visit, with the notion of restoring and
furnishing entire one of the best of the houses; a thing that might be done
from the Royal Museum with tolerable success. Even a respectable approach to
the truth would be infinitely interesting.
I must still think that a portion of the town of
the greatest interest, as respects private dwellings, remains to be explored. I
believe that the street parallel to that of the Appian Way will yet, when
opened, offer some dwelling suited to this plan of restoration, and that by
proper care the walls and paintings may be preserved. It would be better to
open a house with this express intention, than to attempt restoring one of
those that has long been exposed to the air.
From Pompeii we went to Castel-a-mare. This town
stands near the ancient site of Stabiae which was also destroyed by the eruption
of the year 79. The King has a favourite country palace on the heights behind
the town; it is called Qui si sana (“Here one is cured,” literally
translated), a name that answers to the Sans
Souci of Frederic, though of a different signification. We saw, a short
time since, the royal squadron on its way from Naples to Castel-a-mare, the
King having several vessels that he uses as yachts. One was a ship, and there
were also a brig and a schooner. There is a schooner now lying at Naples, that
was seized under the decrees of Murat, which was formerly appropriated to the
same purposes. Since my arrival here, I have heard an interesting fact coupled
with these seizures, on authority so good that I give it credit.
When the proposition to seize these vessels was
made to Murat, he resisted it, on the ground that it was a species of piracy, a
breach of faith that could not be tolerated for a moment by any independent
nation, and that immediate war would be
the consequence. His minister knew America better than his master: "America will not declare war, sire,
for it is a country of traders and these are men who will not consent to lose
their present profits for the maintenance of a principle. It is true,
in the end something will be done, for no nation can submit to such an
aggression; but at present it will be nothing but talk. Hereafter, Naples may
have to make compensation; but your majesty needs money, and we can consider
this as a forced loan." The counsel was followed, and we now know how true
was the minister's prediction. This person was wrong in his general estimate of
the American nation, but perfectly right in that of its merchants, who have the
character common to all in trade. They never look beyond the day. It is our
misfortune to have no towns but trading towns, and, consequently, no collected
influence to resist their published opinions and interested clamour, which are
fast tending to a misconception, and to a displacing of all the interests of
life. Thus it is we find men treating commerce, which is merely an incident of
human affairs, as a principal, and struggling to make everything, even morals
and laws, subservient to its ends, and this, too, without a due regard to
means. This class of citizens overawe those presses which have the greatest circulation,
and by acting in concert, and with available means, form a powerful, and, more
especially, a clamorous resistance, to anything that thwarts, or which they
fancy thwarts, their interests. The commercial class of America. as a class,
will ever be found in opposition to any administration that loyally carries out
the intention of the government; for that intention is indissolubly connected
with great principles, whereas their bias has ever been to expedients that are
temporary and fluctuating, or to the policy that suits the prevailing interest
of the hour. Trade, liable to so many vicissitudes and sudden reverses, never
can have any higher code of principles.
I cannot express to you the sensations which
crowded my mind as, seated on the mole at Naples, I regarded the schooner in
question; a vessel that had been wrested, without even the pretence of
legality, from an American citizen, to contribute to the pleasures of the king
of this country. Of what avails it that one is an American? His property is
taken from him by violence, his person outraged, and if he complain so as
seriously to bring in danger the relations of his country, the chances are more
than equal that his character would follow his property, if no other means
offered to protect, as it is termed, the interests of trade. What aggravates
the wrong, is the fact that a large portion of the class who have given this
false direction to the public policy are not even Americans, but foreigners who
assume the American character merely to advance their fortunes, and who are
always ready to throw it aside when there is a question of national pride, or
of national disgrace.
For myself, a near view of the effects of these
wrongs, and a consideration of the policy and feelings that have succeeded them,
has destroyed all confidence in the protection of my native country. I deem the
national character of no more use or service to me, as a traveller beyond the
influence of his own laws, than if I were an Esquimaux. I know that others of
more experience, — I may say, of bitter
experience, —have the same feeling. I declare solemnly, were I a merchant, and
were my vessel seized by any power of sufficient force to render a contest with
it of momentary importance to trade, that, so far from believing myself protected
by my flag, —unless, indeed, I could call to my immediate succour some of those
gallant and right-feeling men who command the cruisers, who are ready enough to
assert the honour and rights of the flag, but who are oftener reproached than
commended, however, when they do
discover a proper spirit of this nature, — I should conceive I had made a good
escape by compromising with the aggressor for one half, instead of appealing to
the government for protection.
There is a great deal of vapouring in the papers
about the protection of the flag; but I am perfectly persuaded that my feeling
is the feeling of a large majority of the Americans abroad. I do not believe
one in ten has the smallest reliance on the spirit, wisdom, patriotism, or
justice of the government at home. By government, I mean that body which alone
possesses any efficient authority in such cases, which is Congress. Were I
personally to be brought under the displeasure of any of these governments, I
would sooner seek the protection of a Russian, or even of a French, than of an
American minister, unless my personal relations with the latter were such as to
render me confident of his support. On those diplomatic men who look forward to
political advancement at home, I should have no dependance at all, as a role,
(I admit the character of the individual might influence his conduct,) for such
men, as a class, regard the clamour of the most clamorous, far more than either
principles or their duties.
This is a sore spot in the American character, and
a blot on the American name. I once thought differently, for I followed my
feelings rather than my knowledge; but observation and reflection have taught
me to think as I now think. What renders the consciousness of this false policy
most of all bitter, is the certainty that the heart of the nation is sound, its
bones and sinews being as ready as those of any people on earth to maintain a
true and a spirited policy. But they are neutralized by the congregated and
arrogant interests of trade. Let any wrong of this nature be fairly laid before
the nation, in the spirit of honesty and truth, and nine men in ten will be
ready to avenge the honour or to justify the rights of the republic; but
politicians do not, or will not see this truth, and they invariably point to
the towns and the presses of the merchants. I have had several conversations on
this very topic with diplomatic men in Europe, and have not found one who was
not under this malign and unmanly fear, and insomuch unfit for his trust.[10]
This is not the popular manner of regarding these
things, I know; but I am writing to tell you what, at least, I conceive to be,
under the deepest conviction of my responsibilities as a man, the naked truth.
The day will come when these opinions will be believed, the political ephemera
of the hour having withered, died, and become forgotten, notwithstanding the
charlatanism and laboured industry of the Tacituses of the day.
The November of Sorrento proved a rough visiter, and we were driven to
cluster around the solitary fire-place of the Casa detta del Tasso We
resisted every inducement to remove, until the tramontana got to be so marrow-chilling, that the alternative lay
between total defeat and flight. We chose the latter, preferring abandoning the
place we loved so well, to being chilled into mummies. The cold might have been
resisted, had the house been in good repair, and suited to a winter's
residence; but, as the cook had possession of one of our two fire-places, the
other proved insufficient for our wants. This letter is consequently written
from Naples. You are not to fancy a freezing cold by this account, but one that
was excessively chilling; and this the more so, from the circumstance that our
house was fully exposed to the north winds, standing, as it did, on the
northern edge of the plain, with the entire bay between us and the Apennines.
The day we quitted Sorrento, the wind blew so heavily from the east,
that the people of the Divina Providenza looked surprised when we
presented ourselves at the Marinella, in
readiness to embark. They knew the bay better than I did; for, judging by the
force of the gale and sea within the curvature of our shore, I thought we might
make the passage without any risk. Finding us ready to proceed, however, the fine
fellows made no objection, but stood out boldly into the gulf. At the distance
of a mile or two from the cliffs, we took the whole force of the wind; and
really there were a few minutes when I thought of putting back. All our
previous boating was a fair-weather frolic, compared to this.
The wind drew through the pass between Vesuvius and Castel-a-mare like
a pair of bellows, and the sea, at times, almost laid our little speronara on
her side. The vessel, however, was admirably handled, and, by watching the
sheet, which was eased off in the puffs, we wallowed across the opening,
luffing up to our course handsomely, until we made the lee of the mountain.
Here we literally found a calm, and were compelled to use the oars! We had no
sooner swept by the base of the mountain, however, than we took the breeze
again, stiff as ever, but without the disagreeable attendant of rough water.
Notwithstanding the delay of the calm, we made the passage in a little more
than two hours.
We are in private lodgings here. Of course, you understand by private
lodgings, not a dwelling that differs from a tavern, with a table d'hote, only in name, but an
apartment, as it is termed, in which we have everything, from the kitchen to
the parlour, to ourselves. The American "boarding-house" does exist
in Europe, certainly, but it is scarcely in favour. We are near the mole and
the Toledo, and have been passing the month in doing Naples more effectually
than we could do it in the first visit.
The place is inexhaustible in street amusements. I never tire of
wandering about it, but find something to amuse me at every turn. In one
quarter, the population appear literally to live in the open air, and we have
driven through a street in which cooking, eating, wrangling, dancing, singing,
praying, and all other occupations, were going on at the same moment. I believe
I mentioned this in the first visit, but I had not then fallen on the real
scene of outdoor fun. The horses could not move off a walk, as 'we went through
this street; and their heads, suddenly thrust into the centre of a menage appeared to produce no more
derangement than a puff from a smoky chimney in one of our own kitchens.
But the mole is the spot I most frequent. Besides the charm of the
port, which to me is inexhaustible, small as the place is, we have all sorts of
buffoons there. One recites poetry, another relates stories, a third gives us
Punch and Judy, who, in this country, bear the more musical names of Pulcinello
and Giulietta, or some other female name equally sonorous, while all sorts of
antics are cut by boys. The shipping is not very numerous, though it has much
of the quaintness and beauty of the Mediterranean rig. The vessels of war lie
behind the mole also, and they show, plain enough, that the fleet of Naples is
no great matter. The ships of the line could scarcely cope with modern
frigates; and one or two of the latter, though prettily moulded vessels enough,
are not much heavier than large sloops of the present day.
A daughter of the King, the Princess Christina, has just married her
uncle, the King of Spain, and a frigate is about to sail with a portion of the
royal trousseau, I have visited this
vessel, which is a pretty ship, and I feel persuaded that this nation, with its
materials, could it bear the expense in money, might easily become a naval
power to command respect in this sea. The country is all coast, has an
uncommonly fine population, in a physical sense at least, and wants only the
moral qualities necessary to carry out such a plan.
The weather changed soon after we came to Naples, and it has taught us
what is really meant by Neapolitan skies. Until the middle of October, I had no
notion of the extent of their beauty, which, though not absolutely unknown to
us, is of a kind that we know the least. There is a liquid softness in the
atmosphere, during the autumnal months, that you must have observed, for we are
not without it in America. By this, however, I do not mean, the bright genial
days of September and October, that are vulgarly praised as the marks of a fine
autumn, but the state of the air, which renders everything soft, and lends
prismatic colours, in particular, to the horizon, morning and evening. These
colours are quite unlike the ordinary gorgeousness of an American sunset, being
softer, more varied, and quicker in their transitions. I have often seen them,
in October and November, near the American coast, when at sea, in latitudes as
low as 40 degrees; but they are by no means frequent on shore: still we have
them, though seldom, perhaps never, in the perfection they are seen here.
You will smile at my old passion for fine skies and landscape scenery,
but I have climbed to the castle of St. Elmo a dozen times within the last
month to see the effect of the sunset. Just as the day disappears, a soft rosy
tint illumines the base of Vesuvius, and all the crowded objects of the coast,
throwing a glow on the broad Campagna that enables one almost to fancy it
another Eden. While these beautiful transitions are to be seen on the earth,
the heavens reflect them, as the cheek of a young girl reflects the rose in her
bosom. Of the hues of the clouds at such moments, it is impossible to speak
clearly, for they appear supernatural. At one time the whole concave is an arch
of pearl; and this perhaps is succeeded by a blush as soft and as mottled as
that of youth; and then a hundred hues become so blended, that it is scarcely
possible to name or to enumerate them. There is no gorgeousness, no dazzling of
the eye in all this, but a polished softness that wins as much as it delights
the beholder. Certainly, I have never seen sunsets to compare with these, on
shore, before this visit to Naples; though at sea, in low latitudes, they are
more frequent, I allow.
I presume these are the peculiar charms of the Italian skies, of which
the poets and painters have spoken from time immemorial. The American who runs
in and out of Naples nine months in the year, although he may see beautiful
transitions of light in the heavens, can know nothing of these particular beauties
unless he happen to hit the right months.
I have said nothing of the Museum. which contains the articles found
at Pompeii and Herculaneum, because travellers have written so much about them,
that little remains to be said. We have witnessed the slow, nice, and one might
almost say, bootless task of unrolling the manuscripts found at the latter
place, and it certainly speaks well for the patience of mankind, and of the
disposition of this government to encourage learning. I say, found at
Herculaneum, for I believe none have been found at Pompeii, nor would they be
burned like these had any been found there.
All the manuscripts of the ancients appear to have been kept on wooden
rollers: if any were folded in the manner of the modern book, I have not seen them.
The heat of the lava has reduced the parchments or papyrus of those found at
Herculaneum to a state so near that of cinder or ashes, that a breath of wind
will commonly separate the fibres. Still they exist in scrolls, and the object
is to unroll them, in order to get a sight of the writing. Fortunately, an
ancient manuscript's legibility does not depend at all on the chirography of
the author. As printing was unknown, of course all works that were thought
worthy of publication, if such a term can properly be applied to such a state
of things, were properly written out by regular copyists, in a large fair hand,
that was nearly as legible, if not quite as legible, as large type. If anything
remarkable is ever to be discovered among the manuscripts of Herculaneum, we
shall be indebted to this practice for its possession. As yet, I believe, nothing of particular merit, or of
particular value, either in the way of art or history, has been found.
To return to the process, which is sufficiently simple in practice,
though difficult to be understood from a verbal or written description. The
wooden scroll is secured, in a way that admits of its turning, at the bottom of
a small frame that a little resembles one of the ordinary frames on which
females extend their needle-work. This frame is secured. Threads of silk are
attached to screws in the upper part of the frame, and their lower ends are
made to adhere to the outer end of the manuscript, by means of the white of
eggs and goldbeater's skin. These threads, of which there are several along the
edge of the manuscript, are tightened gently, by means of the screws, like
fiddle-strings, and then the workman commences separating the folds by
inserting the thin blade of a proper instrument. If the manuscript has a hole,
or it yields, it is strengthened by applying goldbeater's skin. It is gradually
— and very gradually, as you may suppose — unrolled by tightening the threads,
until a piece is raised as high as the frame, where it is examined by a man of
letters and carefully copied. The letters, owing to the chemical properties of
the ink, are more easily distinguished than one would at first imagine. The
colour is all black, or a dark brown; but the letters are traced by a species
of cavities in the substance, — or perhaps it were better to say, by offering a
different surface, — for the whole fabric is almost reduced to the consistence
of gossamer. The unrolled manuscript has more or less holes in it, and the
vacancies in the text are to be guessed at.
We saw people busily employed in all the stages of the process. Some
were mere mechanics, others scholars capable of reading the Latin, and of
detecting the more obscure words, as well as of comprehending the
abbreviations. The first copy, I believe, in all instances, is a facsimile;
after which it is turned over to a higher class of scholars, to have the
vacuums in the text conjectured if possible, and for commentaries and
examination.
This operation has now been going on for years, with extraordinary
zeal and patience. The Americans who travel in this country are a little too
apt to deride the want of "energy" in the government, and a large
class falls into the puerile mistake of fancying it patriotism to boast of what
we could do under the same circumstances. Certainly, I shall not pretend to
compare the benefits of any other political system, as a whole, with those of our own, nor do I object to throwing the
truth into the teeth of those who ignorantly condemn everything American; but
we have our weak spots as well as our neighbours, and I very much question if
any Congress could be found sufficiently imbued with a love of learning, or
sufficiently alive to its benefits even to our own particular and besetting
motive, gain, to persevere in voting funds, year after year, to carry on the
investigations that are now making in Naples. Neither a love of the fine arts
nor a love of learning has yet made sufficient progress in America to cause the
nation to feel or to understand the importance of both on general civilization,
without adverting to their influence on the happiness of man, the greatest
object of all just institutions. We have too many omissions of our own to throw
about us these sneers indiscriminately.
The number of manuscripts that has been found in different places is
said to exceed two or three thousand; though it is probable many are
duplicates. The greater portion of them, too, are past decyphering; as would
have been the case with all, had the ancients used no better paper than the
moderns. England, it is true, might possibly resist an eruption; but as for
France and America, and Germany, and Italy herself, the heat of the volcano, in
an ordinary time, would almost destroy their cobweb fabrics, if exposed to it
anywhere near the crater.
The collection of familiar articles found in the ruins, and collected
in the museum, is of great interest; but the publications concerning them are
so minute, that a description by me is unnecessary. I was much struck with the
beauty of the forms, and with the classical nature of the ornaments. Thus, the
weights of steel-yards, and many other things of the most familiar uses, are in
the shape of heads, most probably busts, and possibly commemorative of the
distinguished men of the country.
America might do something in this way that should speak well for the
sentiment and tastes of the nation. Alter the coin, for instance, which is now
the ugliest in Christendom. The same may almost be said of the flag; though it
is not an easy matter to make one uglier than some one sees here. Could the
miserable hermaphrodite yclept Liberty that now disfigures the American coin be
replaced by the heads of those citizens who have become justly eminent, the
expedient would be a worthy substitute for that of statues and medals. To have
one's head on the coin, would possess all the advantages of a patent of
nobility, free from the evils. To prevent abuses, the solemn votes of the
States might be taken, unanimity as States required, and the honour postponed
until the party had been dead half a century. This, you know, is the mode in
which the Romish Church makes saints. These honours might be graduated too,
giving to the most illustrious the honours of the gold, to the next those of
the silver, and to another class those of the copper coin. The quasi, or ephemeral great, might still
figure on the bank notes, as they do to-day. We could begin with Washington and
Franklin, two names of which Rome herself might have been proud, in the best
days of the republic. The copper coin might, in due time, take most of the
Presidents, on which, I fancy, they would very generally be placed by
posterity. Perhaps old John Marshall might work his way up to the silver;
though I fear original thinkers are too rare in America to resist the influence
of fifty years. The American jurist
is yet to make his appearance.
What should we do with Jefferson under such a plan? Put him on the
gold — certainly not. He was too much a party man for that. Even Franklin would
get there as a physical philosopher, and not as a moral philosopher, or even as
a politician; for as the first of these last he was too mean, and for the
second too managing. John Jay might get up to the silver; certainly, had he not
retired so early; and as to integrity and motives, he merits the gold.
Jefferson might get on the silver, but I fear it would be with some alloy. Poor
Hamilton, whose talents and honesty deserve the gold, would fail after all; or,
at least, he would get on the reverse of the coin, because he was elsewhere on
the wrong side.
A great deal of poetic justice might be thrown into the scheme, you
see. I fear we should have to import a few hogs-heads of cowries from Africa, for the oi
polloi of American greatness. It clearly would never do to trust the decision
to Congress, as every man in it would vote for his neighbour, on condition that
his neighbour voted for him. The coin might want rolling, but it should not be "log-rolling."
To treat a grave matter seriously, the tastes of the ancients are fast
producing an influence on the tastes of the moderns; most of the beautiful
forms that are embellishing the bronzes of France and Italy being directly
derived from models found at Pompeii and Herculaneum.
One is a little puzzled with the moral evidence of many of the
articles in the Museum. It is not easy to say whether they prove extreme
depravity of taste and great dissoluteness of manners, or extreme innocence and
simplicity. Taking Juvenal and Ovid as guides, it is to be feared the first is
the true solution. The proofs are of the most extraordinary kind, and quite on
a level with those which Captain Cook found in some of the South Sea Islands.
But the world of the nineteenth century, in decency, whatever it may be in
facts, is not the world of any other era. The frescos of Andrea del Sarto, in
the loggie of churches even, and the
tastes of the Divine Raphael himself,
to say nothing of that of his scholars, sufficiently show this.
It is startling to see rouge,
play-tickets, knives, spoons, and other familiar things, that were used two
thousand years ago. Every one is surprised to see how little these articles
have been changed. As to the rouge,
it is not surprising, for it is a relic of barbarism, and nations cease to use
it as they approach nearest to the highest civilization. It is said that no
lancets have been found; from which some infer that bleeding was unknown to the
ancients, who may have used leeches and cupped. Forks, also, are said to have
been unknown. I do not remember to have seen any. Of course, there was no
silver-fork school; a singular blessing for a common-sense people.
I think it quite evident, from the articles in the Museum, as well as
from the houses in Pompeii, that the ancients were much in advance of the
moderns in many matters, and as much behind them in others. In most things
pertaining to beauty of forms, and what may be termed the poetry of life, the
advantage would seem to have been with them; but it is scarcely exaggerated to
say, that one may detect the absence of the high morality introduced by Christ,
in a great portion of their habits. Domestic life does not appear to have been
enjoyed and appreciated as it is now; though I confess this is drawing
conclusions from rather slender premises.
The Romans, like the French, lived much in public: and yet the
English, who lay such high claims to domesticity, do not cherish the domestic
affections to the same degree as these very French. It is quite possible to
enjoyaths, forums, public promenades, theatres, and circuses, and yet have no
passion for celibacy, club-houses, and separate establishments. The Americans,
who have less publicity than common in their pleasures, have scarcely any
domestic privacy, on account of "the neighbours;" while the French
have actually a species of family legislation, and a species of patriarchal
government, that are both beautiful and salutary.
Our time was up, and we reluctantly relinquished our hold of the
"pezzo di cielo caduto in
terra." The weather had got
to be wintry and wet, however, — a state of the seasons in which Naples appears
to the least advantage; and then we had Rome before us, — a pleasure that few
travellers who have been in Italy near fifteen months can anticipate. Although
accident and the weather have in a great measure controlled our movements, I
believe we have fallen on the pleasantest course, as we have kept the best for
the last.
A gentleman of Rome having occasion to send his carriage back, we took that in addition to our
own, and by the aid of two teams belonging to a Savoyard, were enabled to set
every body, and, what has got to be
almost as serious a matter, every thing,
in motion. As the day was well advanced before the caravan could move, we had
named Capua as the end of the first day's march, making a detour however, in order to visit the palace and aqueduct of
Caserta.
The latter was the place first seen; the road leading us directly
across the plain which is so well termed the Campagna Felice. This plain is
covered with habitations, like the great plain of Lombardy, and, although so
desirable to the agriculturist, is a little tame to the traveller. However, as
it rained most of the way, we lost little by its monotony.
We entered the Apennines by the valley of the aqueduct, amid very
beautiful scenery. This aqueduct, or the portion of it that travellers come to
see, is merely a bridge to span the valley; but it is on a scale so magnificent
as to excite wonder. Apart from this, the structure is no great matter, being
under ground; but the portion thrown across the valley is on a truly regal
scale. The work is of bricks, beautifully laid, and is a succession of arches
in rows, one standing on another, to the number of three. I cannot tell you the
precise dimensions, for my guide-books say nothing of I;: but I should think it
near half a mile long, and two hundred feet high, a noble mass of masonry. It
is easier to admire it, than to comprehend its necessity. The water is for the
use of the palace of Caserta, and it is difficult to suppose a trunk of the necessary
height might not be made sufficiently strong to contain a small column of
water, or to see the necessity of crossing a hill which was easily turned.
I believe this is esteemed the second work of its kind now in
existence; that at Lisbon alone ranking before it. I have rarely seen a
structure that has so forcibly impressed me with the sense of its vastness. It
is, in short, literally bridging a valley. We ascended to the road, after
walking under and among the arches, and overlooked a fine view, in the
direction of Naples. The weather had become pleasant, but the recent rain had
set the mists in motion, and we got a glimpse of Italy in a new character. The
valley was not large, but exceedingly pretty: and the road by which we had come
wound through it, passing beneath the centre of the aqueduct. Our carriages had
taken it, and were winding their way out of the valley, up to our own level, in
order to rejoin us. The effect of the whole was both noble and soft; for the
distant bay, Capri, Vesuvius, and the Campagna, were all bathed in the glories
of a fine sun-light, relieved by fleecy mists. The road on the summit of the
aqueduct is wide enough to receive the equipages of the King, who had passed
over not long before we were there. The trunk for the water was by no means
large.
The route from the aqueduct is very beautiful. It winds among the
mountains and through valleys, and is constructed as a royal drive, leading
merely to the aqueduct. Caserta, as a town, is not large; though the palace is
one of the finest in Europe. The latter stands on a perfectly level plain, with
no other view than can be got from the windows, and that of the Apennines,
which are too near for effect, or indeed to be seen to advantage, the nearest
heights concealing the more lofty ranges in the distance. This palace is said
to owe its existence to the pride of Charles III, who, irritated at having been
menaced by an English fleet which ran under the walls of his residence in
Naples, and threatened to lay it in ruins unless the demands of its government
were complied with, declared he would build a palace where no insolent foe
could insult him. In this respect, Caserta has certainly the advantage of both
Castel-a-mare and Portici; but this is all, unless the magnificence of the unfinished
structure be included. The gardens, however, are extensive, and there is
probably good shooting in the mountains.
The great staircase of the palace of Caserta is much the finest thing
of its kind in Europe. It is noble, beautiful, sufficiently light, and
admirably proportioned as well as ornamented. The state-rooms are good, though
not more than half finished. But what palace in Europe is finished? There may
be a few, but I suspect that most are not. The Louvre is half a waste, the
Pitti has its uncovered arches mouldering with time, and this of Caserta has
not more than half of the best rooms in a state fit to be used: still there are
enough for so small a kingdom, and more than are furnished. The palace on the
exterior is a parallelogram, of seven or eight hundred feet, by five or six
hundred. Internally, it has a beautiful distribution of courts, clustered round
a central nucleus, which nucleus contains the celebrated staircase. The
staircase is on the plan of that in the City Hall, New York, or a single flight
at the bottom, which is divided into two after the landing.
From Caserta we proceeded to Capua, where we passed the night. Some
ruins of no great moment, that are immediately on the highway, are thought to
point out the site of ancient Capua, the modern town being about a mile
distant. The latter is a mean dirty town, and certainly was not the place that
detained Hannibal so long. — By the way, this much-talked-of delay was probably
no more than the common expedient of falling back from a wasted to a fertile
country to recruit, and, in all probability, was quite as much owing to
exhaustion, as to a demoralization of another kind. It is far more likely that
his army corrupted Capua, than that
Capua corrupted his army.
The only specimen we had of Capuan luxury was a guitar at supper.
Finding we had lived in Florence, the musician gave us a song in honour of
"Firenze, bella citta'."
The guide-books say this word, Firenze, means a red lily in the Etruscan
dialect, and it is certain that there is a lily in its arms. The arms of the
Medici are literally pills, — three pills which were emblazoned all over the
place. It is a pity these pills are not a little more active, activity being
all that Tuscany wants.
We left Capua betimes next day, and, after driving some ten or twelve
miles, came to the termination of the Campagna Felice. This plain is certainly
very beautiful; and its northern termination we thought the most beautiful of
all, for it had much the character of park scenery. We stopped to breakfast at
a place called St. Agata, which was scarcely more than a tavern. A small town
called Sessa, known to be the ancient Suessa Aurun-corum, a Roman station, lies
against the base of the Apennines, about a mile distant. Between this town and
St. Agata, is a broad avenue-like road; and a noble bridge is thrown across a
small stream and a hollow on the way. When we had breakfasted, I proposed to
[Mrs. Cooper] to walk ahead of the carriages as far as this town, which is said
to contain some antiquities. We had got into its principal street, when I
perceived that the pavement was up, and that there was no visible passage
around the spot. Surprised at finding a post-road in such a state, I inquired
of the workmen in what manner our carriages were to get through. We were told
that the road did not pass in this direction at all, but that it went round the corner of the inn, at right
angles to the broad avenue. Of course we had walked a mile at right angles to
the true road; and on looking back, we perceived that the party had gone on,
undoubtedly under the impression that we were in advance of them. Nothing
remained but to turn and retrace our steps,
in order to get on the proper road,
as the carriages would certainly return on finding that they did not overtake
us. Luckily a priest was passing, mounted on an ass, and he overheard the
dialogue with the paviours. Understanding our dilemma, he kindly offered to put
us on a path which led diagonally into the post-road, and by which we should
save a mile.
This road was little more
than a bridle-path, leading among bushes and through a thicket. At first I was
too eager to get on, to look about me; but, after walking a quarter of a mile
along it, I was struck with the magnitude of the stones with which the path was
still partly paved, though long intervals occurred in which there was no
pavement at all. Pointing to these stones, I was about to ask an explanation,
when the good father nodded his head, with a smile, and said significantly, "Via Appia." We had thus
blundered on near a mile of the Appian Way, the greater part of which was still
in tolerable condition, though in part overgrown with bushes! I knew that the
post-road between Rome and Salerno, and indeed still farther south, ran, much
of the way, over this old road; but the latter is buried, in a way not to be
seen. Here it was above ground, and just as much the Appian Way as the bits
that are seen at Pompeii and Pozzuoli. At the further end of this fragment of
the celebrated road, is a bridge of some length; but, unfortunately, the priest
had left us before we reached it, and I could not inquire as to its date. It
certainly belongs to the Appian Way; but the architecture struck me as being
that of the middle ages rather than that of Rome, for it has a strong resemblance
to those ruins of which I saw so many on the shores of the gulf of Genoa, and
which, I believe, are known to date from the latter period. It was long,
narrow, and of irregular construction, but appeared as solid as the day it was
built.
This bridge is within a few rods of the post-road, and travellers, by
inquiring for the by-way to Sessa, when they get within a mile or a mile and a
half of the post-house at St. Agata, can at any time see it by a delay of ten
minutes, — and, with it, the first specimen of the Appian Way that remains
paved and above ground, I believe, north of Capua. None of my guide-books speak
of it, and I presume we are among the first strangers who have seen it. The
stones of the pavement are large and irregularly shaped, like those of Pompeii.
We had other interesting objects, and more ruins at a spot that is
thought to have been the ancient Minturnum, after we found the carriages, which
turned back to meet us. The Garigliano, which flows by this place, was the
Liris, the stream that separated Magna Graecia from Latium.
We slept at Mola di Gaeta. The inn was beautifully placed on the gulf,
and was reasonably good. The town of Gaeta is a short distance farther
advanced, on a peninsula, which curves in a way to make a sort of port in front
of Mola. Aeneas has the credit of having founded Gaeta.
The next morning we passed a tomb, which vulgar report supposes to be
erected on the spot where Cicero fell. He certainly was killed somewhere near
this, and it is as likely to be here, as at another spot; although, if I
remember the history of that event, he is said to have been attempting to
escape in his litter along the shore, when overtaken and slain, and
these remains do not stand literally on the shore, but at some distance from
it. As litus means a coast, as well
as the immediate beach, perhaps the difficulty may be got over.
The road now entered the mountains, which here buttress the
Mediterranean, and we passed the spot occupied by the Neapolitan army in the
late Austrian invasion. The position was strong, and most of the works remain;
but no position can resist treachery. Fondi, a small crowded town in a valley,
came next; and soon after, we reached a small tower by the roadside, which
marks the boundaries between the kingdom of Naples and the States of the
Church. The road, for several leagues, is very solitary; and, the Apennines
with their glens and forests bounding it on all sides, this is the spot at
which robbery is most apprehended. We passed unscathed, however, and without a
sensation of uneasiness on my part, though there was among us so good a prize
for the mountains.
Our halting-place for the night was Terracina, which is placed
beautifully on the very margin of the sea, beneath the mountains. At this spot
was the ancient Anxur, a city of the Volscians, and it is still rich in ruins
of different kinds. Among other things are the remains of a port built by
Antoninus Pius, which might still be used, did not the great essential, water,
fail. The mole is of bricks, and the cement must have been as good as the
material. Here our effects were examined, and were permitted to pass, though
the books were regarded a little distrustfully. This caution is of little use;
for several of the works known to be proscribed, — such as the
"Prince" of Machiavelli, for instance, — were to be had even in
Naples, without any difficulty.
We left Terracina on empty
stomachs notwithstanding the advice of the guide-books, and immediately
afterwards entered among the formidable Pontine Marshes. The length of these
marshes is more than twenty miles, and their breadth varies from six to twelve.
The lowest side is near Terracina, where their waters find an outlet in the
sea. Instead of being the waste I had expected to find them, the parts near the
road were in meadows, covered with buffaloes. A canal runs near the highway,
which is a capital road constructed on the Appian Way, Appius Claudius being
the first person who attempted to drain the marshes. Perhaps it was unreasonable
to suppose that people, who had just enjoyed a night's rest should feel a
propensity to sleep; but it is certain that the only thing drowsy we found
about these marshes was the even monotony of the road. As the spot is
favourable to robberies, a great extent of country being visible in either
direction, the Papal government has placed military posts along the highway,
and we scarcely passed a mile without seeing a patrole. These soldiers looked
as well as other people; though it is probable they are often changed.
On the whole, the scenery was pleasant, particularly in the direction
of the mountains, on the sides of which we could distinguish villages and other
objects of interest. Towards the sea there was much wood, and nowhere any great
appearance of impracticable bogs. The drainings, however, have probably altered
the face of the country. The buffalo drivers, with long lances to goad their
cattle with, and in a wild costume, were galloping about the meadows, which in
particular places were also alive with wild geese feeding. I believe I speak
within bounds when I say that we often saw thousands on two or three acres.
They took no notice of us, though frequently quite near us, but continued to
feed as leisurely as the domesticated birds. We saw many men on the road
carrying muskets, but I did not observe one who appeared to be after the geese.
We breakfasted at a tavern near the upper end of the marshes, where
several carriages arrived about the same time. Among others was that of a Dutch
family, the ladies of which alighted from their coach in common caps, bringing
with them their needlework, with an air of enviable comfort. I question if
there is a civilized people on earth so much addicted to motion as our own, or
another that travels with so little enjoyment or so few comforts. Railroads and
steam-boats do something for us, it is true; but even they are reduced to the
minimum of comfort, because all things are reduced to a medium standard of
habits. The 'go-ahead' propensities and 'gregarious' tastes of the nation set
anything above a very moderate mediocrity quite out of the question.
A league beyond the tavern, [Mrs. Cooper] had a good fright. I was
reading, when she drew my attention to a group of three men in the road, who
were evidently awaiting our arrival. I did not believe that three banditti
would dare to attack five men, — and such, including the postilions, was our
force, — and felt no uneasiness until I heard an exclamation of alarm from
[Mrs. Cooper]. These men had actually stopped the carriage, and one of them
poked the end of a pistol (as she fancied) within a foot of her face. As the
three men were all armed, I looked about me; but the pistol proved to be a wild
duck, and the summons to "deliver," an invitation to buy. I believe
the rogues saw the alarm they had created, for they withdrew laughing when I
declined the duck. So endeth alarm the third.
Near Cisterna, a short distance further, we saw the skull of a robber,
in an iron cage, placed at the gate as a warning to evil-doers. This object,
previously to the incident of the duck, might have helped to give greater
interest to the adventure. This skull probably alarms the travellers much more
than it alarms the rogues.
We slept at Velletri, a town that may fairly claim to be Roman, though
more remotely a Volscian place. It is said Augustus came from this vicinity. We
were much struck with the prettiness of the female costumes at this place, and
quite as much so with the good looks of the wearers.
It was indeed a sensation to leave an inn in the morning with the
reasonable hope of seeing Rome before night! We had felt this with respect to
Paris; but how much more was it felt to-day on quitting Velletri! We were no
laggards, as you may imagine, but entered the carriages betimes, and drove off
to Albano to breakfast full of expectation. We were now in the classical region
of bona fide Rome. Albano is said, by
the ancient Roman traditions, to have been built by Ascanius (Iul us); and I
have a faint recollection of having somewhere read that the Julian family, or
that of the Caesars pretended to be derived from him. At all events, Iulus and
Julius will make as good a pedigree as half of those the world puts faith in.
Albano, to quit blind tradition for better authenticated facts, is in
the region so long contested in the early wars of Rome; and the celebrated
battle of the Horatii is thought to have been fought here. A tomb is still
standing, though a ruin, near the town, which, it is pretended, was erected in
honour of them; but then the tomb of Ascanius is also shown! The site of
ancient Alba is a disputed point, the town that now exists being quite modern,
though surrounded by Roman remains. It is, however, time I should give you some
more distinct notions of the localities.
Between Gaeta and Terracina the Apennines buttress the sea. At the
latter place, the mountains retire inland, and the plain extends seaward,
leaving between the coast and the crescent of the hills the Pontine Marshes. At
Albano, the Apennines make another sweep north-easterly, as far as Tivoli, or
even farther: when they again incline north-westerly, and encircle, on nearly
three sides, a vast plain, which is the Campagna of Rome. Albano, therefore,
stands at a point whence the eye overlooks a wide horizon towards the sea, and
towards the mountains north of Rome. It is near a thousand feet above the level
of the Mediterranean; though the Alban Mount, the summit of the range, is two
thousand feet higher. On this mountain-top stood the temple of Jupiter, where
all the Latin tribes offered annual sacrifices. The site of the ancient temple
is now occupied by a Christian convent; the religious successors of those who
died by thousands as martyrs under the decrees of the emperors!
From the town of Albano little is seen, on account of the surrounding
buildings and the trees; the vicinity being much frequented by the nobles of
Rome for country retreats. Even the popes have a palace near it. The Alban
Lake, and that of Nemi too, are also on these heights, occupying the craters of
extinct volcanoes. In the heats of summer, these elevated mountain sides are
not only healthful, but delightful places to reside in. It was in this
neighbourhood that the attempt was made by banditti, a few years since, to
carry off Lucien Bonaparte to the mountains.
I was too impatient to await the slow movements of the vetturino and hurried on alone, afoot,
as soon as my breakfast was swallowed. Passing through a gateway, I soon found
myself at a point whence I overlooked much of the surrounding scenery. Such a
moment can occur but once in a whole life.
The road ran down a long declivity, in a straight line, until it
reached the plain, when it proceeded more diagonally, winding towards its
destination. But that plain! Far and near it was a waste, treeless, almost
shrubless, and with few buildings besides ruins. Long broken lines of arches,
the remains of aqueducts, were visible in the distance; and here and there a
tower rendered the solitude more eloquent, by irresistibly provoking a
comparison between the days when they were built and tenanted, and the present
hour. At the foot of the mountain, though the road diverged, there was a lane
of smaller ruins that followed the line of the descent for miles in an air
line. This line of ruins was broken at intervals, but there were still miles of
it to be distinctly traced, and to show the continuity that had once existed
from Albano to the very walls of Rome. This was the Appian Way; and the ruins
were those of the tombs that once lined its sides, — the "stop traveller"
of antiquity. These tombs were on a scale proportioned to the grandeur of the
seat of empire, and they altogether threw those of Pompeii into the shade;
although the latter, as a matter of course, are in much the best preservation.
There were several near Albano, circular crumbling towers, large enough to form
small habitations for the living: a change of destiny, as I afterwards
discovered, that has actually befallen several of them nearer the city.
Rome itself lay near the confines of the western view. The distance
(fourteen or fifteen miles), and the even surface of the country, rendered the
town indistinct, but it still appeared regal and like a capital. Domes rose up
above the plane of roofs in all directions; and that of St. Peter's, though less
imposing than fancy had portrayed it, was comparatively grand and towering. It
looked like the Invalides seen from Neuilly, the distinctness of the details
and the gilding apart. Although I could discern nothing at that distance that
denoted ruins, the place had not altogether the air of other towns. The
deserted appearance of the surrounding country, the broken arches of the
aqueducts, and perhaps the recollections, threw around it a character of
sublime solitude. The town had not, in itself, an appearance of being deserted,
but the environs caused it to seem cut off from the rest of the world.
The carriages soon came rolling down the hill, and we proceeded in
company, absolutely silent and contemplative from an indescribable rush of
sensations. The distance across the waste appeared to be nothing, and objects
rose fast on every side to heighten the feeling of awe. Here was a small
temple, insignificant in size and material, but evidently Roman; there, another
line of aqueducts; and yonder, a tomb worthy to be a palace. We passed beneath
one line of aqueduct, and drew near the walls — the ancient unquestionable
walls of Rome herself! How often had we stood with interest over the ruins of
works that had belonged to the distant military stations of this great people!
but here we were actually beneath the ramparts of the Eternal City, which may
still stand another twenty centuries without material injury.
We were fortunate in entering Rome, for the first time, from the
south, this being out of all comparison the finest approach. The modern city
occupying the old Campus Martius, he who comes from the north is at once
received into the bosom of a town of our own days; but he who comes in at the
southern gate has the advantage of passing first among the glorious remains of
the city of the Caesars.
We entered Rome by the gate of St. John, and looked about us with
reverential awe mingled with an intense curiosity. Little appeared at first
besides a few churches, broken aqueducts, and gardens. On the left was a deserted-looking
palace, with a large church attached, the buildings of St. John in the Lateran.
An Egyptian obelisk, of great antiquity, pointed to the skies. These edifices
were vast and princely, but they stood almost alone. Further in advance was a
straggling sort of town, a mere suburb, and the line of houses was often broken
by waste spots. Presently the carriage came under the walls of a huge oval structure of a reddish stone, in which
arches rose above arches to the height of an ordinary church tower, a mountain
of edifice; and, though not expecting to see it, I recognised the Coliseum at a
glance. Objects now crowded on us, such as the arches of Constantine and of
Titus, ruined temples, the Forum, and then the town itself. My head became
confused, and I sat stupid as a countryman who first visits town, perplexed
with the whirl of sensations and the multiplicity of the objects.
We drove to the Hotel de Paris, entirely across the city, near the
Porta del Popolo, and took lodgings. I ordered dinner; but, too impatient to
restrain my curiosity, as there was still an hour of daylight, I called a laquais de place, and, holding little
P[aul] by the hand, sallied forth. "Where will the signore go?" asked
the laquais, as soon as we were in the street. "To St. Peter's"
In my eagerness to proceed, I looked neither to the right nor to the
left. We went through crooked and narrow streets, until we came to a bridge
lined with statues. The stream beneath was the Tiber. It was full, turbid,
swift, sinuous, and it might be three hundred feet wide, or perhaps not quite
so wide as the Seine at Paris at the same season. The difference, however, is
not material, and each is about half as wide as the Thames above London Bridge
on a full tide, which is again three-fourths of the width of the Hudson at
Albany. A large round castellated edifice, with flanking walls and military
bastions, faced the bridge: this was the tomb of Adrian, converted into a
citadel by the name of the Castle of St. Angelo, an angel in bronze surmounting
the tower. Turning to the left, we followed the river, until a street led us
from its windings, and presently I found myself standing at the foot of a vast
square, with colonnades, on a gigantic scale, sweeping in half circles on each
side of me, two of the most beautiful fountains I had ever seen throwing their
waters in sheets down their sides between them, and the facade of St. Peter's
forming the background. A noble Egyptian obelisk occupied the centre of the
area.
Every one had told me I should be disappointed in the apparent
magnitude of this church, but I was not. To me it seemed the thing it is,
possibly because some pains had been taken to school the eye. Switzerland often
misled me in both heights and distances, but a ship or an edifice rarely does
so. Previously to seeing Switzerland, I had found nothing to compare with such
a nature, and all regions previously known offered no rules to judge by; but I
had now seen too many huge structures not to be at once satisfied that this was the largest of them all.
The laquais would have me stop to admire some of Michael Angelo's
sublime conceptions, but I pressed forward. Ascending the steps, I threw out my
arms to embrace one of the huge half columns of the facade, not in a fit of
sentimentalism but to ascertain its diameter, which was gigantic, and helped
the previous impression. Pushing aside the door in common use, I found myself
in the nave of the noblest temple in which any religious rites were ever
celebrated.
I walked about a hundred feet up the nave, and stopped. From a habit
of analyzing buildings, I counted the paces as I advanced, and knew how far I
was within the pile. Still, men, at the farthest extremity, seemed dwindled
into boys. One, whose size did not appear disproportioned, was cleaning a
statue of St. Bruno, at the height of an ordinary church-steeple, stood on the
shoulder of the figure, and could just rest his arm on the top of its head.
Some marble cherubs, that looked like children, were in high relief against a
pier near me, and laying my hand on the hand of one of them, I found it like
that of an infant in comparison. All this aided the sense of vastness. The baldacchino, or canopy of bronze, which
is raised over the great altar, filled
the eye no more than a pulpit in a
common church; and yet I knew its summit was as lofty as half the height of the
spire of Trinity, New York, or about a hundred and thirty feet, and essentially
higher than the tower. I looked for a marble throne that was placed at the
remotest extremity of the building, also as
high as a common church-tower, a sort of poetical chair for the popes; it
seemed distant as a cavern on a mountain.
To me there was no disappointment. Everything appeared as vast as feet
and inches could make it; and as I stood gazing at the glorious pile, the tears
forced themselves from my eyes. Even little P[aul] was oppressed with the sense
of the vastness of the place, for he clung close to my side, though he had
passed half his life in looking at sights, and kept murmuring, "Qu'est-ce que c'est? —qu'est-ce que c'est —
Est-ce une eglise?
It was getting dark, and perhaps the gloom magnified the effect. The
atmosphere even, — for this stupendous pile has an atmosphere of its own, one
different from that of the outer world, — was soothing and delicious; and I
turned away impressed with the truth
that if ever the hand of man had indeed raised a structure to the Deity in the
least worthy of his majesty, it was this!
I shall not enter into the ordinary details of description at Rome,
but treat it as I have treated places less celebrated, touching only on those
points that it has struck me are not familiarly known, or, at least, were not
known to me; and this, too, in my own desultory manner; for, as things have
appeared to me differently from my expectations, so shall I communicate them to
you. Let us then commence with an outline of the place, its general condition,
and its entourage, before we proceed
to more minute accounts.
Of the Campagna I have already communicated to you some general
notions. It is not, however, literally a waste, for it bears grasses and even
grain in parts, and has some kitchen-gardens near the walls. The portions
nearest the mountains are sandy, but not bare: while you find marshes as you approach the sea. The Campagna di Roma,
properly so termed, includes nearly the whole of ancient Latium, and is near
three hundred miles in extent; but, by convention, the Campagna is now confined
to the uncultivated district immediately around the city. Some annex the
Pontine Marshes, which join it in the direction of the sea; but I think the
Romans distinguish between the two. Much of the Campagna is grazed, though I
think less of it near the town than on the parts more remote. I have seen spots
of great fertility; but the portions of it over which I usually gallop in my
rides, (and I am now in the saddle daily,) — rides that frequently extend eight
or nine miles, — is a species of common that merely bears a tolerable grass.
There are spots that are crowded with country-houses and gardens, particularly
on the broken land north of Rome; but, in general, this waste is singularly
naked of habitations, even up to the very ramparts of the town.
It is scarcely necessary to say, Rome has had various walls, which
have been enlarged as the place has grown, for this is the history of every
large walled town. It is, however, very necessary to know the positions of
these walls, in order to establish the positions of many of the most
interesting of the antiquities. Take, for instance, the Tarpeian Rock, — an
object not only of interest in itself, but of importance in getting a clear
idea of localities, — and we shall find that the heedless are commonly led
astray, not only as respects this particular spot, but as respects others
dependent on it. I mention this rock as its site is closely connected with the
course of the ancient walls.
Most travellers give themselves up to the guidance of common laquais de place, who are dignified by
the name of ciceroni; and even they
who are sceptical, and smile at much of what they hear, are more or less
imposed on by the ignorance and knavery of these men. We had one of these
ciceroni for a week or ten days, simply with a view to get acquainted with the
town, and he undertook to show us this Tarpeian Rock among his other
curiosities. We were led into a common garden on the Capitol Hill, where a rock
overlooked the site of the Forum, and were told it was the place in question.
Even the maps of Roma Antica, and most of the guide-books, point out this spot
as the Tarpeian Rock; though, I believe, there are very satisfactory reasons
for showing, that while it must be near the celebrated place of punishment,
this cannot be it in very fact. Conversing on this subject with one of the most
industrious of the antiquaries here, he reasoned in this manner: — The
punishment of the Tarpeian Rock was both a poetical and a literal punishment;
the literal being death, and the poetical expulsion from the city. By throwing
a criminal from the rock that is commonly exhibited, his body would be cast
into the centre of the Forum, or into the heart of the place; and hence he
infers that it is not the true Tarpeian Rock. There is, moreover, the narrative
of a messenger of Camillus, I believe, who was sent to Rome at the time it was
besieged by the Gauls, who says he landed at a particular point, and entered
the town by climbing up the Tarpeian Rock. This account confirms the opinion
that this rock must look outward as regards the walls. — The whole Capitol Hill
is a rock, covered with a thin soil; and I believe it is generally admitted
that the entire hill, or rock, bore the name of the unworthy Tarpeia, who is
understood to have been buried on it. This may certainly account for the
confusion in the names; though it would still seem that the precise place of
punishment must be different from that which is usually shown as such. My
antiquary pointed to a spot that is on the side of the hill nearly opposite to
the Forum, along the margin of which the wall was known once to have run, and
where the height, in addition to that of the wall, or perhaps of one of its
towers, would be sufficient to ensure death, as would not be the case at the
rock commonly seen, even after allowing for the manner in which the Forum has
been filled by rubbish. Admitting his reasoning to be true, and it is certainly
very plausible if no more, you see the importance of understanding the sites of
the ancient walls.
Passing over the infancy of Rome, the two principal walls that
succeeded are that of Servius Tullius, and that of Aurelian. The first was
built about two centuries after the town had its origin. It included the
Capitol, Viminal, Quirinal, Esquiline, Palatine, Celian, and Aventine, or the Seven
Hills of Rome, with a small triangular piece of ground on the other side of the
Tiber, which did not, however, include the present site of St. Peter's The
space within these limits would not exceed that which is now covered by New
York, below Bleecker-street, and yet it was the Rome of the Augustan age. The
hills are not large, though some are double the size of others. The Capitol and
Palatine are both small, particularly the former, which, agreeably to our mode
of constructing, could not hold a population to exceed two or three thousand,
even with narrow streets and high houses. Admitting the lowest numbers that are
given as the population of Rome at this period, it is difficult to imagine
where they all lived. Pompeii proves that the Romans did not personally occupy
much space, although the courts and gardens did. The slaves, who must have
composed a large portion of the population of Rome, were probably crowded into
a small space; and the great depth of the debris
that now covers the ancient city proves that the materials were abundant:
from all which it is fair to infer that the dwellings were of great height. The
houses around Naples were low, probably on account of frequent earthquakes, —
calamities that doubtless occurred oftener before the great eruption of the
volcano than since. After making all these allowances, however, it will be
necessary to people suburbs of great extent, or to diminish, by more than half,
the popular accounts of the number of the inhabitants.
The Emperor Aurelian, fearful that the town might be taken by
surprise, on account of the extent of the suburbs, about the year 276, caused
new walls to be built. These walls in no place touched the wall of Servius
Tullius, and may have a little more than doubled the size of the enceinte. These walls still exist, or,
at least, walls exist that are attributed equally to Aurelian and Honorius who
lived more than a century later. Some of the antiquaries contend that the walls
of Aurelian included a space more than twice, or even thrice as great as that
contained within the present walls, and thus account for the mode of
accommodating the population, which they complacently take at the highest
number. A writer, who was a contemporary of Aurelian, affirms that the wall of
this emperor was fifty miles in circuit; and Vasi appears to adopt his account
of the matter, though he is obliged to admit that no traces exist of these
prodigiously extensive works.
It strikes me, that there are several serious objections to this
explanation. In the first place, it is impossible to believe that traces would
not exist of these walls had they ever been built, when the walls constructed a
little more than a century later are standing almost perfect. Allowing that all
of the present wall is not as old as Honorius, which probably is the case, a
part certainly is. There is a portion of the present wall that is called the Muro Torto or the Crooked Wall, from the
circumstance that it is so much out of the perpendicular as to excite apprehensions
of its falling on the stranger who passes beneath it. Now there is a writer of
the time of Belisarius, (530-40,) who says that this wall was exactly in such a
condition in his day. It is difficult to believe that this should be the fact,
and that all traces of the wall of Aurelian, which was built only two centuries
and a half earlier, should have been lost. But it may be said this was a part
of Aurelian's wall, for it is the foundation of Domitian's gardens, of unusual
thickness and strength, and was made use of for the new city wall on that
account, and that the wall of Aurelian still contained a circuit of fifty
miles. If the Muro Torto be in truth a part of Aurelian's
wall, then are not all traces of his wall lost; and it is very improbable that
an emperor who was about to increase the walls of the city, which, exceedingly
irregular, had a circuit of less than eight miles, to a circuit of more than
forty-five of our miles, should choose to extend the town so short a distance
towards the north, the quarter that was the most agreeable and the most
healthy, and yet as far in the other directions as would be necessary to make
up the required distance. In point of fact, the space between the wall of
Servius and the present wall is much greater in this direction than in any
other; the object having been, probably, to include the whole of the Campus
Martius and the Pincian Hill.
The present wall is said to be sixteen Roman miles and a half in
circuit, which would be not far from fifteen of our miles. I have often ridden
round them on my morning's excursions, or nearly round them, and I take this to
be near the distance; though the present enceinte
of the Transtiberina, or the part of the town west of the Tiber, is much larger
now, than when the wall of Honorius or the present wall, existed in that
quarter also. Paris, including soldiers and strangers, has often contained a
million of souls, although the town has an unusual number of gardens, with many
wide streets and public places, besides palaces and hotels without number; and
yet Paris does not fill its walls, by perhaps a fifth of the entire surface.
Were the enceinte of Paris compactly
built up, two millions might comfortably dwell within the walls, and at need,
by packing the people, as they were evidently packed at Pompeii and
Herculaneum, three millions. The circuit of the walls of Paris is about
eighteen miles. This would allow Rome to contain a million and a half or two
millions within the present limits; and what good authority is there for supposing
it ever had more people?
Rome was divided into fourteen quarters in the time of Augustus. These
divisions have descended down to our own time and, although the names are
changed, it is probable they are essentially the same. Aurelian lived near the
end of the third century, and in the fourth century these fourteen quarters
bore the following names, viz. Porta Capena, Caelimontana Isis et Serapis, Via
Sacra, Esquilina, Alta Semita, Via Lata, Forum Romanum, Circus Flaminius,
Palatium, Circus Maximus, Piscina Publica, Aventina, and Transtiberina. It is
easy to trace the situation of all of these quarters within the present walls.
Is it probable that Rome increased so much in the two centuries and a half that
succeeded Augustus, as to require, that a space contained in a circuit of
sixteen Roman miles and a half should be extended to a circuit of fifty, in
order to receive the people? I do not believe it.
What then becomes of the statement of Vopiscus, the authority quoted
by M. Vasi? I know nothing of him; but any man of observation must know that
writers of a higher order of genius frequently betray great ignorance of
positive things, and of nothing more than measurement. Sir Walter Scott, in his
Life of Napoleon, says, "By the treaty of Presburgh, Austria is said to
have lost one million of square miles of
territory two millions and a half of
subjects, and a revenue to the amount of ten millions and a half of
florins"! &c. &c.; and in speaking of another treaty, an error
quite as gross appears. In the edition I read, letters were introduced,
rendering the blunder still more serious.[11]
Here the great poet,
in a grave history, makes a fragment of the Austrian empire near four times as
great as the whole empire, and almost a fifth as large as all Europe. Comparing
population with surface, he makes the ratio about two souls and a half to the
square mile, and that in a country where it probably exceeds three hundred.[12]
Perhaps no men are
less to be trusted in matters of this sort than purely literary men, and yet
they usually produce the books. Let us suppose the art of printing unknown, and
the only authority for the life of Napoleon, or rather for this one fact, to
be, twenty centuries hence, a manuscript of a certain great author called
Scotius, what marvels might not posterity believe of the extent of the Austrian
empire! — such, probably, as M. Vasi would have us believe of the extent of
Rome, on the authority of this Vopiscus. It is of no moment to the result,
whether this error in the history of Napoleon was the consequence of ignorance
or want of care in the author, or a blunder in the compositor. The
circumstance, had it not been corrected, would have stood recorded; and in a
manuscript, or an edition, might, in the lapse of centuries, pass for an established
fact, on the authority of a great name.
I have little doubt
that we now see; essentially, the form and dimensions of the wall of Aurelian,
if not the wall itself. Some alterations, we know, have been made, for the
gates are changed, and it is probable the wall, in places, has also undergone
repairs; but it is not much more difficult to believe that the walls which are
now standing are sixteen hundred years old, than to believe they are fourteen,
or of the time of Honorius.
I leave you to judge
of the feelings with which I ride beneath these walls. The Muro Torto in
particular gives me great satisfaction, as one can be reasonably certain that
he sees the identical bricks in the identical places they have occupied since
the time of Domitian, or near eighteen hundred years. You will be surprised to
hear that these walls are nearly all of bricks, — as indeed are the aqueducts,
temples, and most of the other ruins of Rome. Augustus boasted that he found
the city of bricks and left it of marble; but time has left it of bricks again.
This contradiction is explained by the fact that the marbles which cased most
of the brickwork, in the baths, temples, palaces, and amphitheatres, have been
removed for other works, and also by the fact that the saying of Augustus is
not to be taken too literally.
You will be
surprised, perhaps, at receiving these accounts so soon, and to find me
speaking already of the environs of Rome with so much familiarity, on a month's
acquaintance. Soon after reaching the Eternal City, I hired a saddle-horse, to
accompany my old friend the ____ of _____ in his morning rides; and besides
having the advantage of a learned cicerone, who has passed years in Rome, I
have made the discovery, that one in the saddle can see more of this place in a
week, than is seen in a month by those who use carriages, or who go on foot.
You will better understand this by getting a clearer idea of the actual
condition of the town and its environs.
The wall which, right
or wrong, is called that of Aurelian, is said to be sixteen Roman miles and a
half in circuit, being separated into two parts by the Tiber. Of the part east
of the river, which contains Rome proper, about one-third, or perhaps a little
less, is occupied by the modern town: the remainder is in common gardens,
villas, and ruins, many of the latter being scattered over the whole surface.
You are not to suppose, however, that any part of Rome to-day exhibits the
appearance of a continued ruined town, like Pompeii, with its streets and
squares. Though in the vicinity of the Forum there is an approach to such a
character, it is not distinct and intelligible at a glance, as at Pompeii. So
many objects are crowded together at this spot, as to render it the centre of
interest, it is true; but it is far from preserving its outlines, as it existed
of old. Even the site of the Forum has been disputed. The ruins, in general,
are scattered,, and, with comparatively few exceptions, are far from being well
preserved. They are vast, particularly the baths, but not very distinct; and
the coup d'oeil gives an air of
desolation to that part of the enceinte.
They require study and investigation to excite a very deep interest, — or, at
least, an interest beyond that which accompanies the general reflection that
one sees the remains of Rome.
The modern town east
of the river luckily covers little beside the Campus Martius; all in the region
of the palace, the circuses, and the baths being virtually unoccupied. Houses
there certainly are scattered over the space within the walls, and churches
too; but, after all, they produce no very sensible effect on the general
appearance of the place. Beyond the proper limits of the modern town, the
prevailing character is that of antiquity and ruin, a little impaired perhaps
by the presence of the gardens and garden-walls.
Much of the site of
old Rome, or the region about the Seven Hills, is enclosed in these walls; but
much also lies in common. One can enter many of the enclosures too, and a horse
enables me to see whether there is anything within worthy of examination. As my
object is less antiquarian research, than such pictures as may help to give you
better ideas of things than are to be got from generalities, in my next letter
I will take you with me in one of these morning rides, that you may see objects
as they present themselves, as well as one can see who is obliged to use
another's eyes.
In order to effect the purpose just mentioned, we will mount at the
door of our lodgings, in the Via Ripetta, and quit the town by the nearest
gate, which is that of "the People," or the Porta del Popolo. The
obelisk in the centre of the area that we pass is Egyptian, as you may see by
the hieroglyphics. It formerly stood before the Temple of the Sun, at
Heliopolis, and was transported to Rome by order of Augustus, as an ornament to
the Circus Maximus. It has now stood near three centuries, or longer than
America has been settled, where it is.
The carriage-road that winds up the ascent on the right, by inclined
planes, leads to the Pincian Hill, the site of Domitian's gardens, which are
now used as a promenade for all classes, on foot, on horseback, or in
carriages. I shall say nothing of the colossal statues, for they are modern.
The three streets that, separated by twin churches, diverge from this square,
penetrate the city, forming so many of its principal arteries; that in the
centre, which was the ancient Flaminian Way, leads to the foot of the Capitol
Hill, and is called the Corso.
When without the walls, we find a little suburb stretched along the
road which leads to the Ponte Molle, the ancient Milvian Bridge. This is the
road to Upper Italy, or Cis-Alpine Gaul, and follows, in the main, the course
of the Flaminian Way. We will quit the suburb, by turning short under the
walls. The vineyard or garden on our left is that in which Raphael used to
amuse himself, and the plain stone dwelling is both ornamented and defiled by
the caprices of his pencil. He is anything but divine in that house. The
grounds a little farther beyond, and which show factitious ruins, statues,
walks, avenues, and plantations, are the celebrated Villa Borghese, which, by
the liberality of the owner, are converted into a Hyde Park, or a Bois de
Boulogne, for Rome and her visitors. It is said the public has used them so
long, that it now claims them as its own; the public in Rome being just as
soulless, ungrateful, and rapacious as the public in America. God help the man
(if honest) who depends on the public anywhere!
You will not be alarmed at the appearance of the walls, after what you
have heard, for it is the celebrated Muro Torto that once propped the terraces
of Domitian, and which, you already know, has seemed just as ready to fall
these fourteen hundred years as it is to-day. This wall is said to be
twenty-five feet thick, and it seems at least forty feet high. This height,
however, rather exceeds that of the wall in general, which varies, perhaps,
from twenty to thirty feet.
We are next passing by that part of the city wall where the Villa
Ludovisi Buoncompagni lies, within the
enceinte of the city; and the gate just passed, and which is not used, is
the Pincian. There is a tradition that Belisarius asked alms at this gate; but
it is more probable that he caused it to be rebuilt. The little Gothic-looking
tower that appears on the wall is in the garden of the Villa Paolina, so called
from Pauline, the sister of Napoleon. This garden and its very handsome
pavilion are now the property of the Prince of Musignano, her nephew, the
eldest son of Lucien, a gentleman well known in America for his work on its
birds. The gate beyond is the Porta Salaria. Alaric entered the city at this
point; and the Gauls, more remotely, penetrated by the Porta Collina which was
the counterpart of the present gate, in the wall of Servius, though necessarily
less advanced than this. Hannibal is also said to have manifested an intention
to attack the town on this side, whence it is inferred it was the weak quarter.
It is not probable the walls were less strong here than elsewhere; but the
military advantages of attacking the place on this side are sufficiently
apparent to the eye.
The land both within and without the walls of Rome is higher here than
anywhere else on this side of the Tiber. It is consequently drier and more
healthy as an encampment, and, while equally easy to enter as any other
quarter, offers great facilities to the assailant when gained. The gardens of
Sallust lay just within this gate, and traces of the walls are still seen. The agger of Servius Tullius, beneath which
the vestal virgins who violated their vows were interred, was also within this
gate. Traces of the former are still seen. This additional wall would seem to
imply the danger the city ran on this particular side. The Pretorian Camp lay
outside of this agger, but within a wall of its own.
The country on our left is now getting to be more open, and is
assuming the appearance of the Campagna; though gardens and a sort of meagre
suburbs are still met with. After passing the Porta Pia, which is near the
ancient Porta Nomentana, we come to a line of wall that is evidently different
from the rest in construction, and even in elevation. It forms three sides of a
square, or nearly so, projecting in that form beyond the regular walls of the
town, of which, however, it forms a part. This is the enclosure of the
Pretorian Camp, though now composing part of the defences of the town. All this
part of Rome, within the walls, is in gardens or vineyards; though one can find
his way among them on horseback, by means of paths, lanes and breaches.
We next approach the gate of San Lorenzo, which leads to Tivoli and
the Sabine Hills. Here, half a mile from the walls, stands one of the basilicae
of Rome. It is an ancient church, and is remarkable for the variety and
richness of its columns, many of which are of precious African marbles, or of
porphyry, and all of which, I believe, are taken from the ruins of ancient
Rome. One of the old writers, it is said, speaks of two columns that were made
by certain artists, who marked them by a frog and a lizard, animals whose Latin
or Greek appellations corresponded with their own, (at least this is the
tradition,) and these columns still exist in this church. I can vouch for the columns,
but not for the story, which may, nevertheless, be true.
The country now opens still more, and just before we reach the gate of
Naples, and after passing under the arches of an aqueduct, we will turn upon
the Campagna, and gallop across the swells, which are but little enclosed.
After proceeding a mile or two, sometimes following roads, and at others
coursing over fields that seem as deserted as the ruins with which they are
dotted, we reach a small brick edifice, that is said to have been erected on
the spot where Coriolanus was met by his mother. There are other accounts of
this edifice, which is evidently ancient, though so diminutive and
frail-looking; but the brick-work of Rome seems to have a power of endurance
that the stone-work of other countries does not possess.
Seeing the line of ruined tombs which mark the course of the Appian
Way on our right, we will now gallop in that direction.The paths across the
fields, the runs of water, and the wildness of scenery, harmonize well with the
pictures of antiquity, and our spirits rise with the speed of the horses, —
animals, by the way, of great powers of endurance, as well as foot and fire.
These horses are derived from barbs. The breed of the Chigi, so called from the
princes of that name, is of the best repute; and the horse I ride is noted for
his courage, though he has seen near twenty years. This fine beast is as white
as snow, and has long been a favourite with the strangers.
After crossing several low swells of land, we come to a place of more
pastoral beauty than is common on the Campagna, in which the swales get to be
almost diminutive valleys, through one of which trickles a run of water. Here
we find another tiny brick temple, one not larger than the Catholic chapels
that so frequently occur by the way-side, and which, at need, might contain
thirty or forty devotees. It is called the temple of the God of Return (*Fanum Ridiculi), a deity of whom you
probably never heard before. It is said that this tiny temple, which is very
prettily placed, was erected to celebrate the retreat of Hannibal from before
the walls of Rome, and some go so far as to say that his determination was made
in this precise spot; a conceit, by the way, not poetically fine, since there
is scarcely a place in the vicinity so likely to tempt one to remain. The term ridiculous, which is universally applied
to the building, would imply the idea of derision, and that the temple was
erected in mockery. Allowing the history to be true, it may be considered a
very extraordinary relic; but I believe the antiquaries ascribe it to a much
later period, by the brick-work, which is a little peculiar, or to the reign of
Nero. Admitting even this, it is near eighteen hundred years old.
Turning up the rivulet, we will ride on a knoll, about half a mile
from this Fanum Ridiculi, where we
find the ruins of another temple, though it is roofed and is even converted
into a sort of chapel. This is called, and perhaps justly, a temple of Bacchus.
It passed a long time for another edifice, but recent discoveries in a vault
leave little doubt that it was erected in honour of Bacchus. It was of more
pretension than either of the other small brick edifices, though very little
larger, and not of a very pure taste. It had a portico of four columns, evidently
taken from some other edifice, and which are now built into the front wall,
probably witb a view to enlarge it as
a church. This building has a staggering
and propped look, which, while it may
not be classically just, suggests the idea of drunkenness, very eloquently.
Taking into view the beauty of the spot, the distance from the walls
(about two miles), and the neighbourhood, which, from remote antiquity, has
been used for festivals, it is probable this temple was erected as a sort of
religious memorial of merry-makings; a union of the profane and the sacred,
that the ancients were addicted to, as well as the moderns. It may have been a
drinking pavilion of some pious debauchee, who had the notion to sanctify his
cups by the emblems, and even the services of the altar! Why not? — men are still found committing as flagrant acts
of blasphemy, under the show of religion, every day—ay, and even every hour of
the day.
Quitting this, and descending into the valley again — if valley it may
be called, we find a sort of grotto, in the hill side, with a recumbent statue,
a spring of pure water, the source of the rivulet, and the appearance of former
decorations that are now wanting, particularly of statues. This place is
popularly called the fountain of the nymph Egeria, so celebrated for the
artifice of Numa. It is, however, pretty certain that this is not the true
spot; and, considering the proximity of the temple of Bacchus, the grotto is
probably the remains of some Roman expedient to cool wine, and to drink it
luxuriously. Religion may have been mixed up of old with these debauches, as we
know politics and dinners go together in our own times. The recumbent statue is
clearly no statue of a nymph. The work is thought by even the sceptics to be as
old as the time of Vespasian. This grotto and the temple of Bacchus, probably,
had some allegorical connexion, the one being a place to carouse in, the other
a temple to sanctify the rites; and if we add the other fane to the whole, as
an emblem of the manner in which drunkards render themselves ridiculous, we may be quite as near the
truth as the antiquaries.
We will quit these pleasant dales, and ride across the fields, a short
mile, to the line of ruined tombs that marks the remains of the Appian Way. An
extensive pile of ruins will naturally first attract our attention; and we will
spur our horses up the sharp acclivity on which it stands, though by making a
small detour and getting into the rough road, that still leads out on the old
route for a few miles, we might reach the summit more easily. On reaching this
spot, we find the remains of a castle of the middle ages, with courts, walls,
and towers, scattered about the fields, all built in the usual rude and
inartificial manner of those structures, with a keep, however, that has the
grace and finish of the Roman architecture. This keep is round, well preserved,
much better, in short, than the rest of the edifice, which is crumbling around
it. It is about eighty feet in diameter, and is constructed of vast hewn blocks
of travertine; while the other parts of the work appear to be made of stones
gathered in the fields, or taken from the foundations of the tombs. The latter
was most probably the fact. The walls of this keep are thirty feet thick, the
interior being little more than a small vaulted room. It formerly contained the
sarcophagus that is still seen in the court of the Farnese Palace; for, in
brief, this keep was merely one of the tombs of the Appian Way!
An inscription puts the name of the person in whose honour this
extraordinary mausoleum was erected out of all doubt. It is the tomb of
Caecilia Metella, the wife of a mere triumvir, a millionnaire of his day. This tomb is, therefore, the Demidoff of
the Via Appia. It is probably the noblest mausoleum now standing in Europe.
There is no uncertainty about its history; and yet, while one looks at it with
wonder as a specimen of Roman luxury and magnificence, it fails to excite one
half the interest that is felt when we linger around a spot that is celebrated,
by even questionable tradition, for any other sort of greatness. As I gaze at
it, my mind compares this specimen of art with the civilization of Rome,
endeavours to form a general picture from the particular object, and,
certainly, it finds food for useful, as well as for agreeable reflection; but
it scarcely turns to the wife of the triumvir at all: and when it does, it is
rather to distrust her merits; for pure virtue is seldom so obtrusive or
pretending as may be inferred from this tomb. Insignificance is ill advised in
perpetuating itself in this manner. The rest of these ruins are said to be a
fortress of the Popes, about five hundred years old: the tomb itself dating
from the close of the republic.
We might follow the Appian Way with great interest; but, as our ride
has already extended to nearly ten miles, it may be well to turn towards the
city. The ruins of a temple, and some extensive remains of a very unusual and
irregular character, attract our attention near the large tomb. A part of these
ruins are thought to belong to a villa erected at the end of the third century;
and it is probable that the remainder were incorporated in its ornaments, as we
include ruins in the landscape gardening of our own time. There is clearly a
temple which, it is conjectured, also, answered the purpose of a mausoleum.
Attached to this temple, was a circus, — the only one, I believe, that still
preserves enough of its ancient form to give us ocular proof of the real
construction of these celebrated places of amusement.
By the popular account, the circus is ascribed to Caracalla, and the
temple is called the stables of the
circus; but, discoveries as recent as 1825 show that the latter is a temple, or
mausoleum, and even in whose honour it was erected. Vasi disposes of the claims
of Caracalla satisfactorily; and, to say the truth, they were not very great.
He was fond of the amusements of the circus; a circus is seen on the reverse of
his medals; and a statue of himself and his mother were found at no great
distance from this particular circus, though not in it. On this authority, it
was thought he had caused this particular circus to be built. The two first
reasons amount to nothing, especially as the circus of the medals is clearly
the Circus Maximus, which Caracalla caused to be repaired. The statues may have
even belonged to this circus, and been placed there in honour of so great a
patron of the sports; for we certainly should not deem it any great proof that
Napoleon erected a military hospital because we found his statue in it, or that
Nelson erected Greenwich if a picture of him should be discovered in its ruins.
This reasoning is made all the stronger by the fact that this circus is of a
workmanship much later than the time of Caracalla, who has left memorials
enough of his age in his baths. But inscriptions have set the matter finally at
rest; and it is now known that this circus was erected by Maxentius, about the
year 311 of our era, who caused it to be consecrated to his son Romulus, who
was deified. This deification, at so late a period, must
mean something like the canonization of the Catholic saints in our own time. It
was a declaration of peculiar sanctity. The lesser gods of antiquity were
probably no more than the good men of modern days.
As the temple is but a temple, of which there are hundreds still
standing, we will ride round through the fields, and enter the circus by the
great gate, which has been recently opened. Within the area, we find a long
narrow space, surrounded by low walls, with, here and there, a tower. It is
divided into two parts by a sort of dwarf wall, which was called the spina. The sides are straight, but the
two ends are circular. At that opposite to the gate, are the traces of the carceres, or the cells in which the
chariots were stationed previously to starting; the circular form giving each a
pretty nearly equal chance. In these cells or stalls the competitors were
ranged, and at the signal, which it is thought was given from a particular
tower about the centre of one of the walls, they dashed out towards the side of
the circus that had the most room between it and the dwarf wall; for the
greatest space was required at the commencement of the race, when the chariots
were nearly abreast of each other. Space was also left to pass round the ends
of this dwarf wall, on which statues and obelisks were commonly placed, and the
chariots came in as they could. The side walls contained seats, like an
amphitheatre, it is said, for 18,000 people.
The length of this circus is 1560 Roman feet, or rather more than a
quarter of a mile; which, doubled, gives a course of more than half a mile
long; but as many turns might be made as were desired. Judging from what I saw
at Florence, the nicety of the sport must have very much depended on the skill
of the charioteer in turning. The width is 240 feet. The dwarf wall is not
quite 900 feet long, and it varies in height from two to five feet. The remains
of pedestals show that there were many statues, besides those on the spina. There were thirteen stalls. The granite
obelisk of the Piazza Navona was taken from this place, about two centuries
since; an Egyptian obelisk appearing to be an ornament d'usage, for a Roman circus. The dwarf wall is not quite parallel
to the side walls: an arrangement that was probably made with a view to
facilitate the mode of starting. There is a tomb in this circus, that appears
to be much older than the circus itself, and which was probably included in it,
for want of space. The general direction is at right angles to the Appian Way,
on which the circus stands. It was a place of amusement without the walls, and
gives another blow to the theory of the extraordinary extent of the town.
It is fortunate that this circus, though an inferior specimen of its
kind, did stand without the walls, for it would probably have shared the fate
of the others had it been within them. As it is, it is very curious, for the
reason just given, and because it is one of the best preserved ruins near Rome.
The wall of Aurelian must have not only enclosed this circus, but it must have
extended far beyond it, to have been fifty miles in circuit. I find sufficient
evidence that, on whichever side of Rome I ride, the enceinte was probably never materially larger than it is at this
moment.
We will now leave the circus and ride towards the city. As we pass
along the narrow road, we see several rude dwellings constructed on the tops of
ruined tombs, the living having dispossessed the dead. After passing through a
species of suburb, leaving many ancient objects unvisited, we reach the walls
again, and turn along beneath them towards the river. On reaching the last
gate, having now made the entire circuit of the city proper, we enter, and find
ourselves in an open space, or in one little intercepted by walls, and near the
celebrated tomb of Caius Cestius. This tomb is a pyramid a hundred of our feet
high, and sixty square at the base. Its walls are very thick, and it is faced
with blocks of hewn marble. The summit is still a fine point, though it looks
modern, which is probably the fact, as the tomb has been repaired. This pyramid
is another proof that the Romans built for time, since it is of the date of
Agrippa, and is astonishingly well preserved, the restorations having been
little more than renewing the apex. It was also buried at the base a few feet,
and the earth has been removed.
Near this monument is the cemetery of the Protestants. We can see on a
modern stone, near the wall of the city, this inscription — "Cor cordium." It marks the grave of
Shelley; though I do not understand how his ashes came here, as his body was
burned on the shore of Pisa. The inscription was written by his wife, the
daughter of Godwin.
Across the open space, is a low isolated mount, perhaps a hundred and
fifty feet high, and some four or five hundred feet in circumference, with
vineyards clustering around its base, and with its summit and sides gay with
the young grasses of March. Galloping to its foot, we follow a winding path,
and ride to the top, where we are rewarded with a beautiful view, more
particularly of the heights on the opposite side of the river. This little
mountain is called Testaccio, from the circumstance of its having been entirely
formed of broken pottery (*Testa), brought out of the town and deposited here.
By kicking the grass, you still see the fragments beneath, the soil being
scarcely two inches deep. Its history is not very well established; but that
such is its origin, the eye sees for itself. An order of the police may have
rendered this accumulation of broken pottery necessary.
Near this mount, the port is seen; vessels ascending the Tiber, from
the sea, as far as this. But for the bridges, they might go even higher; though
it would be without a sufficient object.
We will now descend, and pursue our way homeward, along the foot of
the Aventine Hill. In the portico of the convent church which we pass, you may
see the arms and name of the patron cardinal, or the dignitary under whose
protection the establishment has placed itself. This is the old system of patron
and client continued to the present day; a system which belongs to aristocracy,
and must exist, in some shape or other, wherever the strong and the weak are
found in contact. I have heard of countries in modern Europe in which the
tribute of the clients forms no small portion of the revenue of the patrons. In
When at
Objects crowd upon us in too great numbers now, and we will ride into
the Via Ripetta and dismount, leaving the rest for another excursion.
In
my last, I took you round the walls, —an excursion I make weekly, for the road
is excellent, and almost every foot of the way offers something of interest. We
will now turn in another direction, which, if not so interesting as regards
antiquities, may amuse you, by giving you better and more precise ideas of the
region in which Rome stood nearly three thousand years since, and stands
to-day.
We will quit the city by the same gate as before;
but, instead of inclining to the right, let us take the opposite direction,
which brings us, within a hundred yards, to the banks of the Tiber.
If you feel the same sensation that I did, on
finding yourself riding along the shores of this classical stream, your seat in
the saddle will be elastic, and you will feel a double enjoyment at galloping
in a pure air and under a serene sky. You know the size of this river already,
and I will merely add that, in the winter and spring, it is turbid, rapid, and
apt to overflow its banks, particularly in the town, — for at the place where
we now are, these banks are perhaps ten feet above the surface of the water. It
is thought the bed of the river has been materially raised by debris within the walls, and projects
have even been entertained for turning the water, with a view to discoveries.
As boats sometimes ascend, there is a towing-track,
which, though little used, is a reasonably good bridle-path, the equestrians
keeping this track beaten. As the stream is as meandering as our own
Susquehanna, it presents many pretty glimpses; though the nakedness of the
Campagna (which, north of Rome, while more waving and broken than farther
south, is almost destitute of any other herbage than grass and a few bushes,)
prevents the scenery from being absolutely beautiful. Still every turn of the
river is pregnant with recollections, and one can hardly look amiss in quest of
a historical site.
The eminence on the opposite side of the stream,
that shows steep acclivities at its eastern and southern faces, and up which a
road winds its way by the south-western ascent, is Monte Mario, a hill that
overlooks Rome, very much as Montmartre overlooks Paris. The half-ruined
country-house that stands against its eastern side is the Villa Madama, so
termed from having been built by Margaret of Austria, a daughter of Charles V,
from whom it has descended to the family of Naples. The house on the summit is
the property of the Falconieri, the present owners of the mount. What a thing
it is to own a Roman site! and what a cockneyism to convert it into a dandy
residence, — a "half-horse, half-alligator" ruin!
After riding a little more than a mile, we reach
the Milvian Bridge, a portion of which is ancient. We will not cross at this
spot, so celebrated for the battle fought by Constantine near it, but pursue
our way up the side of the stream, on which we still are. Crossing the highway,
then, (the ancient Flaminian Way,) we continue our course up the river, which
just here has been the scene of a melancholy event, of no distant occurrence.
The horse of a young Englishwoman backed off the steep bank, and falling over
her, she was drowned. What has rendered this calamity more striking, was the
fate of her father, who is said to have left a post-house in the mountains, on
foot, while travelling, and has never since been found.
Near the scene of this accident, or a hundred rods
above the Milvian Bridge,[13] the river sweeps
away towards the Sabine Hills, and our road leads us along the brow of a bluff,
by a very pretty and picturesque path, which soon brings us to some mineral
waters, that have a reputation as ancient as Rome itself. At this point, though
distant only a mile or two from the city, nothing of it is to be seen, but,
were it not for a few dwellings scattered near, one might almost fancy himself
on a prairie of the Far West, such is the wasted aspect of the country, as well
as the appearance of the rapid, turbid Tiber.
Diverging from the stream, which inclines north
again, taking the direction to the mountains where it rises, we next enter some
fields imperfectly fenced, among which a Tityrus or two are stretched under
their patulae fagi, not playing on
the oaten reed, it is true, but mending their leather leggings. Rising some
hills, we reach another great road, and crossing this, and the fields that
succeed, we come to a spot where the Anio is spanned by another bridge, with a
tower in its centre The part of the environs between the last highway and this
bridge has more of the character of a suburb than any other portion of the
vicinity of Rome; and did the city ever extend far beyond the present course of
its walls, it must have been principally in this direction, I think.
The bridge is the Nomentanus, and dates from the time of Narses, but was restored
about the middle of the fifteenth century, and has much the character of a work
of the latter period. Beyond this bridge is a naked hill, with the remains of
some works or the ruins of villas on it. This is the Sacred Mount, so
celebrated for those decided acts of the plebeians, who twice retired to it, in
a body, on account of the oppression of the nobles, in the years of Rome 261
and 305. Here they resisted all persuasion to return, until Menenius Agrippa
overcame their obstinacy by the famous apologue of the belly and the members of
the human body. The tribunes owed their existence to this act of decision,
which is probably the first trade's union that was ever established. These
things, on the whole, work evil, because they are abused; but they are not
without their uses, as well as tartar emetic. The Romans however, found them
unsuccessful, for they took a solemn oath never to revolt against their
tribunes, — the law, in other words, — and hence the mount, where the oath was
taken, was called the Sacred Mount. No apologue ever contained more truth than
that of Menenius; and yet the belly may disease all the limbs, as well as the
limbs throw the belly into disorder, by sins of commission, as well as by sins
of omission. One can write an apologue about anything, and, after all, a fact
is a fact.
Proceeding another mile, some extensive ruins are
seen between the road of Nomentum and that of Salaria, which are the remains of
the country-house of Phaon, the freedman of Nero, where the last of the Caesars
committed suicide. Two hundred years intervened between the death of Nero and
that of Aurelian, but they were hardly sufficient to bring all this space
within the walls, which must have been the case to give the latter a circuit of
fifty miles. Besides, where are all the remains of this huge town, without the
present wall, if it ever existed there? We see the remains of villas and camps
and bridges all around us even to-day, but none of a city. The Anio would not
be spanned by such rude arches, had Rome ever covered this spot.
Let us now enter the town by the Porta Salaria, and
ride through the vineyards and among the gardens of that quarter, towards that
of St. John in Laterano. Ruins are scattered about on every side, and among them
are aqueducts, from the arches of some of which, water still trickles. The
circular wall on our left, as we approach the gate of St. John, is the remains
of the amphitheatre of the camp, in which the soldiers fought with beasts. The
exterior of this wall is better seen from without, for it has also been
incorporated with that of the town.
Of the vast palace and church of the Lateran I have
nothing to say at present, except that it strikes the traveller with an
imposing grandeur as he enters the city. Some devotees before the little church
near it, however, will draw us in that direction, and you will he surprised to
see men and women ascending a long plain Right of broad steps in it, on their
knees. This is done because tradition hath it that these steps belonged to the
You probably know that this
You will now follow the road to the Coliseum and
the Forum. All this quarter of the town, with the exception of some broken
fragments of suburbs (always within the walls,) is filled with ruins, more or
less conspicuous. Here, indeed, the objects and recollections of the past crowd
upon the senses oppressively, and it requires time and use to visit the place
with a sufficiency of coolness and leisure to analyze the parts, and to
separate the works of different ages and reigns.
An intelligent Swiss who is now here, and who
frequently accompanies me in these morning rides, exclaimed triumphantly the
other day, "You will find, on examining Rome in detail, that all the works
of luxury and of a ferocious barbarity belonged to the Empire, and those of use
to the Republic. The latter, moreover, are the only works that seem to be
imperishable." After allowing for the zeal of a republican, there is some
truth in this; though the works of the republic, by their nature, being drains
and aqueducts, &c., are more durable than those above ground. Still it is a
good deal to have left an impression of lasting usefulness, to be contrasted
with the memorials and barbarity of vain temples and bloody arenas.
Of the Coliseum it is unnecessary to speak, beyond
the effect it will produce on us both. For me, unlike the effect of St.
Peter's, some time was necessary to become fully conscious of its vastness.
When one comes deliberately to contemplate this edifice, its beauty of detail
and of material, the perfect preservation of its northern half, in the exterior
at least, — it must be a dull imagination indeed that does not proceed to
people its arches and passages, and to form some pictures of the scenes that,
for near five hundred years, were enacted within its walls. This noble
structure, noble in extent, in architecture, if not in its uses, was occupied
in the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries as a strong place, by the
contending factions of
This edifice was 1641 feet in circumference,
according to Vasi, who wrote in French; and if French feet are meant, this will
exceed 1700 of our feet, which is near a third of a mile. The height is 157
feet, which is quite equal to an ordinary American church spire, even in the
towns. From these facts you may obtain some ideas of the general vastness, for
the summit was everywhere of the same elevation. The earth had accumulated to
the height of several feet about the base: but it has been removed, a wall has
been erected a short distance from the edifice, and, on that side, one may see
the Coliseum very much as it existed under Nero. The arena, according to my
former authority, was 285 feet long, by 182 wide. This arena is now encircled
by fourteen little chapels, erected in honour of the Christians who are said to
have perished here. The interior, however, is a wild and ruined place.
I know nothing, in its way, that gives one ideas of
the magnificence and power of
As we are not making antiquarian examinations, let
us proceed in the direction of the Forum, and look into its actual condition.
The direction of the Via Sacra is well known. It commenced at the Coliseum, and
passed near, if not beneath, the Arch of Titus, which is still standing; and,
following a line of temples of which we still see many remains, it went beneath
the Arch of Septimius Severus, which
is also standing, and, it is thought, ascended the Capitol Hill, by what are
called the "Sacred Steps." The vacant space which vulgarly passes by
the name of the Forum is in the shape of two parallelograms, united by a right
angle. One of these open spaces lies between the Capitol and Palatine Hills,
and the other stretches from the Arch of Titus to the base of the Capitol, the
latter hill not lying directly in a line with the Palatine. Neither of these
celebrated hills is large or very high, the Capitol having about two thirds of
a mile in circumference at its base, and the latter a little less. As their
sides are generally precipitous, the surfaces of the summits do not vary much
from their dimensions. I should think the present elevation of the Capitol Hill
may be about fifty feet above the level of the surrounding streets; though
there is one point which is higher. These streets are, however, much higher
than formerly, as is proved by discovering the bases of ancient structures some
distance beneath their pavements. The other hill has about the same elevation,
or is perhaps a little higher. Their bases are materially changed.
The
The first palace of Nero must have occupied the
whole of the Palatine Hill, with perhaps the exception of a temple or two, the
ground around the Coliseum (the site of which was a pond), and all the land as
far as the Esquiline, or even to the verge of the Quirinal, — a distance
exceeding a mile. This was possessing, moreover, the heart of the town;
although a portion of the space was occupied by gardens and other
embellishments. When this building was burned, he returned to the Palatine,
repaired the residence of Augustus, and rebuilt with so much magnificence, that
the new palace was called the "Golden House." This building also
extended to the Esquiline; though it was never finished. Vespasian and Titus,
more moderate than the descendant of the Caesars, demolished all the new parts
of the palace, and caused the Coliseum and the baths that bear the name of the
latter to be constructed on the spot. These emperors were elected, and they
found it necessary to consult the public tastes and public good. Thus we find
the remains of two of the largest structures of the world now standing within
the ground once occupied by the palace of the Caesars on which they appear as
little more than points. From this time the emperors confined themselves to the
Palatine, the glory of which gradually departed. It is said that the palace, as
it was subsequently reduced, remained standing, in a great measure, as recently
as the eighth century, and that it was even inhabited in the seventh.
The ruins of the Palatine are now little more than
the vaulted rooms of the foundation. One or two halls of the principal floor
are thought to be still partially in existence; but as nearly everything but
the bricks has disappeared, they offer little more than recollections to a
visitor. Even their uses are conjectured rather than proved. It is possible, by
industry and research, to get some ideas of the localities; but few things at
Rome, compared with its original importance, offer less of interest directly to
the senses than the Palatine Hill. The ruins are confused. and the study of
them is greatly perplexing. Certainly, one is also oppressed with sensations on
visiting this spot; but, unless a true antiquary, I think the eye is more apt
to turn towards the Coliseum, and the other surrounding objects, than to the
shapeless and confused masses of brickwork that are found here.
The site of the house of Augustus is now a villa,
belonging to an Englishman, which is well kept up, and which may have its uses
in a certain sense, but which struck me as being singularly ill placed as
respects sentiment. One could wish every trace of a modern existence to be
obliterated from such a spot; and, moreover, a man ought to have great
confidence in the texture of his own skin, to stand constantly beneath the
glare of a powerful sun.
You know that the Forum was originally established,
in the time of Romulus and Tatius, when a hill was almost a country, as a
market-place between the hostile people. Here the two nations met to traffic. Forums afterwards became common, and the remains
and sites of several in the city are known; but this was the Forum, par excellence.
This Forum remained in a state of preservation as lately as the seventh
century, sufficient to receive monuments; but since that time down to a period
about the commencement of the present century, it was falling gradually into a
worse and worse condition; though its severest blow is attributed to Robert
Guiscard, about the year 1000. He burned and laid waste all this part of
For several hundred years the Romans were in the
practice of throwing rubbish in this spot, to which circumstance is ascribed
the present elevation of its surface. To this cause, however, must be added the
regular accumulation of materials from the crumbling ruins; for other parts of
Rome prove that it is not the Forum alone which has been thus buried. You will
be surprised to hear that, in disinterring many of the monuments that still
remain, the pavement of the ancient Forum, and the bases of the works
themselves, have been found at a depth varying from twenty to twenty-five feet
below the actual surface.
The Forum is said to have been surrounded by a
colonnade of two stories, which gave to the whole a form and arrangement
something like those of the Palais Royal at Paris. The Curia, or senate
chamber, was under the Palatine; and the Comitium, or the place for the popular
meetings, was near it. As the emperors lived above, here was a shadowing forth
of that sublime mystification which has so long blinded and amused the world,
in the way of a political device, which it is the fashion to term the
"three estates." I wonder if Nero said who should be his ministers,
and the senate said who should not!
The Arch of Septimius Severus still remains, one
may say, perfect. It stands at the foot of the Capitoline, and its base is
cleared away, and the vacancy is protected, as usual, by a wall. The digging
around it is not very deep. It dates from the commencement of the second century.
Not far from this arch, there stood, previously to
the year 1813, a solitary column, with nearly half its shaft buried in the
earth, the capital being perfect. This column, it was then believed, belonged
to a temple, or, if not to a temple, at least to the bridge of Caligula but, in
1813, the earth was removed from its base, and it was then found to stand on a
pedestal, on which there is an inscription that proves the column was erected
in honour of Phocas, and as lately as the year 608. I believe it is one of the
last things of the sort ever placed in the Forum. The column itself, however,
is supposed to be much older, and to have been taken from some ancient and
ruined temple. It may have been truly one of those that supported the bridge.
The name of Phocas, it would seem, had been partially erased, after his fall: a
circumstance which shows that men have the same envious stone-defacing
propensities under all circumstances.
There are many other remains in and about the
Forum, some of which are of more interest than those mentioned; but I have
taken these, as my object is to offer you a picture of Rome as it is, rather
than to pretend to any great antiquarian knowledge. You know I am no antiquary.
I do not think many of these constructions equal expectation, with the
exception of the Coliseum, and perhaps I ought to add, the remains that give us
notions of the vastness of the palaces.
By following a road up a sharp acclivity, we reach
the summit of the Capitol Hill, — or rather its square, for the land is higher
on both sides of it than in the area itself. The surface has undergone a good
deal of change; though it is thought still easy to trace the sites of the
ancient constructions. The Capitol of Rome and the Capitol of Washington were
as different as the two countries to
which they belonged. The former, originally, was a town; then a fortress, or a
citadel; and, in the end, it became a collection of different objects of high
interest, principally devoted to religious rites. If any particular building was called the Capitol, it was
the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, which is described as not being very large,
though very magnificent; not large as a building,
though large as a temple; for few of
the Roman temples appear to have been of any great size. The senate assembled
in the Curia, which was on the Forum, as you know, and not in the Capitol at
all.
The buildings that are now called the Capitol stand
on the centre of the mount, facing the north. They consist of three detached
edifices, that occupy as many sides of a square, with a noble flight of steps
in their front. The central edifice contains prisons and offices, and the
others are filled with works of art. The celebrated statue of Marcus Aurelius,
the only equestrian bronze statue of ancient Rome in existence, stands in the
centre of the area, and, although the horse is heavy and even clumsy, according
to American notions, a noble thing it is. The ease and the motion of this
statue are beyond description. It may, at once, be set down as the model of all
we possess of merit in these two respects. The artist may have had a model for
this in some other work of art; but, certain I am, this has been a model for
all we now possess. The senatorial palace, or the centre building of the modern
Capitol, from which we obtain the name and uses of our Capitols, is not very old, and it stands on the foundations of
the ancient Tabularium, a structure that contained the table of the Roman laws,
treaties, &c. The building was originally a sort of fortress, and probably
obtained its name of the Capitol from its situation.
We call our legislative structures Capitols, under
some mistaken notion, I think, about the uses of the Roman Capitol. Let this be
as it may, the Romans gave this name to their
hill from the circumstance of finding a head buried in it; and it might have
been well had we waited until some signs of a head had appeared on our own,
before we christened the edifices so ambitiously. But taste in names is not the
strong point of American invention. After all, too, the American Capitol has
proved the grave of divers sounding heads.
I cannot stop to speak of all the objects of
interest that crowd Rome, for descriptions of which you will search the more
regular books; but we will descend from the Capitol Hill by the winding
carriage road near the great stairs, and, riding round its base by narrow
streets, for here the modern town commences in earnest, and crossing the end of
the Corso, we find ourselves in a large open space, surrounded by houses, with
a street around an area in the centre; which area lies several feet below the
level of the streets, is paved, has a great many broken columns and other
fragments scattered about it, and a noble column entire, standing at one end:
—this is the Forum of Trajan.
Until the year 1812 this place was covered with
houses. A beautiful column rose among them, half concealed by the buildings,
and partly buried. The column is 132 feet high, was surmounted by a statue of
the emperor, which has disappeared, and has been replaced by one of St. Peter.
It is covered with bas reliefs,
wrought in the marble, representing scenes from the Dacian wars. This column
was the model of that of the Place Vendome, at Paris. There is a staircase
within, and, until the time named, those who chose to mount by the outside to
examine it, descended as in a well.
The celebrity of this column is well established.
The bas reliefs have a high
reputation, and must have cost an immensity of labour, as there are more than
two thousand figures, besides military insignia. The Forum was the richest of
Rome; and its length is supposed to have been near 2000 Roman feet, and its
breadth more than 600. This is more, however, than has been uncovered, and
probably more than is certainly known to have ever existed. In 1812 the column
was laid bare to the base, where a door affords entrance; and a good deal of
the Forum has also been excavated, and walled, as usual. The diggings, however,
are not so deep as those of the great Forum, the pavement of the place lying only
about eight or ten feet below that of the town.
Returning to the Corso, we will next ride along
that street, the principal avenue of Rome. It is probable, the Flaminian Way
faced the Temple of Jupiter, or the Capitol; but the modern termination of this
street is altogether unworthy of the street itself. Like the Rhine at Leyden,
it is lost in a maze of narrow, crowded, and crooked passages.
Following this street between lines of palaces, we
come to the Piazza Colonna, where we find the column that is usually called the
Column of Antoninus. It is higher and larger, and a century later than that of
Trajan, but by no means its equal in beauty. This column appears to stand, as it was erected, on a level with the
surrounding earth: but we are told this is an error, as the pedestal now seen
is a substitute in part, and the old one is still buried to the depth of eleven
feet. Even the inscriptions, which are only about two centuries and a half old,
(or about as old as ourselves, as a nation!) are thought to be incorrect; for
it ascribes the column to Marcus Antoninus, in honour of his father-in-law
Antoninus Pius, when, in fact, it was erected by the senate, in honour of
Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, to commemorate his victories in Germany.
The palaces around this square belong to the great
families of Piombino, Chigi, &c. and have thirteen or fifteen windows in a
row, besides being built around courts. The square near, with an unequal little
eminence and an obelisk, is called Citorio. The eminence is caused by the ruins
of an amphitheatre. The obelisk, which Pliny attributes to Sesostris (!) was
brought from
We will now wend our way through narrow and crowded
streets, for a short distance, until we come out in another square of a very
different character. We find it filled with market people, dirty, and far from
attractive; although there is an obelisk in its centre. On the side opposite to
that by which we enter it, however, is an edifice, that, as a second look
shows, possesses a strange mixture of beauty and deformity. Its form is round;
though the adjoining buildings prevent this circumstance from being immediately
seen. It has a noble portico, with a fine row of columns, but a tympanum which
is altogether too heavy. Two little belfries peep out, like asses' ears, at
each side of the portico, in a way to make a spectator laugh, while he wonders
that the man who devised them did not stick them on his own head. An inscription
on the cornice causes us to start; for we see in large letters, M. AGRIPPA. L.
F. COS. TERTIVM. FECIT. This, then, is the Pantheon!
You will be disappointed with the coup d'oeil
of this celebrated structure, as well as I was myself. You will probably
find the building too low, the appliances of the square unseemly, the manner in
which the building is surrounded by houses oppressive, the ears too long, and,
above all, the Roman heaviness of the pediment but a poor substitute for the
grace and lightness of the Grecian architecture of the same form. It is thought
that the body of the building and the portico are not of the same period. The
inscription speaks for itself; and the last, at least, it is fair to infer, was
erected about the year 727 of Rome, or a short time previously to the birth of
Christ.
On entering the
building, it is impossible not to be struck by its simple and beautiful
grandeur. A vast vaulted rotunda, of solid stone, without a basement, and
lighted by a graceful opening that permits a view of the firmament, are things
so novel, so beautiful, not to say sublime, that one forgets the defects of the
exterior. This idea is one of the most magnificent of its kind that exists in
architecture. The opening, a circular hole in the top, admits sufficient light,
and the eye, after scanning the noble vault, seeks this outlet, and penetrates
the blue void of infinite space. Here is, at once, a suitable physical
accompaniment to the mind, and the aid of one of the most far-reaching of our
senses is enlisted on the side of omnipotence, infinite majesty, and perfect
beauty. Illimitable space is the best prototype of eternity.
I believe the vulgar notion that the Pantheon was
dedicated to all the gods is
erroneous. It is a better opinion, it would seem, to suppose that it was
dedicated to a few gods, in whom all or many of the divine attributes are assembled. This, after all, is begging the question,
as the gods themselves, it is fair to presume, represented merely so many
different attributes of infinite power and excellence. The niches are not
sufficient to hold many statues, and there probably never were statues in the
building to one half the deities of Rome.
One of the principal external faults of this
edifice, as it is now seen, must not be ascribed to its architecture. Its
majesty is impaired by its want of height; but it has been ascertained that
eight steps anciently existed in front of the portico, in place of the two
which are now seen. The diameter of the rotunda is 132 Roman feet; and this is
the edifice, as you know, that Michael Angelo boasted he would raise into the
air, as a cupola for St. Peter's. He has raised there something very like it.
Since the year 608 the Pantheon has virtually been
a Christian church. There is a long period during which it is not mentioned;
but it is fair to presume, it has always preserved its present character since
the year just mentioned. At one time the palace of the popes adjoined this
temple, and then it served as their private chapel.
We will not return to the Corso, but, winding our
way out of this maze of streets, return home by the Via Ripetta. The huge
palace we pass near the river, in the shape of a harpsichord, is that of the
Borghese family, and it is at present occupied by the Prince Aldobrandini, the
brother of Don Camillo, who married the sister of Napoleon. It is a huge
edifice, with courts, and is worthy to be a royal abode. Still, it is by no
means the best house in Rome; but he who has not seen this town, or rather
Italy, can form no just idea of magnificence in this part of life.
The close of the last letter reminds me of the propriety of saying
something of the mode of living in Rome. Nothing has surprised me more than the
accounts given in English books of the filth, nastiness, and other pretended
abominaions of the princely abodes here, as well as of the mode of life within
them. The English, as a people, have been singularly unjust commentators on all
foreign usages and foreign people; though they are fast losing their
prejudices, and beginning to discriminate between customs. Neither the
Italians, nor any other Continental nation, deem the English snuggeries
indispensable to happiness. They admire a rich parquet, or a floor of imitation mosaic, more than a pine or an
oaken floor carpeted. Their staircases are broad architectural flights, on
which a stair-carpet and brass rods would be singularly misplaced; and the
great size of their houses renders the minutiae of our pigmy residences not
only unnecessary, but would render them excessively troublesome and expensive.
Certainly the English and the Americans are neater in their houses than the
French or the Italians; but a large portion of what has been said against the
higher classes of the two latter countries may, I think, be fairly explained in
this way. As between the labouring classes of England and America on the one
side, and those of the Continent of Europe in general on the other, there is no
comparison, on the score of civilization and its comforts; the advantage being
altogether with the former. The mass of no nation can have domestic comforts,
or domestic cleanliness, when the women are subjected to field labour. Exactly
in the proportion as the females can turn their attention within doors, does
the home become comfortable and neat, other things being equal. But, beyond
this, false notions exist. The Englishman of rank, through the perfection of
the manufactures and the commerce of his country, has a detail of comforts of a
certain class, and perhaps of a wider class than the Continental nobility; but,
on the other hand, there are other essential points in which he falls far
behind them. What, for instance, are the chamber-comforts and elegancies of an
English town-house, compared to those of an Italian town-house? Compare the
baths, dressing-rooms, and ante-chambers of a French hotel, or an Italian
palazzo, with the same things in a London residence! The baths, dressing-rooms,
cabinets, and ante-chambers of our lodgings in
Travellers are too much in the practice of describing under the
influence of their early and home-bred impressions. As a man sees the world,
his prejudices diminish, his diffidence of his own decisions increases, and
with both, his indisposition to write. Many a man has commenced travelling with
a firm intention of faithfully describing all he saw, and of commenting, as he
conceived, impartially, but who has gradually suffered this intention to escape
him, until he gets to be too critical in his distinctions to satisfy even
himself. Thus, the English cockney, who has never seen a house with more than
two drawing-rooms, fancies it extraordinary that an Italian, with a palace
larger than St. James's, should not always occupy its state apartments,
although his own king is guilty of the same act of neglect. Instead of saying
that the Princes Doria, Chigi, Borghese, Colonna, Corsini, &c. have vast
palaces like George IV. and that their state apartments are liberally thrown
open to the public, while, like King George and all other kings, they occupy,
in every-day life, rooms of less pretension and of more comfort, they say, that
these Roman nobles have huge palaces, — a fact that cannot be denied, — while they
live in corners of them. This false account of the real state of the case
arises simply from the circumstance that an English nobleman occupies his best
rooms. The question whether the second-rate rooms of an Italian palace are not
equal to the best apartments of an ordinary English dwelling, never suggests
itself.
I visit in the Palazzo Borghese, which stands in our neighbourhood.
The Prince himself resides altogether at Florence, where he has another noble
house, and in which he receives magnificently; but, here, a large part of the
building is filled with pictures, in order to be exhibited to strangers. It is
true the appartamento nobile, or
first floor, is not now opened, for the family of the Prince Aldobrandini is
here merely on a visit: he is a younger brother, and his proper residence may
be called Paris, the Princess being a French lady of the family De La
Rochefoucauld. Accordingly, when admitted, I certainly do not enter the state
apartments, but am shown into what we call the third story, where I find the
family. A pretty picture might be made of this, but it would mislead you. Here
is a princely family, with an enormous house, it might be said, that lives in a
corner of it, even on the second floor, leaving all the principal rooms
unoccupied. This is the ordinary English version of the custom, and, of
necessity, the ordinary American. In point of fact, however, the ascent to this
third story is far more imposing, and quite as easy, as the ascent to a common
London drawing-room; and, with but very few exceptions, I have never seen an
English nobleman so well lodged in London, in his best rooms, as the present
occupants of the Palazzo Borghese are in
their corner. The misconception has arisen from the difference in the
habits of the two countries, and we have adopted the error, as we adopt all
English mistakes that do not impair our good opinion of ourselves: in other
words, we swallow them whole.
There are Italian nobles, out of doubt, who are not rich enough to
keep up their vast palaces; and there are English nobles in the same
predicament. In such cases, the Englishman retires to the Continent in order to
live cheap; and the Italian retires to his attic, or mezzanino which is
frequently better than the first floor of an English town-house. The latter can
live cheapest at home.
As to the filth on the staircases, which the English accounts had led
me to expect, I have seen none of it, in any palace I have entered. It is
possible that some deserted staircase, or that the corridor of one of these
huge piles, may occasionally be defiled in that way, for it has happened in
London to the best houses; but, as a distinctive usage, the accounts are
altogether false, so far as eighteen months' experience of Italy can authorize
me to decide. There are certain disadvantages belonging to magnificence, which
is never so comfortable and so minutely nice as snugger modes of living; but if
one cannot have snugness with magnificence and taste, neither can one have
magnificence and taste with snugness. Homilies might be written on the moral
part of the question; but to understand the physical merits, it is necessary to
enter into all these distinctions.
I know too little of Italian society to say anything new about it, or
even to speak very confidently on any of the old usages. The daughters of
particular families, I believe, are getting to have more of a voice in the
choice of husbands than formerly; though France is still much in advance of
Italy in this respect. I take this one fact to be the touchstone of domestic
manners; for the woman who has freely made her own selection will hesitate long
before she consents to destroy the great pledge of connubial affection.
Cicisbeism certainly exists, for I have seen proofs of it; but I incline to the
opinion that foreigners do not exactly understand the custom. By what I can
learn, too, it is gradually yielding to the opinions of the age. A foreigner
married to an Italian of rank, and who has long been resident in Italy, tells
me its social tone is greatly impaired by the habits of the women, who are so
much disposed to devote themselves to their sentiment in favour of particular
individuals, as to have no wish to mingle in general society. Whether these
individuals were the husbands or not, the lady did not appear to think it
necessary to say.
The females of Rome are among the most winning and beautiful of the
Christian world. One who has been here a week can understand the bocca Romana, for no females speak their
language more beautifully. The manner in which they pronounce that beautiful
and gracious word "grazie,"
is music itself. A French woman's "merci"
is pretty, but it is mincing, and not at all equal to the Roman
"thanks." After all, as language is the medium of thought, and the
link that connects all our sympathies, there is no more desirable
accomplishment than a graceful utterance. Unfortunately, our civilization is
not yet sufficiently advanced to see this truth, — or rather, the summerset habits of America cause us to
forget it; for I can remember the time when a lady deemed an even, measured,
and dignified mode of speaking, necessary to a lady's deportment. It is a
little odd, in a country so ambitious of mere social distinctions as our own,
distinctions that must exist in some shape or other, since social equality is
incompatible with civilization, and in which girls can and do milk cows in
silks and muslins, that so few think of setting up elegance, as a means of
distinction! My life on it, those who succeeded would have it all their own way
for a good many lustres.
Rome, just at this moment, contains a congress of all the people of
Christendom. Its most obvious society, perhaps, is the English; but it is by no
means the best, as it is necessarily much mixed. I was lately at a great ball
given by the Prince of _____, and it certainly was faultless as to taste and
style. I do not remember ever to have been in a society so uniformly elegant
and high-toned. The exceptions were very few, and not very obtrusive. The
apartments were vast and magnificent, and the supper equal to the rest. But the
Italians of condition may be generally considered a polished and amiable
people, whatever is thought of their energy and learning. In the latter there
is no very apparent deficiency; though they attend less to this point, perhaps,
than some other countries of Europe. In the studious classes, it strikes me
there is much learning; not a knowledge of Greek and Latin quantities merely,
but a knowledge of the sciences and of the arts, and a strong sympathy with the
beauties of the classics.
In the lower classes I have been agreeably disappointed. Strangers
certainly see the worst of them; for a kinder and quicker-witted, and a more
civil people, than most of the country population, is not usually seen. Had we
formed our notions by even the first nine months' observation, it would have
misled us, for subsequent experience has made us acquainted with several
dependants of the most excellent character and disposition.
Few foreigners, however, see much of Italian society; the great inroad
of strangers causing them to be cautious of opening their doors, while the
number of the strangers themselves is apt to make them satisfied with their own
associations. It is said that there are some thousands of travellers in
It is said the English bachelors here got up a ball lately, with a
view to manifest a kind feeling towards their hosts, and that the invitations
were sent out as "at homes;" a freedom that the Roman ladies resented
by staying away. So much from not understanding a language; though delicacy and
tact in conferring obligations and in paying compliments are not singularly
English virtues.
We have had a dinner,
too, in honour of Washington, at which I had the honour to preside. You will be
surprised to hear that we sat down near seventy Yankees (in the European sense)
in the Eternal City! We were very patriotic, but quite moderate in its
expression.
I have ascertained that strong hopes exist here of advancing the
religion of this government in America. If this can be done, let it, for I am
for giving all sects fair play; but as such expectations certainly exist, it
may be well for those who think differently to know it. One of the last things
that an American would be likely to suspect, is the conversion of his countrymen
to the Roman Catholic faith; and yet such a result is certainly here brought
within the category of possibilities. I would advise you to take large doses of
Calvinism, or you may awake, some fine morning, a believer in
transubstantiation.
You will be surprised also to learn that there is less religious
bigotry in Rome itself than in many of the distant provinces subject to her
canonical sway. The government being in the hands of ecclesiastics, as a matter
of course no open irreligion is tolerated; but beyond this, and the great
number of the churches and of the ecclesiastics themselves, a stranger would
scarcely suspect he was living purely under an ecclesiastical government. The
popes are not the men they once were: nepotism, cupidity, and most of the abuses
incident to excessive temporal influence, are done away with; and as the motive
for ambition ceases, better men have been raised to the papal chair. Most of
the last popes have been mild, religious men, and, so far as man can know;
suited to their high religious trusts; though the system is still obnoxious to
the charge of more management, 'perhaps, than properly belongs to faith in God
and his church. But all establishments are weak on this point, and the general
assemblies, &c. of
Strangers are no longer expected to kneel at the appearance of the
Host in the streets, or even in the churches. The people understand the
prejudices of Protestants, and, unless offensively obtruded, seem disposed to let
them enjoy them in peace. I saw a strong proof of this lately: — A friend of
mine, walking with myself, stepped aside in a narrow street, for a purpose that
often induces men to get into corners. He thought himself quite retired; but,
as I stopped for him to rejoin me, a crowd collected around the spot he had
just quitted. Without his knowing it, the image of a Madonna was placed in the
wall, directly above the spot he had chosen, and of course it had been defiled!
I saw all this myself; and it is a proof of the change that exists in this
particular, that I dared to remain to watch the result, though my friend
himself thought it prudent to retire. A priest appeared, and the wall was
sprinkled with holy water, while the people stood looking on, some at the wall
and some at me, in grave silence. Thirty years ago such a blunder might have
cost us both our lives.
Indeed, liberality, in some respects, is carried to a fault. The
singing of St. Peter's has a reputation far and near, and strangers are
accustomed to go there to hear it. There is a particular chapel in which a
service is sung, (vespers, I presume,) every Sunday afternoon, and where one
can hear the finest vocal church music in the world, — music even finer than
that of the Royal Chapel at Dresden. At the latter place, however, the music is
chiefly instrumental; whereas here it is principally by voices. One who has
never seen such a temple, or heard such a combination of science, skill, and
natural — I may say artificial power,
can form no just notion of the sensations that arise on walking among the
wonders of the church and listening to the heavenly chants. Sometimes I
withdraw to a distance, and the sounds reach me like the swells of airs in
another world; and at times I go near the door of the chapel, and receive the
full bursts of its harmony. Operas, concerts, and conservatoires sink into insignificance before this sublime union
of the temple and its worship; for both may be considered as having reached the
limits of human powers, so far as the senses are concerned.
Around the door of this chapel, which is, I believe, called the Chapel
of the Choir, strangers assemble in crowds. Here, I regret to say, they laugh,
chat, lounge, and amuse themselves, much as well-bred people amuse themselves
in an evening party anywhere else. There is not much noise certainly, for
well-bred people are not often noisy; but there is little or no reverence.
After making all possible allowance for the difference between Catholic and
Protestant worship, this want of respect for the altar and the temple is
inexcusable. Happily, I have never yet seen an American indulging in this
levity. The fact speaks volumes in reply to those who heap obloquy on the
nation as wanting in religion. The larger American sects manifest a great
disrespect for the mere house of God: they hold political meetings in their
churches, even concerts and exhibitions, all of which I deem irreverent and
unsuited to the place; but whenever anything like worship is commenced, silence
and decency prevail. This feeling they have brought abroad with them; but other
Protestants, especially the English, who are such observers of the decencies at
home, do not appear to entertain the same feelings.
Still, it must be admitted that the Catholics themselves do not always
set a good example. I was strolling lately through the vast temple, equally
impressed with reverence and delight, when a cardinal entered by a side door.
He was a young man, with a marked air of gentility; and I presume his early
rise in the church was owing to his high birth. He was in his official dress,
and carried the red hat pressed against his bosom. As he entered from the
Vatican, I presume he had just been in the presence of the Pope. Four
attendants followed, two of whom were in black, and were a species of clerical
esquires, though their official appellation is unknown to me; and two were
common livery servants. The cardinal advanced to the great altar, beneath the
celebrated baldacchino, and, kneeling, he prayed. Nothing could be better than
his whole manner, which was subdued, gentle, and devout. So far all was well.
The two esquires kneeled behind the
cardinal on the pavement, put their hats to their faces, and appeared also to
pray. The two lacqueys kneeled behind the esquires, the distance between the
respective parties being about twenty feet; and they too raised their hats
before their faces, — but it was to laugh and make grimaces at each other! This
buffoonery was so obvious as to amount to mockery, and one near them might see
it.
You know my passion for the poetry of the Roman worship. The odour of
the incense, the vaulted roofs, attenuated aisles and naves, the painted
windows, and the grand harmonies of the chants, are untiring sources of delight
to me. It is true, at Rome one sees no Gothic architecture; but its place is
nobly supplied. The riches as well as the number of the churches are
incredible, and one can only become reconciled to the apparent waste by
remembering that the pretence is to honour God. A temple in the human heart is
certainly better than one of stone; but I see no incompatibility between the
two. These are distinctions into which I do not enter; or, if sometimes tempted
to make them, I feel persuaded that it is quite as possible to strip the altar
of its dignity and decencies, as it is to overload it with useless ceremonies
and pageants.
No one who has not visited Rome can have a just appreciation of the
powers of Domenichino and Guido, or perhaps of Raphael, — though the latter is
to be seen to advantage elsewhere, — or any idea of the pass to which men have
carried the magnificence of church architecture. I do not now allude solely to
the unrivalled grandeur of St. Peter's, but to the splendour of the churches in
general, and especially to that of the private chapels. These private chapels
have been ornamented by different families for ages, and the result is, that
they have literally become architectural gems, though less in the sense of a
pure taste, perhaps, than in that of an elaborated magnificence. That of the
Corsini, in St. John of the Lateran, is the richest I have seen; and I feel
persuaded that I speak within bounds when I say, the money that would be
necessary to build such a thing in America would cause ten or a dozen of our
largest churches to be constructed.
The great resources of Rome in antiques, columns, precious stones, and marbles,
render these expenses less onerous than elsewhere; but their value even here is
immense. The Prince of _____ showed me a mosaic ornament in his vestibule, that
had now been there some ages; and he told me that the precious stones it
contained would sell for a very large sum.
Vasi has a list of one hundred and thirty-three churches; and as he
describes them all, I presume the little chapels that have been made out of the
ancient temples, of which there may be a dozen or two, are not included. The
smallest of these churches, if the little temples are excluded, are as large as
the largest of our own; and each of the basilicae of which there are now six,
is nearly, if not quite as large, in cubic contents, as all the churches of
We have lately ascended to the roof of this wonder of the world. It
resembles a table-land on a mountain, and I was strongly impressed with the
notion of having a horse to gallop about it. The two small domes rise from the
plane like churches, and the great dome looks like a mountain. The sacristy of
this church is of itself a great edifice, and it is rich beyond all American
notions.
St. Peter's of the Vaticano, as well as the palace, to which it is
annexed, if such a term may be used, gets its name from the ancient Roman
appellation of the spot. Nero had his circus and gardens here: and it is said
that this is the place in which most of the Christians were martyred. The first
church was relatively small, though subsequently much enlarged; but it was
removed when the present building had got to be advanced. The palace is very
ancient, though much changed, for Charlemagne lived in it while at Rome to be
crowned, which was more than a thousand years ago. It fell into ruins, however,
and was restored by Celestinus III. two centuries later. It has certainly been
in its present form more than three centuries, as Raphael and Michael Angelo
have left memorials on its walls not to be mistaken. The latter essentially
roofed and raised St. Peter's, and it follows that the present palace is older
than the present church. In truth, the latter was erected as an accessory to
the former!
The
The palace and the church are incorporated in one edifice; but, owing
to the noble colonnade by which one approaches St. Peter's, its unity and
vastness, particularly its height, and the fact that the Vatican has no great
visible facade the latter is almost lost in the coup d'oeil of the other, although it covers most ground of the two,
unless the area of the vacancy between the colonnades be thrown in on the side
of the church.
It is usual to say, the conclaves are held in the
The frescoes of Raphael in the
It is wondered that one who could conceive of even the old man
throwing his body into chaos, should have fallen so low as the idea of the next
picture. In the compartment of the gallery that follows, the same old man is
represented starting a planet in its orbit with each hand, and setting the
moon, or some other heavenly body, in motion, with a kick of his foot!
Criticism applied to such a thought would be thrown away.
I am not going the rounds of the galleries and museums with you; but
you will be curious to know what impression the great works of art have
produced on me. Six or eight of the most celebrated easel pictures of the world
are in the
Most of the statuary is placed in long galleries, through which one
walks for hours with absorbing interest. The precision and nature with which
the ancients wrought brutes is surprising; more especially dogs in attitudes
which, while they are both natural and beautiful, are seldom long maintained.
This skill denotes a German minuteness that one hardly expects from the Romans.
But the most precious of the statues are in a tribune, beautifully arranged as
to light, and so placed as to permit the spectator, virtually, to see but one
at a time. This is a great improvement on the ordinary gallery disposition; for
the crowd of objects usually causes confusion rather than delight, on a first
visit. A great number of grave-stones of martyred Christians have been
collected, and are preserved here. They are recognised by the cross, which, it
is known, was carved on them.
Certainly, it was a sensation when I first found myself in the gallery
of this tribune, —perhaps it is better to call it a colonnade, or a portico.
This place contains many minor attractions; but its principal works are the
Apollo, the Laocoon, the Antinous, with the Perseus, — and the Boxers of
Canova.
It is unfortunate that the Perseus should be so near the Apollo, for
the points of resemblance are sufficiently obvious. This latter statue
surpassed all my expectations, familiar as one becomes with it by copies; and
yet it is now conjectured that it is itself merely a copy! I write with
diffidence on so delicate a point; but such is the suspicion that it is
whispered so loud that any one may hear it. It is said it has been ascertained
that the marble is of
Whatever may be the truth as respects the Apollo, one would find it
almost impossible to believe the Laocoon a copy; though I believe the profane
have whispered even this calumny. There are one or two good copies of this
work, but it struck me that no one could closely imitate the surface. It is
true, we have no original to compare it with, and may fancy that perfect which,
strictly, would prove to be otherwise; for men are often deceived in the details,
when there is great merit in the principal features of a work. Certainly, I
think the Laocoon the noblest piece of statuary that the world possesses.
Pliny mentions this statue, or at least one of the same nature, as the
masterpiece of Grecian art that was then to be found in
While writing this letter, I find proof of the doubtful character of
authorities. The work of Mrs. Starke is well known, and it certainly has great
merit in its way. This lady, however, like most of her sex, has no definite
notions of distances, surfaces, &c. Few mere writers have; for they usually
are not practical people. In speaking of the Vatican, Mrs. Starke, whom I had
consulted with the hope of being able to give you something in feet and inches,
says, "its present circumference is computed to be near seventy thousand feet." To adopt
this lady's own mode of expressing admiration, "!!!!" A mile contains
five thousand two hundred and eighty feet; and this will make a circumference
of rather more than thirteen miles, which is but little short of the circuit of
the existing walls of
As respects the comparison between manuscripts and books, the latter
are more to be depended on for accuracy, since, although liable to errors of
the press, the number of the editions leaves more opportunities for correction
than the system of publishing by written copies. The last edition of a standard
work is always chosen for its correctness, especially if printed during the
author's life; but who can say when the few manuscripts of Pliny that we
possess were written out? when, or by whom, or under what correction? To lay
much stress, therefore, on a fact that must necessarily be traditional, or
taken at second-hand, and which rests altogether on the testimony of a book, is
far from safe. There are things of public notoriety in particular places, at
the time of their publication, on which a writer may generally be trusted; but
when we come to matters of second-hand intelligence, or which are less
notorious, it is wiser to believe a circumstance, than to believe a sentence in
a book, however well turned. If the Apollo be truly of
The fresco painting of the Last Judgement, by Michael Angelo, in the
Sistine Chapel, is one of the most extraordinary blendings of the grand and the
monstrous in art. You know the anecdote of this painter's coming into the
I refer you to the regular books for the detailed accounts of the
treasures of art with which not only the Vatican, but all Rome abounds, my own
gleanings being intended for little more than my own feelings and ruminations.
The Princess V[olkonskaya], a Russian, now in
The Germans have a long-established reputation for the love of
official titles. In this respect they resemble the people of
The common Italians are prodigal of titles. Almost every gentleman is
styled "your excellency," and some of the addresses of letters that
one gets are odd enough. Beyond this, the same simplicity exists as is found
elsewhere.
To return to Monte Mario. It is a place to which I often go, and
lately I was lucky enough to enjoy the spot all alone. There is an avenue lined
by poplars, along the brow of the hill; and here I took my station, and sat an
hour lost in musing. This hill does not impend over Rome absolutely as
Montmartre overlooks Paris; but still it offers the best bird's-eye view of it
that can be obtained from any height, though not better than can be had from
St. Peter's, nor, in some respects, as good a one as is seen from the belfry of
the Capitol. Still, it is a beautiful and impressive scene, and one takes it,
pleasantly enough, in a morning ride.
On my mind, the comparison between
These are the more obvious points of difference — such as lie on the
surface; but there are others that enter more intimately into the composition
of the two people. The traditions of twenty centuries have left a sentiment on
the mind of the Roman, which a colonial and provincial history of two has never
awakened in the Manhattanese. The people who now live within the walls of
The learned, the polished, the cultivated of every people flock to
Rome, and pay homage to her arts, past and present; while the inhabitant still
regards them as the descendants of
the barbarians. Money on one side, and necessity on the other, are gradually
changing this contempt; but traces of the feeling are still easily discovered.
An American, here, had occasion to prefer a request to this government lately,
and the functionary addressed was told by a Roman that the applicant would be
sustained by his countrymen. "What is
We are deemed barbarians by many here who have less pretensions than
the Romans to be proud. They who crowd our marts appear there only for gain,
and they bring with them little besides their money and the spirit of cupidity.
A Roman, in his shop, will scarcely give himself the trouble to ascend a ladder
to earn your scudo; but, let it be
known in Gath that one has arrived having gold, and he becomes the idol of the
hour. Nothing saves his skin but the fact that so many others come equally well
garnished.
"Which of these two people is the happiest," I said to
myself, as my eye roamed over the tale-fraught view; "they who dream away
existence in these recollections, or they who are so eager for the present as
to compress the past and the future into the day, and live only to boast, at
night, that they are richer than when the sun rose on them in the
morning?" The question is not easily answered; though I would a thousand
times rather that my own lot had been cast in Rome, than in New York, or in any
other mere trading town that ever existed. As for the city of
The Roman despises the Yankee, and the Yankee despises the Roman; —
one, because the other is nothing but a man who thinks only of the interests of
the day; and this, because that never seems to think of them at all. The people
of the Eternal City are a fragment of the descendants of those who, on this
precise spot, once ruled the world; of men surrounded by remains that prove the
greatness of their forefathers: of those to whom lofty feelings have descended
in traditions, and who, if they do not rise to the level of the past
themselves, do not cease to hold it in remembrance: while the great emporium of
the West is a congregation of adventurers, collected from the four quarters of
the earth, that have shaken loose every tie of birth-place, every sentiment of
nationality or of historical connexion; that know nothing of any traditions
except those which speak of the Whittingtons of the hour, and care less for any
greatness but that which is derived from the largeness of inventories. The
first are often absurd, by confounding the positive with the ideal; while the
last never rise far enough above the lowest of human propensities to come
within the influence of any feeling above that which marks a life passed in the
constant struggle for inordinate and grasping gain. — "Dollar, dollar,
dollar, dollar; lots, lots, lots, lots!"
I repeat, that the earth does not contain two towns that, in their
histories, habits, objects, avocations, origins, and general characters, are so
completely the converse of each other, as
How much longer
Our pic-nic on Monte Mario, all this time, is forgotten. It included
Russians, Poles, French, Swiss, Germans, Italians, &c. but no English. I
was the only one present who spoke the English as a mother tongue. We had a
table placed beneath the trees, and ranged ourselves so as to overlook Rome,
while we indulged in creature-comforts ad
libitum. A thunder-cloud gathered
among the Sabine Hills, forming a noble background to a panorama of desolation;
but the sun continued to shine on
Among the guests was a clever Frenchman, who had written a witty work
on a journey around his own bed-chamber. By way of a practical commentary on
his own theoretical travels, he was now making the tour of
We have had the Carnival, with its follies and fun, and are now in the
Holy Week. During the former, the Papal Government relaxes much of its severity
admitting of bails, masquerades, ballets, and operas. Although
The public masquerades take place in the theatres. One, in particular,
in our immediate neighbourhood, is much frequented for such purposes, and the
music alone repays one for the trouble of dressing and masking. The pit and
stage are floored, so as to form an immense sala; and the boxes, which in
A ludicrous occurrence to myself took place at one of the masquerades
in the theatre mentioned. The families that occupy the lower tier of boxes are
commonly of the middle classes, as the floor is so high as to destroy
everything like retirement in them. The masks pass them, of course, and stop,
at will, to converse with those who are not masked. Passing one of these boxes,
I was struck with the singular beauty of a girl of about seventeen. Her costume
was exceedingly pretty, and her face the very beau ideal of all that was classical and perfect. I was so much
charmed with, her appearance, that I went in quest of two or three friends,
that they might not lose so rare a sight as a perfect beauty. The admiration
was general, and the beauty received our homage with a coy consciousness that
served to heighten her charms. At length the party to which she belonged left
the box, and made its appearance in the sala. Two of us followed it with a view
of getting a nearer sight of the beauty, in order to ascertain whether we could
detect any blemish or not. As I was quite near her in the crowd, she spoke, and
then, like Slender in the Merry Wives of Windsor, I discovered, by as croaking
a voice as ever sang discordantly in the throat of fifteen, that "it was a
great lubberly boy!" A classical outline, fine eyes, paint, and dress, had
deceived us all. The effect of these masks is such, at times, as to render the
legends of romance less improbable than sceptics fancy.
I have been amused at meeting several of our own people in these
scenes who would hesitate about being seen in them in
I have been struck with the singular beauty of the women who appeared
in the streets of
Certainly, in no place in
which I have yet been are the gaieties of the Carnival conducted with so much
spirit as here. The young strangers join in the fun with as much gusto as the
natives, and it is impossible not to laugh at the follies that are committed. A
usage that is peculiar to the Romans, consists in pelting each other with an
imitation of sugar-plums. The gravest men may be seen passing in their
carriages, and suddenly jumping up and casting a handful of these small shot
into each other's faces. Not satisfied with this, a sort of artillery has been
invented, by which they may be thrown with so much accuracy and force as to
render a volley annoying. The young English here have appeared in cars made to resemble
ships, with crews of ten or a dozen, dressed as sailors; and when two of these
cruisers get yard-arm and yard-arm, —
for the two lines of vehicles pass in different directions, —there are commonly
exchanges of vigorous broadsides. Every one that can, engages a room that
overlooks the Corso; and the windows and balconies are filled with ladies, who
when they are not kissing their hands to their friends below, are busied in
powdering them with sugar-plums. Altogether, one is singularly inclined to play
the fool; and I feel satisfied that these fetes
contribute to the good-fellowship and kind feelings of a population. The police
takes good heed that there shall be no serious horse-play: and some of the
sugar-plum artillery even has been suppressed, as likely to lead to more
serious contests. Any one who should resent a volley of sugar-plums. when
fairly in the field himself, would be deemed a silly and ill-natured churl. It
is rumoured here, that a challenge has passed in consequence of some shots;
and, although the parties were delicately situated previously, the challenger
is generally condemned as an ill-natured fellow who had no business in the
streets.
The celebrated races, of which we had several in the last week,
resembled those of Florence, though conducted with more spirit. The horses run
about a mile, in the midst of a dense crowd, who excite them by shouts and
gestures. You know, there are no riders, but leathern thongs are attached to a
back-strap, that is secured by a
cropper and a girth; and these thongs are loaded with balls of lead which
contain short iron spikes, very sharp, that act as spurs, by being thrown about
with the motion of the animal. This apparatus seems cruel: but, after all, it can be no worse than the armed heel
of the jockey, or the lash. It is true, these balls are constantly in motion;
but I do not think they inflict very grave wounds.
The race itself is a puerile thing; but there is something terrific in
the mode of clearing the street previously to the start. Imagine a straight,
narrow street, that is literally crammed with people. A platoon of horse
gendarmes appear at one end, and commence clearing the way on a trot.
Presently, this trot becomes a gallop; and then these ten or twelve men, riding
knee to knee, and uncommonly well, dash through the crowd as fast as their
horses can carry them. The people retire before them as water recedes from the
bows of a ship in a gale; and, at times, it would seem that escape was
impossible. Accidents occasionally happen, but they are rare. I have regarded
this as much the finest part of the exhibition.
But the most amusing part of
the street scenes of the Carnival is the last act. As the sun sets, every one
appears with a light or two. These lights are usually tapers made for the occasion,
but sometimes they are torches. Every one is privileged to extinguish his
neighbour's light. Common street-masquers will clamber up on the carriage of a
prince, and blow out his taper, which is immediately relighted, as if character
depended on its burning. Some clamber up even to the balconies to effect their
purpose, and others drop shades from them to extinguish a light. There is
something extremely ludicrous in seeing a grave person carefully protecting his
taper from an assailant in front, who merely amuses him while an extinguisher
on a long stick advances from behind and cautiously descends on the flame.
Every one laughs, and the defeated man joins the merriment and relights. This
scene is called the moccoletti, and
it is said to be a remnant of some of the Roman Saturnalia.
The calm of Lent succeeded to the fun and clamour of the Carnival. I
ought to have said, however, that the people of quality terminate the
festivities by meeting in petits comites and supping gras. The observances of the Lent have not struck me as being much
more rigid than elsewhere, though the religious rites have been more general,
and were conducted with greater pomp than is usual, even among the Catholics.
When Passion Week arrived, however, we saw we were in the centre of
Christendom. Palm Sunday was a great day, all the cardinals appearing in the
Sistine Chapel, bearing palms. On this occasion, an Englishman, a Mr. Weld,
appeared as a cardinal; the first of his nation, I believe, since the death of
Cardinal York. This gentleman was a layman, has been married, and has
descendants now in this place. He is a man of fortune, and of one of the old
English Catholic families.
Several popular errors exist in relation to the rules of the Romish
Church. The canonical orders are precisely the same as our own, being merely
those of bishop, priest, and deacon. All above and below these are merely
additions, which, it is admitted, have been devised by the Church, for its own
convenience, in the way of government; just as the Church of England has
created archbishops, archdeacons, deans, vicars, rectors, curates, &c. The
Archbishop of Canterbury and the Pope, in a religious sense, are merely
bishops. It is not necessary, I believe, that a cardinal should be even in holy
orders at all. Most of them are, but I understand the rule is not absolute. I
do not know that Mr. Weld has ever been ordained. The functions of a cardinal
are properly of a civil nature, though they are intimately connected with the
government of the church. They are ecclesiastics, and cannot marry; but it is
said cardinals have retired, and then married. One or two of these have been
named to me.
It is usually, almost invariably the case, that the Pope is taken from
the Holy College; but it is not constitutionally necessary. You or I might be
elected pope; but, previously to induction or installation, we should be
required to enter the Romish Church by Romish baptism, and then pass through
the several orders of deacon, priest, and bishop. The Pope is bishop of Rome in
a canonical sense, and, in virtue of that office, head of the Roman Catholic Church. The cardinals are classed
among themselves as cardinal bishops, cardinal priests, and cardinal deacons;
but this is not their clerical rank. Thus, Cardinal Fesch who is archbishop of
Lyons, appears in the list as only a cardinal priest. Cardinal Albani, the
secretary of state, is a cardinal deacon, has no bishopric, and was once
married. I presume he is not even in holy orders.
The notion that the Pope must be an Italian is false, of course, there
being no constitutional restriction on the choice of the Holy College.
The ceremonies that succeeded those of Palm Sunday have been imposing
and rich, and the music of the highest character. But these things have been
too often told to find a place in these desultory gleanings. One thing,
however, has astonished me: I mean the indecent and pertinacious pushing of
strangers. There is a corps of halberdiers here, composed of Swiss. One of
these men is of great strength and stature, and I saw the poor fellow in a
premature purgatory, endeavouring to keep back the English women, who pressed
for admittance into a room that was not ready to receive them. The perspiration
rolled from him in streams, and finally he gave up the point in despair. It is
necessary to have witnessed such a scene to believe it possible.
Towards the last, we had the Benedictions. There were two of these
ceremonies, on one of which the Pope blesses Rome, and on the other, the earth.
The latter was very imposing. The ambassadors went in state, as well as all the
high nobility; and seats were prepared around the great altar in St. Peter's.
Vast as this edifice is, it was well garnished with human faces; but it will
scarcely do to say it was crowded. The Pope appeared among us, borne on men's
shoulders, amid waving plumes, in a chair of gold — that is to say, famously
gilt.
The benediction is given from a balcony in the front of the church,
and the people are in the area between the colonnades. The space is sufficient for
ten times the number that collected. The colonnades, too, are occupied, and in
one of them I took my station. Observing a respectable-looking black man behind
me, curious to know who he could be, I took an occasion to address him in
French. He answered me imperfectly; and I tried Italian, but with little better
success. Of English he knew nothing; but he threw me into the shade by
commencing a conversation in Latin. I was too rusty to do much at this, but I
understood enough to discover that he was a Romish priest from Africa —
probably connected with the Propaganda. When I told him I was an American, he
looked at me with interest, and I thought he was as much astonished at my
colour as I could possibly be with his. What a missionary for America!
The ceremony of the benediction, though solemn and grand, is confined
to mere gestures, so far as the people beneath are concerned. The voice of the
Pope cannot be heard, but his gestures were graceful and pleasing. The
Catholics kneeled, but the Protestants did not; to my surprise, for the
blessing of no good man is to be despised. There is too much of the "D—n
my eyes! change my religion? never," of the sailor, in us Protestants, who
seem often to think there is a merit in intolerance and irreverence, provided the
liberality and respect are to be paid to Catholics. He who comes voluntarily
into a Catholic ceremony is bound to pay it suitable deference; and then, God
is omnipresent. I never saw anything wrong in kneeling to the Host; for, while
we may not believe in the real presence as to the wafer itself, we are certain
that a homage to God himself can never be out of place or out of season. All
men would be of the same way of thinking, had not politics become so much mixed
up with religion.
If you ask for the general impressions left by these ceremonies, I
answer, that these people appear to me to be the only people I know who are
perfectly drilled in such things. The vastness of the edifices, the richness of
the dresses, the works of art, the music, and the consciousness that one is in
the heart of Christendom, serve to heighten the effect; and yet, after all, the
soul of worship, it struck me, was sadly wanting. I have seen a decent
solemnity in the congregation of our own little Christ's Church at C[ooperstow]n,
that left a deeper impression than all the laboured pageantry of St. Peter's at
Rome; and you know I am not of the class that has no sympathies with another
parish. Want of reverence in the manner — the hurried and undignified mode in
which the Romish offices are usually performed, and the obvious fact that the
audience were assembled as curious observers, rather than as those who joined
in the worship, were sad drawbacks on the more sublime sentiments that properly
belong to such occasions.
The celebrated Illumination greatly surpassed my expectations. The
vast dome is ribbed with lights, so disposed as to delineate all the grand
outlines of the architecture, as are also the facade of the church itself and
the colonnades. Knowing the magnitude of these edifices, you may fancy, in a
degree, the effect. The lights are rich and full, suited to the scale of the
building; and the rapidity with which they are set in a blaze, as it were in an
instant, is truly astonishing. It is not literally true that all the lights appear at the same
moment, for a great number of small lamps, which equally trace the lines of the
architecture, are lighted while there is still day, and they appear gradually
as the darkness advances, forming a very pretty spectacle of themselves. But a
second set of lamps, or torches, of a different kind, blaze out at once at an
appointed hour, when these fainter lamps form secondary lines to the tracery of
the exhibition. No illumination that I have ever witnessed at all approaches this
in magnificence; nor does any other show the same dramatic effect in lighting
up. The word instantly is not to be
taken literally either, for I dare say two or three minutes pass before the
whole structure is illuminated; but this time is really so short, and the
effect is so very great, that one does not stop to count moments amid the blaze
of magnificence. The effect is like that of furling sails in a man-of-war. Time
is taken, certainly; but so much is done in a minute, that it seems to the
uninstructed as if all were done in a moment.
The fire-works of St. Angelo were also the richest I have ever seen.
There was a volcano that surpassed all my previous notions of the powers of
this branch of art. But the climate of Italy greatly favours this species of
exhibition.
After five delightful months passed at Rome, the
moment for departure arrived. Every one waited to the end of the Holy Week, and
then every one seemed impatient to fly. We delayed a few days, in order to
visit Tivoli, and a few other places that had been neglected; and then we
reluctantly drove through the Porta del Popolo, with the rest of them. Our own
carriage, drawn by four active white horses, and a carriage of the vetturino,
drawn by four sturdy brown ones, made the cortege. I took the vetturino
carriage on account of its conveniences; for it was roomy, and rendered a fourgon unnecessary.
The first stage was altogether on the Campagna, and
it brought us to an insignificant village where we breakfasted. The road was
lined with carriages, but some knowledge of horse-flesh had given us cattle
that passed everything but the post-horses. Now, you are to know that the
throngs on the highway, just at this moment, are so great as to render it a
matter of some importance who reaches the end of a stage first. At the house
where we breakfasted was an English post-chariot, drawn by three horses, and
containing three people besides servants; the master wearing a particularly
expressive countenance, that induced my children to name him the Grognon. He scolded a littleabout his
breakfast, which was certainly anything but excellent, and preceded us on the
road. The man appeared to have screwed himself up to a week of grumbling.
The country for the rest of the day was volcanic,
and, although it was still a plain, it was more cultivated and habitable than
the Campagna had been. Soracte appeared on our right, and we were gradually
working our way into its rear. The stopping-place for the night was Civita
Castellana. This town, like Sorrento, has a natural ditch formed by the
crevices of the volcanic rock. When we entered its principal square, I thought
all the vetturini carriages in Italy had got there before us. My man, however,
drove boldly up to the best inn, where only a carriage or two were visible,
and, winking, he told me to be prompt.
I sought the landlord, whom I found in hot
discourse with the Grognon,
concerning certain rooms, the best he had. These rooms, he swore volubly, were
already bespoke by a gentleman who had sent a courier from Rome for that
express purpose. This much I overheard as I approached, and thought it augured
ill. In the mean time, the rogue looked out of the window, and perceiving that,
including postilions and servants, we were a party of eleven, with eight horses,
he drew in his head, and exclaimed, "Ah! this is the very gentleman. Here,
Signore, this is the apartment that you can have. I am very sorry for this
other Signore, but he must be satisfied with those rooms opposite. You know you
have bespoken these."
Though ready to laugh in the fellow's face, I did
not deem it necessary to enter into explanations with the Englishman, but,
asking pointedly of the innkeeper, if I could have these rooms, and receiving a
satisfactory answer, I took possession of them with a determination not to be
easily ejected. The Grognon, who now
began to merit his title, was obliged to succumb, though I believe he suspected
the truth. I went on the principle of doing as I should have been done by.
Every one was off with the dawn, the carriages
streaming out of the gate of Civita Castellana in a line like that of the
baggage of a regiment. We took the lead, and soon had the road to ourselves. A
bridge carried us over the Tiber, and we began to ascend the Apennines. We
breakfasted on their side at a hamlet, and, leaving the horses to bait, I
walked ahead. It was a solitary wild mountain road, though perfectly good; and
I soon fell in company with a party of pilgrims on their return from Rome.
These men carried the staves and scrips, and wore a species of light cloak,
with the capes covered with scallops. They were conversable, and anything but
solemn or way-worn. They had been employed in some of the recent ceremonies of
the Church.
When the carriages came up, we had a wild
picturesque country, especially about Narni, where were also some Roman
remains. Here we descended into a beautiful valley; and in the bottom are the
remains of a fine bridge of the time of Augustus. Passing through vineyards,
olive-trees and fruit-trees, we reached the little city of Terni, a place of
six or seven thousand souls, and which is prettily placed on the river Nera, in
the centre of a very fertile region. This is the country of Tacitus. Although
still early, we drove to an inn, and secured good lodgings; after which we
proceeded to the falls. The latter lie more than a league from the town, as we
found to our cost, for we made the mistake of undertaking to walk to them. We
luckily got a few asses on the road; though W[ilIiam] and myself walked the
entire distance there and back.
These celebrated falls are artificial, having been
made by the Romans some centuries before Christ, by turning the course of a
pretty little stream. They are reputed the finest waterfalls in Europe; a
quarter of the world that, while it has many cascades, has few fine cataracts.
These of Terni are between the two, being insignificant for the last, and large
for the first. Those of our party who have seen the Falls of Trenton think them
much finer than these of Terni; but I have never seen the first myself. There
is a "method in the madness" of these falls that I think slightly
impairs their beauty, though very beautiful they are. The thing at Tivoli will
not compare with them: but I am told the falls of Tivoli have been much injured
by some public works. This, you know, is the case with the Cohoes.
Between Terni and Spoleto, next day, we had another
reach of mountains, and of mountain scenery. There are Roman remains at the
latter place, which is prettily placed on a rocky and irregular hill that is
thought to be an extinct crater. An aqueduct, that is called Roman, has arches
of the Gothic school, and is probably a work of the middle ages. There is also
a high bridge across a valley, that communicates with a hermitage; a proof of
what religious feeling can effect even when ill directed. There is a poetry,
notwithstanding, about these hermitages that makes them pleasing objects to the
traveller. I may have seen, first and last, a hundred of them in Europe, though
many are now untenanted: these of Italy are generally the finest.
At Spoleto there was another rush of coaches, and
the Grognon, looking war and famine,
made his appearance at the same inn as ourselves. The scuffling for breakfast
and rooms was sufficiently disagreeable, though, preceding all the others, we
escaped the melee.
The valley beyond Spoleto was very beautiful. On
one side there is a cote, as the
French term it, and houses and churches were
clinging to its side, almost buried in fruit-trees. While trotting along pleasantly,
beneath this teeming hill-side, we came up to a small brick edifice that stood
near the highway, and between it and the meadows, which had spread themselves
on our left, more like a country north, than one south of the Alps. This little
building was about the size of the small temples of the Campagna so often
mentioned, and, like them, it is, beyond question, of Roman origin. It is
called the Temple of Clitumnus, from the circumstance of its standing at the
sources of that classical stream; but is now a Christian chapel. You would be
surprised to find these temples so small, for this makes the twentieth I have
seen, all of which are still standing, that has not been much larger than a
large corn-crib. The workmanship of this is neat but plain; though it is
probable that its marbles have shared the fate of those of so many
amphitheatres, theatres, forums, and temples that are found all over Italy. It
is with these ruins as with our departed friends: we never truly prize them
until they are irretrievably lost.
We reached Foligno in good season, and, by a little
manoeuvring, managed to get nearly the whole of a retired but very respectable
inn to ourselves. As we intended to diverge from the beaten path at this point,
we now flattered ourselves with being so far out of the current, that we should
no longer be compelled to scuffle for our food, or to wrangle for a room or a
bed.
The day was just dawning as we drove through the
gate of Foligno. Until now we had merely skirmished with the outposts of the
Apennines; but here we were compelled to cross the great ridges, as had been
done in the year 1828, between Bologna and Florence. All eyes looked curiously
ahead, as, having passed some distance into a gorge by the side of a stream, we
began to ascend a winding road where the nakedness of the hills permitted us to
see a mile or two in advance; for everybody was anxious to know whether any of
the great flight were likely to take the same direction as ourselves. Nothing
was seen, and we went our way rejoicing.
This passage of the Apennines is called the Col
Fiorito, and although the road is good and the mountains are not Alpine, the
ascent is long and sharp. We alighted and walked two or three miles before we
gained the summit of the pass. Before we reached the top, however, I gave a
look behind us, and was half amused and more vexed at seeing the eternal yellow
chariot and three horses of the Grognon
toiling its way up after us, perhaps a league in our rear! It appeared as if
the man had come this way expressly to bring matters a outrance.
This sight quickened our movements, for it was
understood that breakfast, which everybody was in a good humour to enjoy, must
be had in a poor mountain hamlet, or delayed until afternoon. Luckily, when we
took this alarm, we had little more climbing to do, and our road was nearly all
descent to the village; whereas our pursuers would be obliged still to walk an
hour before they could break into a trot. This made the betting in our favour,
"Lombard-street to a china orange."
In an hour we were at the inn door. A boy was put
on a horse and despatched for milk, for you may have wine in Italy when you
cannot get milk. Lucie was sent into the kitchen with a biggin, (not the cup,
but the coffee-pot,) and in twenty minutes
everybody was at table, and, literally, every eatable in the house, bread
excepted, was devoured. I had been informed that two roasted fowls might be had
at a sort of eating-house in the village, and these were also secured, and
eaten, by way of precaution against a rescue.
Breakfast over, we left the inn and were about to
walk ahead of the carriages, as the chariot and three came rolling down the
declivity into the village. Seeing us apparently in possession, the Grognon thrust out his head, gave a
growl and an order, and the equipage moved proudly on, as if it disdained
stopping. We followed, telling the servants they would find us on the road
below. To our surprise, at the bottom of the hamlet we met the Grognon and his party on foot, walking
sulkily back towards the inn, with the manner of people humbled by misfortune,
and yet not totally above indignation. The last house was the eating-house in
question, and stopping to inquire, we discovered that he had heard of the two
roasted fowls, in Foligno probably, and finding us at the inn, had pushed on to
seize these devoted birds, which, alas! were already eaten. Necessity has no
law, and this gallant man was compelled to subdue his stomach, lest his stomach
should subdue him. We sympathized with his situation, precisely as the well-fed
and contented are apt to sympathize with the unlucky and hungry; or, in other
words, we determined that, in an extremity, one might breakfast even on bread.
W[illiam] affirmed that the man was rightly served: — "Let him take a
fourth horse, instead of compelling three to drag that heavy chariot up these
mountains, if he wish to eat chickens."
The road was beautiful the remainder of the day. It
had at first a sort of camera-lucida wildness about it; a boldness that was
quite pleasing, though in miniature, after the grandeur of the Alps; and as the
day drew towards a close, we rolled, by a gradual and almost imperceptible
descent, into a lovely region, affluent in towns, villas, hamlets, and all the
other appliances of civilized life. This was in the March of Ancona, and our
day's work terminated at Tolentino, a place celebrated for one of Napoleon's
early negotiations.
Tolentino stands on an insulated hill, in the midst
of a beautiful but broken country, and it struck us as a place more important
as lying near this pass, than from any other cause. The Serra valle, a gorge in
the road above, has a reputation, but it is not of Swiss frightfulness. Earlier
in the spring and in winter, however, the passage of the Col Fiorito is a
matter of more gravity. Starvation was the only danger on this occasion. We
watched impatiently the arrival of the Grognon,
but he disdained entering within the walls of Tolentino that night.
The fine country continued next day, the road being
principally a descent until we rose another eminence, and stopped at Macerata.
This was once the capital of the March, and the Adriatic became visible from
the inn, a silvery belt in the horizon, distant some eight or ten leagues. All
the towns in this district appear to be built on isolated hills, that once
admitted of being strongly fortified. As other hills are all around them,
however, the circumstance is of little use as against modern warfare. Of these
towns, we passed two after breakfast, one of which, Recanati, stands on a
ridge, the ascent to and descent from which were like Montagne des Russes.
About three in the afternoon we came to the foot of
another ridge, that runs at right angles to the coast of the Adriatic, from
which it might be distant a league. The ascent was longer and easier than that
of Recanati; and having overcome it, we found ourselves in a village of a
single long street, that was terminated by a pretty good square and a large
church, with other ecclesiastical edifices, of pretty good architecture, and
which were tolerably spacious even for the States of the Church. These were the
village and the celebrated shrine of Loretto, a spot that formerly filled a
place in the Christian world second only to Jerusalem.
The books say Loretto contains five thousand souls:
my eyes would reduce this number one half, but it may be true never-theless. It
is simply, not to say meanly, built, the ecclesiastical edifices excepted; and,
as at Einsiedeln, in Schwytz, most of the small houses are either inns, or
shops for the sale of rosaries and other similar accessories of Catholic
worship. We took rooms — no Grognon
near — ordered dinner, and went forth to see sights.
The Church of Loretto is of better architecture
than that of Einsiedeln, but scarcely so large. Its riches and construction are
Italian, which it would be hardly fair to the latter to put in competition with
those of the Cantons. It stands at the head of the square, and on its left
stretches a large pile, which I believe is
the palace of a bishop, and a library; and partly facing the church are
other buildings connected with the establishment, for many ecclesiastics are
kept here to do the service of the shrine. There are many chapels within the
church, and some of them are curious by their associations.
The Santa
Casa itself, or the shrine, as you most probably know, is affirmed to be
the house of Joseph. It stands near the centre of the church, which has been
erected around it, of course, as an honourable canopy. The house is also cased
externally with Carrara marble, wrought beautifully, after designs of Bramante.
It is ornamented with sculpture, that represents scenes from the history of the
Mother of Christ. The original wall, which is exposed in the interior, where
little is concealed, is of brick, pieces of stone being intermixed, as was much
practised formerly in Europe, whatever may have been the case in Palestine. It
is fair to presume it was a general usage. The image of the Virgin, which is
separated from those within the house by a grating, is said to be made of the
cedar of Lebanon, and it wears a triple crown. It is gorgeously attired, bears
a figure of the Child in one arm, and has the bronzed, mysterious countenance
that it is common to find about all the more renowned altars of Mary. There is
a small fireplace and a solitary window. By the latter the angel is said to
have entered at the Annunciation. The dimensions of the house of Joseph are
about thirty feet long, fourteen wide, and near twenty high. If there ever was
an upper room, no traces of it remain.
The history of this shrine, as it is given in a
little book sold on the spot, is virtually as follow: — The house, of course,
was originally built in Nazareth, where Jesus was reared. In 1291, angels
raised it from its foundations and transported it to Dalmatia. Here it remained
between four and five years, when it was transferred to Italy by the same
means. It was first placed in a wood near Recanati, on the land of a lady named
Laureta; whence the present name of Loretto. The road to it being much infested
by robbers, the angels again removed it a short distance, leaving it on the
property of two brothers. These brothers quarrelled and fought about the profits
of the pilgrims, who began to frequent the shrine in throngs, and both were
killed; whereupon the house was finally removed to its present site.
Various physical proofs are alleged in support of
this history. The house in Nazareth is said to have disappeared, and the
foundation to have remained. This foundation and the house, it is affirmed,
correspond as to fractures, materials, and dimensions: and, I believe, some
geological proof is also adduced, in connexion with the materials.
What is one to think of such a history? Do they who
promulgate it believe it themselves; or is it a mere fiction invented to
deceive? —Can it be true? Certainly
it might, as well as that this earth could be created, and continue to roll on
in its orbit. — Is it true? That is
certainly a great deal more than I shall presume to affirm, or even to believe,
accompanied with circumstances of so little dignity, and facts so little worthy
of such a display of Divine power. — Do the people themselves, they who frequent
the shrine, believe it? Of that I should think there is little doubt, as
respects the great majority. — I cannot express to you the feelings with which
I saw my fellow-creatures kneeling at this shrine, and manifesting every sign
of a devout reliance on the truth of this extraordinary legend. One woman, a
well-dressed and respectable female to all appearances, was buried in the
recess of the fireplace, where she remained kneeling, nearly an hour, without
motion!
Loretto is no longer much frequented by pilgrims
from a distance. Formerly, the treasury had the reputation of being immensely
rich, and a garrison was maintained in the place to guard it. There are, even
now, the remains of military defences around the church, which stands at a
point where the rock falls away rapidly towards the Adriatic. It has been said,
the popes availed themselves of these riches at different times; and it is
pretty certain most of them have disappeared since the period of the French
invasion. The French bear the opprobrium of having despoiled the shrine; but it
is quite as probable that they were anticipated; for who that knew their career
in Upper Italy would have waited, on such an occasion, until the enemy was at
the gate? Little remains; though we saw some things of price in the treasury,
several of which were quite recent gifts from royal personages.
There is an infirmary for the pilgrims annexed to
the establishment, and I went into it to see some designs of Raphael's that
were painted on the jars and other vessels which held the medicines. They are
extraordinary things in their way, and prove that the divinity of the school of
Raphael is not the divinity of an anchorite. These gallipots, and the house
near the Porta del Popolo at Rome, exhibit the author of
the Transfiguration, very much as Ovid betrays his taste in the Metamorphoses,
and Juvenal his in his Satires.
We passed the night at Loretto, where we purchased
sundry rosaries made of shells from the adjoining coast, candles, agnus dei, and other memorials of the place, all of which were properly
authenticated by a certificate.
I cannot discover how far the Church of Rome at
this day attaches importance to belief in the history of the Santa Casa. It is
not now, and probably never was, a matter essential to communion with the
Catholic Church, though it certainly did receive support from the head of the
Church at one time. So far as I can discover, intelligent Catholics, especially
those out of Italy, wish to overlook this shrine, which, they say, may be
believed in, or not, as one credits or discredits any other legend of ancient
date. Its history is not sacred, and it is not obligatory to put faith in it.
Certainly, I should say, that the more enlightened Catholics, even here, regard
the whole account with distrust: for he who really believed that God had made
such a manifestation of his will, would scarcely hesitate about worshiping at
the shrine, if he worshiped at all, since the building would not have been
transferred by a miracle without a motive. It is fair, then, to suppose that
few among the intelligent now put any faith in the tradition; for it is certain
few of that class continue to make pilgrimages to the spot. The time will
probably come when shrine and legend will be abandoned together.
The next day's work was short, carrying us only to
Ancona. The road was through a pleasing country, and some of the views,
especially towards the mountains, were exceedingly beautiful. The eastern faces
of the Apennines, like the southern faces of the Alps, appear to be more
precipitous than those of the reverse side. The summit of the range was now
white with snow, while the entire foreground offered an exquisite picture of
verdure and sunny fertility, imparting to the view, notwithstanding the
principal elements were the same, peculiarities that were not often observable
among the Swiss peaks. There was a warmth in the tints — a softness that,
though it left the brilliancy, destroyed the chill of the summits, — and, all
together, a gentleness of atmosphere and a calm about this landscape, that I do
not remember to have ever witnessed in Switzerland, except on the Italian side
of the mountains.
Ancona is only some sixteen or eighteen miles from
Loretto. We got in, therefore, early, and had an opportunity to examine the
place. The port is formed, in part, by the bluff against the side of which the
town is principally built, aided by a mole of considerable extent. A part of
this mole is very ancient, for there is an arch on it, which was raised in
honour of Trajan, though it is vulgarly called the Arch of Augustus. Another
arch, farther advanced, shows that the popes have greatly added to the work.
The harbour is pretty and safe, but it appears to want water. Here we first
stood on the shores of the Adriatic. The colour of this sea is less beautiful
than that of the Mediterranean; its waters having a stronger resemblance to
those of our own coast than to those of the neighbouring sea.
The view was fine from the promontory above the
town; but I looked in vain for the opposite coast of Dalmatia. There is a
cathedral on this height, and in it a picture of great merit by Guercino an
artist little appreciated by those who have not visited the States of the
Church. This town is pretty well fortified, and seems intended for a military post
of some importance.
On leaving Ancona next morning, we commenced a
journey of some twenty or thirty leagues, nearly every part of which was within
a mile or two of the Adriatic, and much of it so near as to give us constant
views of that sea. The first stage was to Sinigaglia, a pretty little town with
a sort of a port; for all the places along the shore have some pretension to be
considered seaports, although the coast is a low sandy beach, almost without
points, or bays, or headlands: a small creek has usually sufIiced to commence a
harbour, and by means of excavations, and perhaps of a small mole at the
outlet, to prevent the accumulation of sands by the south winds, the thing has
usually been effected. Some of the connexions of the family of Bonaparte reside
in or near Sinigaglia, which has many good houses in its vicinity.
We passed the night at Fano, a town of several
thousand souls, in which there are some respectable Roman remains, though of the later periods of the
empire. The next morning we went to La Cattolica, a small and insignificant
place, to breakfast; passing Pesaro, a place of more importance, without
stopping.
We saw the remains of a considerable castle near La
Cattolica, which had once belonged to the Dukes of Urbino, and is even now, I
believe, kept up as a sort of fortress of the pope's. It was rather a striking
structure of the sort for Italy; this country not being at all remarkable for
buildings of this nature. One reads of moated castles among the Apennines in
Mrs. Radcliffe's novels; but I have not yet seen an edifice in all Italy that
would at all justify her descriptions. Such things may be, but none of them
have lain in my path. With the exception of the Castel Guelfo, near Modena, and
the regular forts and citadels, I do not remember to have seen a moated
building in the whole country. Some of the castles on the heights are
gloriously picturesque, it is true, of which that of Ischia is a striking
example; but, on the whole, I should say few parts of Europe have so little embellishment
in this way as Italy. The Romans do not appear to have built in the castellated
form at all, it being a fashion of the middle ages; and during the latter
period, most of the fastnesses of this part of the world were made out of the
ruins of Roman works. At all events, after passing near two years in Italy, and
traversing it from Nice to Naples, and from Naples to this point I have not
seen the castles of the romances at all.
The English novels in general, more particularly
those written a few years since, give very false notions of the state of the
Continental society; as, indeed, do those of the Continent give false notions
of that of the English. Nothing, for instance, can be more outrageously absurd
than Richardson's story of Clementina, in Sir Charles Grandison, which betrays
an entire ignorance of Italian usages. But Richardson evidently knew very
little of the better classes of his own country; for though lords and ladies in
his time may have worn wigs and hoops, they were not the arrant coxcombs and
formalists he has made them.
This morning, walking ahead of the carriages, we
amused ourselves for several hours on the beach. I felt what wanderers we had
truly become, when I beheld the children I had seen gathering shells on the
coast of America, on the shores of the Mediterranean, and those of the North
Sea, now amusing themselves in the same way on the beach of the Adriatic. We
quitted the duchy of Urbino and entered the Romagna, as it is called, near La
Cattolica.
The scenery improved as we advanced, the mountains
drawing nearer to the coast, and the foreground becoming undulating and
verdant. We had the sea always on our right, and seized every good occasion to
stroll on its beach. Our day's works were easy, the towns lying at convenient distances
asunder, and, what rendered this part of the journey more pleasant, not a
travelling vehicle of any sort was met on the road: even the Grognon had vanished, a defeated man.
The second night from Ancona we slept at Rimini. At
this town the Emilian and Flaminian Ways joined each other; for we had
followed, most of the distance from Rome, the great route of the ancients
between the capital of the world and Cis-Alpine Gaul. Here is still a triumphal
arch in honour of Augustus, and a bridge as old, or nearly as old, as his age.
They show a tribune, also, from which it is said Caesar harangued the people
the morning after he had passed the Rubicon! There was, at least, something
manly in the audacity of this tradition.
At Rimini we witnessed a ceremony that a two years'
residence in Italy had never before given us an opportunity of seeing. There
had been a long drought; and a procession, in which hundreds of the peasants
from the adjoining country appeared, was made to implore rain at different
shrines. A Madonna of repute was borne in front, and great devoutness and faith
were manifested by those who followed. There is probably no essential
difference between these prayers and those of our own Church for a similar
favour; though the formalities observed on this occasion were singularly
addressed to the senses. I was amused by observing that the clouds looked dark
and menacing over the Apennines, and that these ceremonies were commenced under
good omens. And yet it did not rain! I do not know, after all, that we are to
consider these ceremonies as possessing more virtue in the eyes of the
Catholics than our Church prayers possess in our own: it is but another form of
petition.
Not far from Rimini is a high mountain that stands
insulated from the great range of the Apennines. It is irregular in form, and a
small town is seen near its summit, while, all together, it appears rather more
cultivated and peopled than is common for the hills. This is San Marino, the
oldest republic of Christendom. It had been my intention to visit the place,
but indisposition prevented me. The territory includes the mountain and a small
hilly district at its base, with a population of about five thousand souls. I
was told at Rome by one who had ruled the Romagna, that this little community
betrayed a good deal of jealousy of its independence, and that its government
was believed to be very justly administered. Of course, such a State exists
only by sufferance: the pope can, at any moment, imprison the whole community,
by forbidding them to trespass on his States, At this point the Grand Duchy of
Tuscany extends to the summits of the Apennines, coming within a very few
leagues of the Adriatic.
It is a matter of dispute where the Rubicon really
is. The inhabitants of Rimini say it is the Marecchia, the small river that is
spanned by the ancient bridge I have mentioned; while those of Savignano claim
the honour for the Pisatell, a still smaller stream that runs near their place.
I believe the prevalent opinion is in favour of the latter; and there is
certainly a monument near the road to say as much. The first, notwithstanding,
is the most plausible-looking stream
for a boundary, as it runs nearly in a direct line across the narrow neck of
land that lies between the mountains and the sea. These things are often
arbitrary; but, were any one to reason coolly on probabilities, I think he
would select the Marecchia for the Rubicon. As the great roads commenced and
terminated at this point, it renders it still more likely that this was the Rubicon.
Emilius or Flaminius would be more likely to commence such works at a frontier,
than at a few miles distant. Au reste,
I am too ignorant of the learned part of the question to give an opinion.
The stream that commonly passes for the Rubicon (the
Pisatello) is a mere rivulet that certainly offered to Caesar no other obstacle
than that of the prohibition, as it might be forded with dry knees. We
breakfasted, the day we left Rimini, at Cesena. This is the country of the
Malatesta family; and the place contains some works of the middle ages, that
are still in tolerable condition. We had now diverged from the sea, and were
fairly on the great plain of Lombardy, though still in the Romagna. The road
ran nearly parallel with the mountains, which here quitted the Adriatic to
cross to the other sea, leaving the whole of the wide country between their
bases and those of the Alps, in the vast plain of which I have already spoken.
We slept at Forli, a town of some size, and which we found neat and convenient.
At all these places we amused ourselves with looking at pictures, cathedrals,
and ruins; but none are of sufficient note to call for an especial mention of
them. Our stages were short, and the road from Ancona to Bologna was almost
without hills. Forli was the Forum Livii of the ancients, and, of course, was
on the Emilian Way, which pursued nearly, if not precisely, the route of the
modern road. All these great highways are kept in excellent repair; and it is
not easy to find any country in Europe that has better post-routes than Italy.
Indeed, most of Europe is well off in this particular; France, perhaps, ranking
among the least favoured countries in this respect, notwithstanding all the
praises that have been lavished on Napoleon because he caused an inlet to be
made, here and there, into his conquered provinces. It is true, Italy owes the
Emperor much in this respect; but the motive is too apparent to render his
benefactions fit themes for eulogium. A man who left the roads between his own
capital and its nearest towns in a condition to break half the carriage-wheels
that pass over them, is to be distrusted when he constructs a garden-path
across the Alps. This conduct reminds one of those zealots who are for
converting the heathen, and who neglect their own neighbourhoods. In the one
case, it is the love of excitement and a morbid zeal; while in the other,
however, it was a cool and selfish calculation.
We passed Faenza next day without stopping, having
become wearied with seeing towns of ten and twenty thousand souls. This place
is known for its pottery wares; whence the French word faience. At Imola we breakfasted. This was another of the Forums
(that of Cornelius); and the town is said to lie on the verge of the plain of
Lombardy, though in truth this plain ought to commence at Rimini, if not at
Ancona. Here the poplars began to show themselves; though this tree is much
more abundant in France than in the country from which it has derived its
American name. Indeed, I am not sure one did not see more poplars in America
twenty years ago than are now seen here; though everybody seems as anxious to
be rid of the tree to-day, as our fathers were to procure them. It is said at
home, that the dead naked tops which are so common in the poplar, are owing to
there not being a sufficient intermingling of the sexes; but the same
peculiarities are observed in Europe. — From Imola we drove to Bologna, which
we reached in good season.
The distance between Ancona and Bologna is one
hundred and thirty-five miles, which we had passed in four easy days' work,
with scarcely a hillock on the whole road, with the exception of a little
broken ground between Sinigaglia and Pesaro. Most of the country was beautiful;
and the Apennines the whole time relieved the monotony of a plain. In its way,
it has proved to be one of the pleasantest journeys we have yet made in all
Europe.
Our stay at Bologna was short, for we were fearful of being too late
in the season for Venice. The first day's work was to Ferrara, which place we
reached early, having left Bologna with the appearance of the sun. The country
was low, and had in places a reedy look, bordering on the low marshy lands that
environ Ravenna. The whole of the eastern margin of the plain of Lombardy is of
this character, the descent from the base of the mountains being constant, as
is proved by the rivers, though so gradual as to be imperceptible.
Ferrara has the most deserted air of any considerable town I remember
to have seen. It lies on a dead flat, in a grassy, not to say reedy, region also. In the centre of the
place is a massive gloomy castle surrounded by a ditch, in which the Dukes of
the family of Este once dwelt; but we could not enter it. We did visit a cell
that has the reputation of having been the prison of Tasso, where we found the
name of Byron written on the walls. Such a homage as this may be tolerated; but
one dislikes the cockneyisms of writing names on walls. Being no poet, I did
not presume to leave mine in the crowd.
The streets of Ferrara are straight and wide; circumstances that
render its desolation more apparent. The grass literally grew in them, and I
can best compare the town with the portion of Schenectady, that lies off the
canal; though allowance must be made for the ancient magnificence of this
place. We saw many curious books and manuscripts here, and many memorials of
Tasso and Ariosto. A small stream runs through the town; but the whole country,
like Holland, while there is no sea visible, appears to be nearly "a wash."
It is said to be unhealthy in the autumn, and one can readily believe it.
We were now touching once more on the Austrian dominions. Although
Ferrara belongs to the Church, it has an Austrian garrison, for the place is
fortified. We reached the PO a short distance from the gates of the town, next
morning, and crossed on what is called a flying bridge, or a ponte volante. These bridges are common
enough in Europe; though, properly speaking, they are ferries. They consist of
a large floating stage, or a boat, that can receive several carriages. This is
anchored by a long hawser to some ground-fastening, one or two hundred fathoms
up-stream; the length of the hawser being, of course, proportioned to the width
of the river. To keep the rope above water, it is sustained by more or less
small boats, which sheer with the motion of the ferry-boat, or stage. All that
is necessary is to let the current take the bows of the latter obliquely, when
it sheers across the river, as a matter of course. We crossed, with our two carriages
and eight horses, in a very few minutes, and without getting out of our seats.
On the Austrian bank is a custom-house; but we were not detained
longer than was necessary to examine the passport. Notwithstanding all that is
said against this government, it certainly is not obnoxious to the charge of
giving unnecessary trouble, except in cases that have probably excited its
suspicion. Despotic governments, moreover, have a power to do polite and kind
acts that free governments do not possess. In a government of equal rights, the
administration of the laws must be equal, although a thousand cases occur in
which this rule works injuriously to those who, it is known, might with safety
be exempted from the operation of the rule; but in a government like this,
instructions emanating from the power that frames the laws may temper their
administration. It is true, this faculty leads often to gross abuses; but, in
an age like this, it oftener leads to an exemption from onerous, and, in the
particular cases named, useless regulations. It is on this principle that men
of known character and pursuits obtain passports that entitle them to proceed
without the delays and trouble of the custom-house examinations.
You are not to understand, however, that I had any such privilege what
I have told you of the bonhomie of
the authorities in reference to my own baggage, is to be taken as general, and
in no manner as particular towards an individual. You well know that I am no
advocate for any government but that which is founded on popular rights,
protected from popular abuses; but I am thoroughly convinced that the every-day
strictures on these points that are made by a large portion of our travellers,
are conceived in ignorance and prejudice, and are just as worthless as are the
common strictures of Europeans on our own institutions. The disposition in
every government is to do justice in all ordinary cases, and we are no more
peculiar in this wish than the Emperors of Austria and of Russia. The faults of
these systems lie much deeper than the surface.
We found Rovigo, where we breakfasted, much smaller certainly, and
every way less important than, but with the same air of desertion as, Ferrara.
In front of us, after quitting Rovigo, appeared an island of hills in the midst
of the plain, and our route lay towards it. At their foot was Monselice, where
we passed another night. These hills form an oasis of mountain in the desert of
monotony around them. A party of Venetians were at the inn, and the women had
brilliant complexions and fair hair; one had hair that was nearly red; — this
was a proof that we were drawing near the scene of Titian's works. The Signora
Guiccioli, so well known to the admirers of Byron, is of the same style of
beauty. It is odd that Raphael, and indeed most of the Italian masters, painted
their females as blondes, when the
prevalent style of the beauty of the women is that of brunettes. Of the eight
Americans of our party, I am the only one that has not light hair and a fair
complexion; a circumstance that has excited much surprise in this part of the
world, where we are deemed to be, ex officio, black.
From Monselice we made one stage to Padua, a place that we entered
with a good deal of interest. It is a large and, for Europe, a straggling town.
As this was the country of Palladio we here met his architecture. I cannot say
I like it so much as I had anticipated. It has more pretension than beauty or
simplicity; though it strikes me there is an effort at both. Still, this style
is not without the noble. Boston is the only place I know of in America that
has anything resembling it in general outline; though Boston has nothing,
within my knowledge, that can be truly termed Palladian.
The great hall of Padua pleased us extremely. It is near three hundred
feet long, and near one hundred feet wide, though not very lofty. It is the
largest room I have seen, with the exception of the galleries. The style is a
mixed Gothic, the roof being of open rafters, and the effect is quaint and
striking. I prefer it, on the whole, to Westminster-hall: though it is scarcely
so noble.
A miracle had just been performed in one of the churches of Padua, a
Madonna giving some signs of animation. I went to see it, but found that the
visit was ill-timed; the image remaining as immovable as any other image,
during the presence of a heretic. I believe these things are much less frequent
than formerly, the French occupation not only destroying most of the marvels of
religion, but, in a great measure, religion itself. It is a grand commentary on
human wisdom and on human consistency, that one may now see a king and his
courtiers carrying candles in those streets where rulers appeared in their
shirt-sleeves attending a troll in the assumed character of the Goddess of
Reason! Infidelity no longer comes to us naked; but it wears a mask of
philosophy and logic, in the pretended character of a mitigated Christianity. The citadel that cannot be stormed, must be
sapped.
We took the road to Mestre on quitting Padua. I cannot say that the
villas on the Brenta, or the canal, at all equalled my expectation. The houses
themselves were well enough; but the monotony of a country as level as Holland,
and the landscape gardening that is confined to flowers and allees and exotics,
compare ill with the broader beauties of the Hudson, or the finish of the lawns
on the Thames. The road and river showed signs of a crowded population, and we
were amused in that way, but were scarcely in raptures with a sylvan scene. A
part of our road, however, was athwart a sort of common. At this point, looking
across the bay on our right, a town appeared rising above the water, singularly
resembling the view of New York as seen from the low lands near Powles Hook.
The presence of domes and the absence of ships marked the difference between
the places; but the likeness was sufficiently strong to strike us all at the
same moment. I need scarcely add, that the town was Venice, and that the water
was, the Lagoons.
The carriage was housed at Mestre, and the luggage was put into a large
gondola. We took our places in the same boat, and in less than ten minutes
after reaching the shore, we were all afloat. There was a short river, or
creek, to descend, — I know not which it is, —and then we fairly entered the
bay. The Lagoon is formed by the deposit of several streams, and the action of
the waves of the Adriatic, which have piled long low banks of sand across the
broad mouth of a bay, where they have been gradually accumulating from time
immemorial. A number of islands formed within this chain of banks, and channels
necessarily made their own way for the passage of the waters of the rivers. On
these islands the fishermen erected their huts. From this beginning, by the aid
of piles, quays, and the accumulations of a seaport, Venice grew to be the
Queen of the Adriatic, literally seated in the mud.
We stopped a moment at a small island, about half-way across the
Lagoon, to have our passports examined, but met with no delay. The place was
barely large enough to hold a building or two, though the effect of this
aquatic post-house was odd. Not far from this, the boat passed a line of posts
with painted tops, that encircles the whole town, perhaps a mile and a half
from the islands. The posts stand a few hundred feet asunder. These are to mark
the limits of the place, Venice having just been declared a free port. Of
course, the gondola that is caught with unentered goods within these posts
would be seized.
After a pull of an hour or more, the boat entered a broad canal that
was lined by palaces and noble houses. Passing through this, which proved to be
short, it came out in another passage, that seemed to be a main artery of the
town, smaller lateral canals communicating with it at short distances. Across
the latter we could see, among the dark ravines of houses, numberless bridges
trodden constantly by foot-passengers; but across the larger channel, which was
the grand canal, there was only one. This was of stone, and it was covered with
low buildings. Of course, its length was much greater than that of the others;
and its single arch was high and pointed, though not strictly Gothic. As we
glided beneath it, vessels that might contend with the Adriatic appeared
beyond, the water gradually widening. The bridge was the Rialto; the water, the
continuation of the canal, and the commencement of the Giudecca, which is, in
fact, the port.
A gondola was lying on its oars as we approached the grand canal,
recognising a boat from Mestre; and as we came up to it, Mr. C[ruger], of
Carolina, who had preceded us a day or two, jumped on board, having taken
lodgings in expectation of our arrival. Under his guidance we stopped at some
stone steps, and disembarked at the Leone
Bianco.
It appeared as if we were in the centre of a civilization entirely
novel. On entering the inn, we found ourselves in a large paved hall, but a
step or two above the water, in the corner of which lay a gondola. Ascending a
flight of steps, we were received in a suite of good apartments, and I ran to a
window. Boats were gliding about in all directions, but no noise was heard
beyond the plash of the oar; not a wheel nor a hoof rattling on a pavement.
Even the fall of a rope in the water might be heard at a considerable distance.
Everything was strange; for, though a sailor and accustomed to aquatic scenes,
I have never before seen a city afloat.
It was necessary to eat, and I restrained my impatience until after
dinner. By this time it was evening; but a fine moon was shedding its light on the
scene, rendering it fairy-like. C[ruger] and myself quitted the inn, for he
told me he had something that he was desirous I should see before I slept.
Instead of taking a boat, we passed into the rear of the inn, and found
ourselves in a street. I had heard of the canals, but, until then, believed
that Venice had no streets. On the contrary, the whole town is intersected in
this way; the bridges of the smaller canals serving as communications between
these streets, which, however, are usually only eight or ten feet wide. That we
took was lined with shops, and it seemed a great thoroughfare. Its width varied
from ten to twenty feet.
Following this passage, in itself a novelty, we inclined a little to
the right, passed beneath an arch, and issued into the great Square of St.
Mark. No other scene in a town ever struck me with so much surprise and
pleasure. Three sides of this large area were surrounded by palaces, with
arcades; and on the fourth stood a low ancient church, of an architecture so
quaint, having oriental domes, and external ornaments so peculiar, that I felt
as if transported to a scene in the Arabian Nights. The moon, with its mild
delusive light, too, aided the deception; the forms rising beneath it still
more fanciful and quaint. You will know at once, this was the church of St.
Mark.
Another area communicated with the first, extending from it, at right
angles, to the bay. Two sides only of this square, which is called the
Piazzetta, were built on; the side next the Piazza, or Great Square, and that
next the sea, being open. On one of the other sides of this area the line of
palaces was continued, and on the other rose the celebrated Ducal residence.
This was, if possible, still more quaint and oriental than the church,
transferring the mind at once to the events of the East, and to the days of
Venetian greatness and power.
On every side were objects of interest. The two large columns near the
sea were trophies of one conquest; the ranges of little columns on the side of
the church were trophies of a hundred more; the great staircase at which we
looked through an arch of the palace were the Giant's Stairs, and the holes in
the walls above them the Lions' Mouths! This huge tower is the Campanile, which
has stood there a thousand years rooted in mud; and those spars let into the
pavement in front of the church are the very same on which the conquered
standards of Cyprus and Candia, and the Morea, were wont to flap. The noble
group of horses in bronze above the great door, is the group, restored at last to its resting-place of centuries.
Passing by the side of the palace of the Doges which fronts the sea,
by an arcade walk that lines its whole exterior, which is the celebrated
Broglio, where none but the noble once could walk, and where intrigues were
formerly so rife, we came to the bridge which spans the canal that bounds the
rears of the church and palaces. The covered gallery that is thrown across this
canal, connecting, at the height of a story or two above the ground, the palace
with the prisons on the other side, was the Bridge of Sighs! By the side of the
water-gate beneath were the submarine dungeons, and I had only to look towards
the roof to imagine the position of the Piombi.
Then there was the port, lighted by a soft moon, and dotted with
vessels of quaint rigs, with the cool air fanning the face, — the distant Lido,
— and the dark hearse-like gondolas gliding in every direction. Certainly, no
other place ever struck my imagination so forcibly; and never before did I
experience so much pleasure, from novel objects, in so short a time. A noble
military band played in the square; but though the music was, what German
instrumental music commonly is, admirable, it served rather to destroy the
illusion of magic, and to bring me down to a sense of ordinary things. After
passing an hour in this manner, I returned to the Leone Bianco and excited every one's curiosity to see the same things. Poor W[illiam] issued forth
immediately; but, after an unsuccessful search in the maze of lanes, he returned
disappointed.
The travellers' book was brought me to write my name in; and I find
that an American or two who had preceded me have been lampooned, as usual, in English!
One would think pride, in the absence of good taste, would correct this
practice.
We have left the Leone Bianco
for lodgings near the Piazza San Marco, where we control our own ménage, avoiding the expense and
confusion of an inn. I have set up my gondola, and we have been regularly at
work looking at sights for the last week. I shall continue, in my own way, to
speak only of those things that have struck me as peculiar, and which,
previously to my own visit here, I should myself have been glad to have had
explained.
In the first place, Titian, and Tintoretto, and Paul Veronese, are
only seen at Venice. Good pictures of the first are certainly found elsewhere;
but here you find him in a blaze of glory. I shall not weary you with minute
descriptions of things of this sort, but one story connected with a picture of
Titian's is too good not to be told. You know, the French carried away every
work of art they could. They even attempted to remove fresco paintings; a
desecration that merited the overthrow of their power. One great picture in
Venice, however, escaped them. It stood in a dark chapel, and was so completely
covered with dust and smoke that no one attended to it. Even the servitors of
the church itself fancied it a work of no merit.
Within a few years, however, some artist or connoisseur had the
curiosity to examine into the subject of this unknown altar-piece. His
curiosity became excited; the picture was taken down, and being thoroughly
cleaned, it proved to be one of the most gorgeous Titians extant. Some think it
his chef d'oeuvre. Without going so
far as this, it is a picture of great beauty, and every way worthy of the
master. The subject is the Assumption, which he has treated in a manner very
different from that of Murillo, all of whose Virgins are in white, while this
of Titian's is red. The picture is now kept in the Academy, and imitations of
it are seen on half the ornamented manufactures of Venice.
The Martyrdom of St. Peter, (not the Evangelist,) Sir Joshua Reynolds
pronounced a wonder, in its way; but it stands in a bad light, and it did not
strike me as a pleasant subject. All Martyrdoms are nuisances on canvass. Like
the statues of men without skins, they may do artists good, but an amateur can
scarcely like them. The better they are done, the more revolting they become.
We have visited half the churches, picture-hunting: and a queer thing
it is to drive up to a noble portico in your gondola, to land and find yourself
in one of the noblest edifices of Europe. Then the sea-breezes fan the shrines;
and sometimes the spray and surf are leaping about them, as if they were rocks
on a strand. This applies only to those that stand a little removed from the
bulk of the town, and exposed to the sweep of the port. But St. Mark's is as
quaint internally as on its exterior. It is an odd jumble of magnificence, and
of tastes that are almost barbarous. The imitation mosaics, in particular, are
something I like what one might expect to see at the court of the Incas. The
pavement of this church is undulating, like low waves — a sort of sleeping
ground-swell. C[ruger] thinks it is intentional, by way of marine poetry, to
denote the habits of the people; but I fancy it is more probably poetic
justice, a reward for not driving home the piles. The effect is odd, for you
almost fancy you are afloat as you walk over the undulating surface. St.
Mark's, if not the very oldest, is one of the oldest Christian churches now
standing. There were older, of course, in Asia Minor; but they stand no longer,
— or if they do stand, they have ceased to be Christian churches.
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu says, if it were the fashion to go naked,
the beauties of the human form are so much superior to that of the face, that
no one would regard the latter. Clothes have produced a different effect on the
art of painting. All the painters who create or revive their art commence with
the countenance, which they paint well long before they can draw the form at
all. You may see this in America, where the art is still in its infancy, in one
sense; many drawing good heads, who make sad work with the body and the hands.
The works of the old masters exhibit heavenly countenances on spider's limbs,
as any one knows who has ever seen apicture by Giotto. A picture here, by the
master of Titian, has much of this about it; but it is a gem, after all. John
of Bellino was the painter, and I liked it better than anything I saw, one
fresco painting excepted.
Some of the carvings of the churches, that are in high relief, surpass
anything of the sort I have ever seen; and, in general, there is an affluence
of ornaments and of works of merit, that renders these edifices second to few
besides those of Rome. A monument by Canova, that was designed for Titian, but
which has received a new distinction by being erected in honour of the sculptor
himself, is an extraordinary thing, and quite unique. Besides the main group,
there are detached figures, that stand several feet aloof; and the effect of
this work, which is beautifully chiselled out of spotless marble, beneath the
gloomy arches of a church, is singularly dramatic and startling. One is afraid
to commend the conceit, and yet it is impossible not to admire the result.
Still, I think, the admirable thought of Nahl renders his humble Swiss tomb the
sublimest thing in Europe.
What shall I tell you of the famous palaces? They are more laboured
externally, and have less simplicity and grandeur than I had expected to see;
but many of them are magnificent houses. All stand on a canal, very many on the
principal one; but they all extend far back towards the streets, and can be
entered as well by land as by water. There is a large vestibule or hall below,
into which one first enters on quitting the gondola; and it is very usual to
see one or more gondolas in it, as one sees carriages in a court. The rooms
above are often as rich as those of royal residences, and many capital pictures
are still found in them. The floors are, almost invariably, of the composition
which I have already mentioned as resembling variegated marble. A much smaller
proportion of them than of those at Rome appear to be regularly occupied by
their owners.
You may suppose that I have had the curiosity to visit the renowned
Arsenal. It stands at one end of the town, and of course commands the best
water. The walls enclose a good deal of room, and ships of size can enter
within them. An Austrian corvette was on the stocks, but there was no great
activity in the building-yard. A frigate or two, however, are here.
There is a museum of curious objects attached to the Arsenal, that is
well worth seeing. Among other things, we saw plans and even some of the
ornaments of the Bucintoro, which is broken
up, the sea being a widow. One does not know which is the most to be pitied, la Veuve
de la grande armee, or the bereaved Adriatic.
I have told you nothing of the gondolas. The boats have a canopied
apartment in the centre, which will contain several people. Some will hold a
large party, but the common gondola may seat six in tolerable comfort. With the
front curtain drawn, one is as much concealed as in a coach. The gondolier stands
on a little deck at the stern, which is ridged like a roof, and he pushes his oar, which has no rullock,
but is borne against a sort of jaw in a crooked knee, and may he raised from
one resting-place to another at will. It requires practice to keep the oar in
its place, as I know by experience, having tried to row myself with very little
success. By his elevated position, the gondolier sees over the roof of the
little pavilion, and steers as he rows. If there are two gondoliers, as is
frequently the case, one stands forward of the pavilion, always rowing like the
other, though his feet are on the bottom of the boat. The prow has a classical
look, having a serrated beak of iron, that acts as an offensive defence.
The boats themselves are light, and rather pretty; the mould, a little
resembling that of a bark canoe. The colour is almost invariably black; and as
the canopy is lined with black cloth, fringed, or with black leather, they have
a solemn and hearse-like look, that is not unsuited to their silence and to the
well-known mystery of a Venetian. There is something to cause one to fancy he
is truly in a new state of society, as his own gondola glides by those of
others with the silence of the grave, the gentle plashing of the water being
all that is usually audible. My gondolier has a most melodious voice, and the
manner in which he gives the usual warning as the boat turns a corner is music
itself.
The private gondolas are often larger, and on great occasions, I am
told, they are very rich. The livery of a private gondolier used to be a
flowered jacket and cap; and a few such are still to be seen on the canals.
Of course we have visited the cells, the halls of the Ducal Palace,
and the piombi. There are several
Lions' mouths, all let into the wall of the palace, near the Giant's Stairs;
and the name is obtained from the circumstance that the head of a lion is
wrought in stone and built into the building, the orifice to receive the paper
being the mouth of the animal.
The Square of St. Mark is a delightful place of resort at this season;
I pass every evening in it, enjoying the music and the sports. Here you can
also see that you are on the eastern confines of Europe, Asiatics and Greeks
and European Turks frequenting the place in some numbers. There is one
coffee-house, in particular, that appears to be much in request with the
Mussulmans, for I seldom pass it without finding several grave turbaned
gentlemen seated before it. These men affect Christian usages so far as to sit
on chairs; though I have remarked that they have a predilection for raising a
leg on one knee, or some other grotesque attitude. They have the physical
qualifications, in this respect, of an American country buck, or of a member of
Parliament, to say nothing of Congress.
The attempt to revive the importance of Venice, by making it a free
port, is not likely to result in much benefit. It requires some peculiar
political combinations, and a state of the world very different from that which
exists to-day, to create a commercial supremacy for such places as Venice or
Florence. Venice does not possess a single facility that is not equally enjoyed
by Trieste, while the latter has the all-important advantage of being on the
main. The cargo brought into Venice, unless consumed there, must be reshipped
to reach the consumer; or, vice versa,
it must be shipped once more on its way from the producer to the foreign port,
than if sent directly from Trieste. A small district in its immediate vicinity
may depend on Venice as its mart, but no extended trade can ever be revived
here until another period shall arrive when its insular situation may make its
security from assault a consideration. A general and protracted war might do
something for the place, but the prosperity that is founded on violence
contains the principle of its own destruction.
I have been so much struck by the beauty of the composition floors
that are seen here in nearly every house, as to go to the mechanics, and to employ
them to let me see the process of making them. Enclosed you have the written
directions they have given me. In addition to this I can add, that the great
point appears to be beating the mortar, and to put it on in separate layers.
The time required to make a thoroughly good floor of this kind is about two years, though one may suffice; and this, I
well know, will be a serious objection in a country like our own. Their great
beauty, however, their peculiar fitness for a warm climate, and the protection
they afford against fire, are strong inducements for trying them. As they can
be carpeted in winter, there is no objection to them on account of the cold:
indeed, if properly carpeted, they must be warmer than planks, insomuch as they
admit no air when thoroughly constructed.
I have now been in Europe four years, and I have seen but two fires,
although most of my time has been passed in London, Paris, Rome, Florence,
Naples, &c. &c. It is true, some portion of this exemption from alarms
is to be ascribed to the system of having regular corps of firemen, who are
constantly on duty, and who go noiselessly to work: but, after making every
allowance for this difference, and excluding New York, which is even worse than
Constantinople for fires, I am persuaded there are ten fires in an ordinary
American town, for one in a European. The fact may be explained in several
ways, though I incline to believe in a union of causes. The poor of America are
so much better off than the poor of Europe, that they indulge in fires and
lights when their class in this part of the world cannot. The climate, too,
requires artificial heat, and stoves have not been adopted as in the North of
Europe, and where they are used, they are dangerous iron stoves, instead of the
brick furnaces of the North, most of which receive the fire from the exterior
of the room. But, after all, I think a deficient construction lies at the
bottom of the evil with us. Throughout most of Europe, the poor, in particular,
do not know the luxury of wooden floors. They stand either on the beaten earth,
coarse compositions, stones, or tiles. In Italy, it is commonly the
composition; and you may form some idea of the consistency to which the
material is brought, by the fact that good roofs are made of it.
It is the misfortune of men to push their experiments, when disposed
at all to quit the beaten track, into impracticable extremes, and to overlook a
thousand intermediate benefits that might really be attainable. Every one, of
any penetration or common sense, must have seen, at a glance, that the social
scheme of Mr. Owen was chimerical, inasmuch as it was destructive of that
principle of individuality by which men can be induced to bestow the labour and
energy that alone can raise a community to the level of a high civilization, —
or when raised, can keep it there. Still his details suggest many exceedingly
useful hints, which, by being carried out, would add immeasurably to the
comfort and security of the poor in towns. What a charity, for instance, would
a plan something like the following become! — Let there be a company formed to
erect buildings of great size, to lodge the labouring mechanics and
manufacturers. Such an edifice might be raised on arches, if necessary, with
composition floors. It might enjoy every facility of water and heat, and even
of cooking and washing, on a large scale, and, of course, economically. The
price of rooms could be graduated according to means, and space obtained for
the exercise of children in the greater area of so many united lots. Even
entire streets might be constructed on this community-plan, the whole being
subject to a company-police. Here, however, the community principle should
cease, and each individual be left to his own efforts. America may not need
such a provision for the poor; but Europe would greatly benefit by taking the
practicable and rejecting the impracticable features of the Owen System. Among
other benefits, there would be fewer fires.
Although Venice was so attractive at first, in the
absence of acquaintances it soon became monotonous and wearying. A town in
which the sounds of hoof and wheel are never known, in which the stillness of
the narrow ravine-like canals is seldom broken, unless by the fall of an oar or
the call of the gondolier, — fatigues by its unceasing calm; and although the
large canals, the square, and the port offer livelier scenes, one soon gets to
feel a longing for further varieties. If I do not remember to have been so much
struck with any other place on entering it, I do not recollect ever to have
been so soon tired of a residence in a capital. It is true, we knew no one, nor
did any one know us; and an exclamation of pleasure escaped me on suddenly
meeting the Grognon, in the
Piazzetta; a pleasure which, I regret to say, did not seem reciprocal. But he
had just arrived.
We took boat daily for the last week of our
residence, living on the water, and among the palaces and churches. I was
surprised to find that the Adriatic has a tide; for banks over which we have
rowed at one hour, were bare a few hours later. In all this place, there are
but two or three areas in which the population can seek the air, except by
resorting to the canals and the port. Napoleon caused a garden to be planted,
however, near the northern extremity of the town, which will eventually be a
charming spot. It is larger than one might suppose from the circumstances; and
here only can a Venetian enjoy the pleasures of verdure and shade.
You will be surprised to hear, that, by the Rialto
of Shakspeare, one is not to understand the bridge
of that name. This bridge is divided into three passages, by two rows of low
shops, which are occupied by butchers and jewellers (a droll conjunction), and
the height has rendered broad steps necessary to make the ascents and descents
easy. Some travellers describe a small
platform on the summit of the bridge as the Exchange, or the place where
Shylock extorted gold. I believe this is altogether a misconception. The Rialto
is the name of the island at one end of the bridge, and on this island the
merchants resorted for the purposes of business; and "meeting me on the
Rialto," did not mean, on the bridge,
but on the island, after which island
the bridge, in fact, is named. Mr. Carter, among others, seems to have fallen
into this error.
&c. &c.
&c.
is pure poetry. This bridge is thrown across the
narrow dark canal that separates the Ducal Palace from the Prison, and is, in
fact, a covered gallery. The description of
though bad grammar, is sufficiently literal. It is
bad grammar, because there are not a
palace and a prison on each hand, but
a palace on one side and a prison on the other. As poetry, the verse is well enough;
but you are not to trust too implicitly to either Shakspeare or Byron, if you
desire accuracy. The remainder of the description is not to be taken as at all
faithful, though so very beautiful. It is morally, but not physically true. The
Bridge of Sighs, if open, would be one of the worst places in all Venice to
obtain the view described. I mention this, not as criticism, for as such it
would be hypercriticism, but simply that you may understand the truth.
is also
exaggerated. One or two buildings have been destroyed for the materials, I am
told; and one palace remains half demolished, the government having interfered
to save it. At least, such is the account of my gondolier. But, beyond this,
there is little apparent decay in Venice, except that which is visible in the
general inactivity of the business of the port and town.
The accounts that there are passages for
foot-passengers along the margin of the canals is also untrue. Such may be the fact
in particular spots, but it is by no means true as the common mode of
communication by land. I have seen places on the Grand Canal where one may walk
some distance in this manner; but it is on planks raised against and secured to
the houses for the purpose, and not by any permanent footways. The intercourse
by land is in the centre of the different islands, access being had to all the principal buildings both by land and by
water, as I have told you before. On the side of the canals, the boats touch the
door-steps, while in the rear narrow alleys serve as outlets. Most of these
alleys are only four or five feet in width. These, again, communicate with the
streets, which are usually very narrow. Perhaps half the buildings do not touch
a canal at all, especially the smaller shops and dwellings.
You may imagine the effect of the celebrated
regattas of Venice by considering the situation of the Grand Canal. This is a
small river in appearance, a little winding to relieve the monotony; and it is
literally lined with the large buildings that in Italy are called palaces.
Every window has its balcony. The terms 'canals' and 'lagoons' are, however,
misapplied as respects the bay and channels of Venice. You know, of course,
there are no gates, which we are apt to associate with the idea of a canal,
though improperly; but it is the land that is artificial here, and not the
water. The Grand Canal is not unlike the letter S in its direction, and it
widens sensibly near the port, which is a broad estuary between the islands of
the town and the Lido
This Lido is the bank that protects the Lagoon from
the Adriatic. It is long, low, and narrow and is not entirely without
vegetation. There are a few houses on it, and in one or two places something
like villages. Most of the islands, of which there are many that do not
properly belong to the town, are occupied; one containing a convent with its
accessories, another a church, and a
third a hamlet of the fishermen. The effect of all this is as pleasing as it is
novel; and one rows about this place, catching new views of its beauties, as
one rows round and through a noble fleet, examining ships. Still, Venice must
be left, the warm weather admonishing us to retire; and I am now actually
occupied in the preparations necessary to a departure.
A novel mode of travelling was suggested to me, and
I determined to try it, merely to compare it with the others. In most of the
countries of the Continent, the governments control the diligences, or public
coaches, which are drawn by post-horses. In the Austrian States one can travel
in the diligences at his own hours, provided a certain number of places are
paid for. The size of my family admitting of this, I have come up from Venice
to Innspruck in that mode; the advantages being those of paying once for all at
Venice, of travelling entirely under the authority of the government, and of
not being under the necessity of wrangling with the postilions. The
disadvantage, as I have since discovered, was that of paying considerably more
than I should have done, after quitting Italy, had we come post in the old way.
In Lombardy we had no difficulty, postmasters and postilions conducting
themselves admirably; but in the Tyrol it was a constant scene of wrangling
about hours and horses. I shall not repeat the experiment, after we have fairly
crossed the Alps.
We left Venice quite early, in a public boat, being
now fairly in the hands of government. At Mestre we found our own carriage,
and, entering it, we were soon furnished with four horses and two postilions.
The latter cut a strange figure, in yellow coats and cocked hats. They were
perfectly civil, however, and we soon found ourselves in Padua.
Changing horses, we now diverged from our old
route, taking the road to Vicenza, where we dined. The country was not so tame
as Lombardy is in general, and we were rapidly approaching the advanced hills
of the Alps. Still, the road, a good one in every sense, ran along a very even
surface.
Vicenza is the city of Palladio, and a house he built
for himself, a small but tasteful edifice, and a theatre of his own on a new
plan, were shown us. This theatre, instead of the ordinary painted scenery, had
a real perspective, and houses and streets, en
petit as one sees them in a town. This invention was founded in
hypercriticism. A play is, at the best, but a conventional and poetical
representation of life, like a romance, a statue, or a picture; and while it is
properly subject to laws that are founded in nature, this nature may, in all,
be respected to absurdities. Who but a bungler would put eyes in a statue, give
a real perspective to a picture, rigid nature instead of its beau ideal to a romance, or real streets
to a theatre? The common scenery is sufficient to the illusion we require; for,
like the unities, after all, a theatrical street, which of necessity must be
contained in a single house, is but a conventional street. The thing, as a
matter of course, was a failure.
After quitting Vicenza, the country became even
prettier, and we passed a few small towns. It was still early when we came in
sight of a town lying in part against the side of a hill, with ancient walls
and other objects of a picturesque appearance. The environs were particularly
verdant, and altogether the place had a more lively and flourishing air than
any city we had seen since quitting Bologna. This was Verona, the end of our
journey for the day. We had done near a hundred miles since morning, with great
ease to ourselves, having almost crossed the whole of the ancient Venetian-Italian
States.
Although this town stands on the great plain of
Lombardy, it is at its commencement, and at the point where the Adige issues
from among the Alps, to incline eastward before it throws its waters into the
Adriatic. We found a genteel and good inn, as well as neatness and perfect
civility. After giving our orders, we sallied forth to see the only two things
of which our time would allow, — the amphitheatre, and the tomb or sarcophagus
of Juliet, for you will remember we were now in the country of the Montagues
and the Capulets.
The amphitheatre stands on an area in a corner of
the town, where it is seen to great advantage. Unlike the Coliseum, it is
perfect, or nearly so, on the exterior, so that one can get an accurate notion
of its general effect. The interior, also, is almost as perfect as that at
Pompeii; and as the building is much larger, it may be included among the
greatest of the works of the kind that have descended to our own times. There
is a portion of it set apart for theatrical representations, by the erection of
a stage and enclosing a few of the seats; and, truly, the difference between
the scale of a Roman arena and that of one of our own modern edifices is here
made sufficiently manifest. I do not wish to be understood that this temporary
little theatre is of extraordinary dimensions; but still it is large enough to
contain an ordinary audience. It struck me as being more intended for
spectacles than for the regular drama. It had no roof, though I was told the
climate admits of representations at night in it. We see the same thing in New
York during the summer months.
Perhaps the dimensions of the amphitheatre of
Verona are not much more than half of those of the Coliseum, (in cubic
contents, I mean,) and yet it is a stupendous edifice. It is relatively low, —
or, it might be safer to say, it struck me so after dwelling five months so
near the Coliseum; but, standing on its summit, it is a fearful fall to look
at. It is said that the amphitheatres of Rome, Verona, and Nismes contain among
them all that is wanting to give us the most accurate notions of the details of
this sort of structure. Certainly, as a whole, this is the most perfect of any
I have seen. There is no visible reason why this immense building should not
still stand, until destroyed by some natural convulsion.
The sarcophagus is no great matter. It stands in a
garden, and is merely a plain marble chest, without its lid. Shakspeare is
known to have taken the story of Romeo and Juliet from a tale of the misfortunes
of two young lovers of this place; and it is certainly possible that this may
have been the very tomb of the lady. The names are anglicised in the play, but
not materially varied. The guide showed us a house which, he affirmed, belonged
to one of the warring families — the Montagues, I believe; but there are so
many English travellers, just now, that the temptation to embellish is
exceedingly strong. One looks at these things with an easy credulity, for it is
the wisest way, when there is no serious historical or antiquarian question
dependant on the truth. What matters it now, whether a young lady named
Giulietta died of love, and was buried in this tomb? The name of Montague came
from the Continent, and is still met with in France: among the connexions of
General Lafayette is a Marquis de Montaigu, whom I have seen in his company,
and who is his neighbour, at La Grange. I dare say there were Capuletti also in
scores. These people must have had houses, and they must have had tombs; and it is as well for us travellers to
believe we see them here at Verona, as to believe anything else. For the laquais de place and the keeper of the
garden, it is even much better.
We breakfasted at Verona, which struck us as a
bustling and pleasing town, with a singular air of bon ton about it; and then we went our way. The enceinte of this city, like that of
Genoa, embraces a large side-hill that is mostly in villas and gardens; but the
defences are of no great account.
Shortly after quitting the walls, we turned into
the valley of the Adige, and reached a point where one may be said to take his
last look at Italy. [Mrs. Cooper] laughed at me, for this was the only country,
as she affirmed, that she had ever known me to quit looking over a shoulder.
Certainly, the tendency in common is to look ahead, and I confess to the truth
of the charge of having looked behind me on this occasion. I have never yet
quitted any country with one half the regret that I quitted Italy. Its nature,
its climate, its recollections, its people even, had been gradually gaining on
my affections for near two years, and I felt that reluctance to separate, that
one is apt to experience on quitting his own house.
I have told you little in these letters of the
Italians themselves, and nothing of what may be called their society. I have
seen much of the former, of necessity, and a little, though not much, of the
latter. A diffidence of my own knowledge lies at the bottom of this
forbearance; for I am fully sensible that he who would describe beyond the surface,
must have had better means of information than mine have been. Still, I will
not quit this charming region without giving you, in a very few words, a
summary of my opinions, such as they are.
I came to Italy with too many of the prejudices
that had got abroad concerning the Italian character. The whole country is
virtually a conquered country — and men are seldom wronged without being
abused. In the first place, the marvels about banditti and assassins are
enormously exaggerated. Banditti there have been, and robbers there still are.
The country is peculiarly adapted to invite their presence. With unfrequented
mountains nearly always in sight, roads crowded with travellers, great poverty,
and police of no great energy, it could hardly be otherwise; and yet, a man of
ordinary prudence may go from one extremity
of the country to the other with very little risk. Assassinations I believe to
be no more frequent than murders in France or England. If the quasi duels or
irregular combats of the south-west be enumerated, I believe, in proportion to
population, that three men lose their lives by violence in that portion of the
republic, to one in Italy.
The lower classes of Italy, with the exception of
those who live on travellers, appear to me to be unsophisticated, kind, and
well-principled. There is a native activity of mind about them that renders
their rogues great rogues; but I question if the mass here be not quite as
honest as the mass in any country under the same social pressure. An American
should always remember the exemption from temptation that exists in his own
country. Common crimes are certainly not so general with us as in most of
Europe, and precisely for the reason named; but uncommon meannesses abound in a large circle of our population. The
vices of an American origin are necessarily influenced by the condition of
American society; and, as a principle, the same is true here. It may be
questioned if examination, taking into view all the circumstances, would give a
result so much in our favour as some pretend. Once removed from the towns and
the other haunts of travellers, I have found the Italians of the lower classes
endued with quite as many good qualities as most of their neighbours, and with
more than some of them. They are more gracious than the English, and more
sincere than the French, and infinitely more refined than the Germans; or, it
might be better to say, less obtuse and coarse. Certainly, they are
quick-witted; and, physically, they are altogether a finer race, though short,
than I had expected to see.
Shades of difference exist in Italian character, as
between the different States, the preference being usually given to the
inhabitants of Upper Italy. I have not found this difference, so manifestly
clear against the South; though I do believe that the Piedmontese, in a
physical sense, are the finest race of the entire country.
Foreigners would better appreciate the Italian
character if they better understood the usages of the country. A nation divided
like this, conquered as this has been, and lying, as it now does, notoriously
at the mercy of any powerful invader, loses the estimation that is due to
numbers. The stranger regards the people as unworthy of possessing distinctive
traits, and obtrudes his own habits on them, coarsely and, too often,
insolently. This, in part, is submitted to, from necessity; but mutual ill-will
and distrust are the consequences. The vulgar-minded Englishman talks of the
"damned Italians," and the vulgar-minded American, quite in rule,
imitates his great model, though neither has, probably, any knowledge of the
people beyond that which he has obtained in inns, and in the carriages of the vetturini.
In grace of mind, in a love, and even in a
knowledge of the arts, a large portion of the common Italians are as much
superior to the Anglo-Saxon race as civilization is superior to barbarism. We
deride their religious superstitions; but we overlook the exaggerations,
uncharitableness, and ferocity of our own fanaticism. Of the two, I firmly
believe a Divine Omniscience finds less to condemn in the former. I do not know
any peasantry in which there is more ingenuousness, with less of rusticity and
vulgarity, than that of Tuscany.
The society of Italy, which is but another word for
the nobles of the country, so far as I have seen it, has the general European
character, modified a little by position. They have a general acquaintance with
literature, without being often learned; and there is a grace about their
minds, derived from the constant practice of contemplating the miracles of art,
that is rather peculiar to them. An Italian gentleman is more gracious than an
Englishman, and less artificial than a Frenchman. Indeed, I have often thought
that in these particulars he is the nearest a true standard, of any gentleman
of Europe. There is a sincerity in this class, also, that took me by surprise;
a simplicity of mind rather than of manner, that is not common on the other
side of the Alps. Notwithstanding what has been said and written about les esprits fins, I question if the
trait can be properly imputed to the general Italian character. After all this,
however, I freely admit the limited nature of my own observation, and you will
not attach to these opinions more value than they deserve; still, they merit
more attention than the loose notions on the same subject that have been thrown
before the world, unreflectingly and ignorantly, by most of our travellers.
Nature appears to have intended Italy for a single country.
With a people speaking the same language — a territory almost surrounded by
water, or separated from the rest of Europe by a barrier of grand mountains —
its extent, ancient history, relative position, and interests, would all seem
to have a direct tendency towards bringing about this great end. The _____ of
____ assured me that such was the intention of Napoleon, who looked forward to
the time when he might convert the whole of the peninsula into a single state.
Had he continued to reign, and had he been the father of two or more sons, it
is quite probable that he would have distributed his kingdoms among them at his
death; but, while he lived, no man would have got anything back from Napoleon
Bonaparte with his own consent.
Italy, instead of being the consolidated country
that one could wish it were, is now divided into ten states, excluding little
Monaco. These countries are, Piedmont or Sardinia, Lombardy, Modena, Parma,
Massa, Lucca, Tuscany, the Papal territories, San Marino and the Two Sicilies.
This is an approach towards consolidation; the Venetian States, the duchy of
Genoa, and a great many smaller countries being swallowed up by their more
important neighbours, as has been the case in Germany. Massa will soon be
joined to Modena,[15] and Lucca to
Tuscany, which will reduce the number of independent governments to eight — or,
deducting San Marino, a community of no account, to seven. The entire
population is thought to be from eighteen to nineteen millions.
The study of Italy is profitable to an American.
One of the greatest, indeed the only serious obstacle, to consolidation of all
the Italian States, arises from the hereditary hatreds and distrusts of the
people of one country to those of another. Such is it to separate the family
tie, and such would soon be our own condition were the bond of union that now
unites us severed. By playing off one portion of the country against the
others, the common enemy would plunder all.
The Italians, while they are sensible that Napoleon
did them good by introducing the vigour and improvements of France, do not
extol his reign. They justly deem him a selfish conqueror, and, I make no
doubt, joyfully threw off his yoke. The conscription appears to have been the
most oppressive of his measures; and well it might be, for, even admitting that
his ultimate ends were to be beneficial, the means were next to intolerable. He
improved the roads, invigorated the police, reformed many abuses, and gave new
impulses to society, it is true; but, in the place of the old grievances, he
substituted King Stork for King Log.
The laws and customs of the Italian countries have
so many minute points of difference, that the wishes of some of the patriots of
this region point towards a Confederated Republic, something like that of Switzerland.
Sooner or later, Italy will inevitably become a single State: this is a result
that I hold to be inevitable, though the means by which it is to be effected
are still hidden. Italy as one nation, would command the Mediterranean and the
Adriatic, and the jealousies of France and England are likely to oppose more
obstacles to the consolidation than the power of Austria. The Confederation
would be played on by both these powers; and it appears to me that it is just
the worst mode of attempting a change that could be adopted. In the absence of
great political events, to weaken the authority of the present governments,
education is the surest process, though a slow one. In no case, should the
people of a country confide in foreigners for the attainment of their political
ends. All history has shown that communities are not to be trusted in such
matters; and if I were an Italian bent on consolidation, I would not turn my
eyes beyond the Alps for relief. After all, there is so much room for
meliorations more immediately serviceable, that perhaps the wisest way is, to
direct the present energies to reforms, rather than to revolutions; though many
here will tell you the former are to be obtained only through the latter.
Our road soon led us into a great valley, the Alps
gradually closing on us as we advanced, until we again found ourselves in their
gigantic embraces. The Adige, a swift but brawling stream, flowed on our left,
and the country gradually lost the breadth and softness of Italy in the
peculiarities of a mountain district. About two o'clock, we passed a village
called Avio, where we changed horses. Here we got but one postilion, short
traces for the leaders, a long whip, and a new livery, — the certain signs that
we were in Germany: in fact, we had crossed the line of the Tyrol, about, a
league to the southward. Rovereto was a town of some importance, and here we
began to see some of the independence
of the Tyrolese, who paid very little attention to the printed regulations of
the road. I had been furnished with a carte
de route, with instructions to enter any complaints about speed, delays, or
other failure to comply with the law; and this I did at one post-house in the
presence of the postmaster, who had not only made a false entry as to the time of
our arrival and departure, but who was impudent and dilatory. This complaint he
endeavoured to defeat by correcting his own entry. To effect this, he had asked
me for the way-bill; and when I found out the object, he refused to give it
back again. Thereupon, I seized him by the collar, and wrested the paper out of
his hands. For a moment there were symptoms of blows; but, distrusting the
result, the rogue yielded. He menaced me loudly, notwithstanding; and when I
carried off the prize to the carriage, we were surrounded by the rascal with a
dozen other blackguards to back him. He refused to give us horses, and I noted
the time on the way-bill again before his face. This frightened him, and I
believe he was glad to get rid of us.
It would seem I had adopted a mode of travelling
peculiarly disagreeable to the post-masters; for, while it cost me more than
the ordinary posting, they were paid less, the government pocketing the
difference. This I did not know, or certainly I would have saved my money; but
being in the scrape, as a pis aller,
I was determined to fight my way out of it. I do think there is enough of Jack
in me yet to have threshed the fellow, had we got to facers, — a termination of
the affair that the short struggle gave the rascal reason to anticipate.
It was dark before we drove into a small city that
stands between lofty mountains, one of which rose like a dark wall above it,
quite a la Suisse. The Adige flowed
through this town, which was Trent, so celebrated for its religious council.
The inn here was semi-Swiss, semi-German. When I
put the usual question as to the price of the rooms, the landlord, a hearty
Boniface-sort of a person, laughed, and said, "You are now in Germany;
give yourself no trouble on that score." I took him at his word, and found
him honest. There was a sort of great sala
in the centre of the house, that communicated with the different apartments.
Something like a dozen escutcheons ornamented its walls; and, on examining
them, I found inscriptions to show that they had been placed there to
commemorate the visits of sundry kings and princes to the larder of mine host.
Among others, the Emperor, the late and the present Grand Dukes of Tuscany, and
the King of Bavaria, were of the number. The latter sovereign is a great traveller,
running down into Italy every year or two. The Marquis of Hertford was also
honoured with a blazonry, — probably on account of his expenses. I have seen
this usage, once or twice, in other parts of Europe.
The next day, our road, an even, good carriage-way,
led up the valley of the Adige, along a valley that might have passed for one
of Switzerland, a little softened in features. There were ruined towers on the
spurs of the mountains. and here and there was a hold that was still kept up. One in particular, near Botzen,
struck us as singularly picturesque, for it was not easy to see how its
inhabitants reached it. The costumes, too, were singular; prettier, I thought,
than any of Switzerland. The men wore cock's feathers, stuck obliquely with a
smart air in their high conical hats: some carried guns, and all had a freedom
of manner about them that denoted the habits of mountaineers. At Botzen we left
the Adige, following a branch, however, that was not smaller than the stream
which retains the name. The country now became more romantic and more wild. The
chateaux were of a simpler kind though always picturesque. The road continued
good, and the horses were excellent: they reminded us strongly of American
horses. We did not arrive at Brixen until after dark; but we found German
neatness, German civility, German honesty, and German family portraits. Every
man has ancestors of some sort or other, but one sees no necessity for
lampooning them with a pencil after they are dead.
Brixen stands in a mountain-basin, a town of a
German-Swiss character. Soon after quitting it, next morning, we began to
ascend the celebrated Pass of the Brenner, which offered nothing more than a
long and winding road among forests and common mountain scenery. We had been
too recently in Switzerland to be in ecstasies, and yet we were pleased. It
began to be stormy; and by the time we reached the post-house, the road had
several inches of snow in it. Two days before, we had been eating cherries and
strawberries at Verona!
One gets to be sophisticated in time. On landing in
England, I refused a beggar a sixpence because
he asked for it, my American
habits revolting at the meanness of begging. To-day [Mrs. Cooper] had a good
laugh at me for a change of character. By the arrangement at Venice, I was not
obliged to give anything to the postilions; but I usually added a franc to
their regular receipts from the government. On this occasion the postilion very
properly abstained from asking for that which he knew he could not properly
claim. The money, however, was in my hand; but seeing that he kept aloof, I put
it up, unconsciously saying "Hang the fellow! if he will not ask for it,
let him go without it." This is the way we get to be the creatures of
habit, judging of nations and men by standards that depend on accidents. Four
years earlier, I should certainly have refused the postilion, had he asked for the money; and now I
denied him because he did not! I hope to reach the philosophical and just
medium in due time, in this as well as in some other matters.
We went a post on the mountain, a wild without
being absolutely a savage district, before we turned the summit. This point was
discovered by the runs of water at the roadside, one of which was a tributary
of the Adige, sending its contributions to the Adriatic, while the other flows
into the Inn, which communicates with the Danube. The descent, however, soon
spoke for itself, and we went down a mountain on a scale commensurate with that
by which we had ascended.
At a turn in the road, a beautiful fairylike scene
suddenly presented itself. There was a wide and fertile plain, through which
meandered a respectable river. Our own mountain melted away to its margin on
one side, and a noble wall of rock, some two or three thousand feet high, bounded
it on the other. Directly before us lay a town, with the usual peculiarities of
a mountaincity, though it had a cathedral and even a palace. This was
Innspruck, the capital of the Tyrol and the immediate object of our journey. We
drove into it at an early hour, and in time to enjoy the play of mists, and the
brilliancy of the snows that still rendered the adjacent cliffs hoary.
We had glimpses of glaciers today, and saw an abbey
or two in poetical situations. Innspruck reminded us a good deal of Berne. The
palace is respectable though not large, and the cathedral is quaint and
venerable. In the latter there is a row of knights in their ancient armour, or
rather a row of armour which is so placed as to resemble knights ranged in
order. I believe the armour is that of the former sovereigns of the Tyrol.
There is also a little castle, a mile or two from
the town, that now belongs to the Emperor, and was once the hold, or palace, of
the Counts of the Tyrol. We had the curiosity to visit it. Certes, a small
prince a few centuries since lived in a very simple style. There were the
knights' hall, a picturegallery, and other sounding names; but a more
unsophisticated abode can hardly be imagined for a gentleman. To compare any of
these mountain-castles to a modern country-house even in America, is out of the
question, for nothing can be plainer than most of their accommodations. This
was a little better than a common Yankee palace, I allow, for that is the ne plus ultra of discomfort and
pretension; but, after all, you might fancy yourself in a barn that had been
converted into a dwelling.
The gallery was awful — almost as bad as that one
occasionally meets in an American tavern, or that we actually enjoyed last
night at Brixen. Still, the place was quaint, and of great interest from its
associations. It even had its armour.
We are now at a stand. Vienna is on our right,
Switzerland on our left, and the last pass of the Alps is before us. Examining
the map, I see the "Isar rolling rapidly," Munich, and a wide field
of Germany in the latter direction, and it has just been decided to push
forward as far as Saxony and Dresden before we make another serious halt.
[1] This unhappy gentleman
subsequently lost his life by falling into a boiling spring in the
[2]
Casa Ricasoli, via del Cocomero.
The aspirations are gutteral [sic], and have a touch of the Moresco-Spanish
about them.
[3] Joseph has
taken the title of Survilliers from a small village on the estate of
Marfontaine, which was once his property. Louis gets that of St. Leu also from
an estate. His wife, Hortense, is styled the Duchess of St. Leu, while he is called the Count. Lucien has been
created Prince of Canino, by the Pope: and his eldest son, Charles, has
obtained the title of Prince of Musignano. in the sane manner. Jerome has been
created Prince of Montfort, by his brother- in-law, the King of Bavaria. Joseph
has no son, but two daughters, —the Princess Musignano, and the Princess
Charlotte, the widow of her cousin Napoleon, the eldest son of Louis. Lucien
has many children, by different wives. Of these the writer has seen the Prince
of Musignano, the Princess Hercolani, the Princess Gabrielli, Lady Dudley
Stuart, and Mrs. Bonaparte Wyse. Jerome has several children, —one by Miss
Patterson, and the others by the Princess of Wurtemburg. The family is
generally distinguished for abilities. Madame
Mère was a slight attenuated old lady, with little remains of beauty, when
seen by the writer. (the winter of 1829—30) except fine black eyes. It may he
true that she had the talents of the race; but. in several interviews, she did
not manifest it. A good mother, and, under her peculiar circomstances, an
energetic one, she certainly was: but, beyond this, it is probable her
reputation was factitious. She possessed a bust of her husband that was
strictly Bonapartean, not one of her sons bearing any material resemblance to
herself. In any ordinary situation she would have passed for a respectable
country lady, — one who came so lately into the great world as not to have
acquired its usages, or its appearance. Her French was Italian, and her Italian
far from good. She was quiet, simple, and totally without pretension, however,
— in short, motherly.
[4] On a
particular occasion the writer was invited to take a seat with the critics, in the Park Theatre. As an interlude, two dancers
exhibited, one in front of a large gilded frame that had gauze in it, and the
other behind it; the aim being to produce the effect of reflection. Both backs
and both faces being exhibited at the same time: the writer, in his capacity of
critic, felt himself bound to hiss; whereupon he was himself incontinently
hissed down. What! tell a New York corps of critics, that a man looking into a
glass did not see the back of his own head!. The writer merited his
castigation, and seizes this occasion to admit how far he was behind the Manhattanese
philosophy.
[5] The present Commodore ______, when a young man,
commanded a merchant ship for a short time. On one occasion, inward bound, the
yellow fever broke out in the vessel. Most of the crew died; and all on board,
with the exception of the young captaihn, had the disease. The tasks of tending
the sick and of taking care of the ship consequently fell on the latter. He
cooked, nursed, made and shortened sail, managed the helm, and, after several
days of severe labour, brought his vessel safely up to the Hook. What is more
extraordinary, he twice reduced the canvass to reefed topsails, and spread it
to the royals. Of course, he brought everything to the windlass.
[6] "A
little bit of heaven fallen upon the earth" the common Neopolitan saying.
[7] Soon after the return of the writer to this
country, he was shown a view of the Bay of Naples, painted by Mr. Chapman,
which was taken from a spot near the house he had inhabited most of the time he
dwelt on its glorious shores. On being asked if it was faithful, he answered,
"Perfectly so, except that the
artist has not done justice to the hue of the water, which is not sufficently
blue." He was then told, that the ordinary criticism was to complain
of the element as being too blue, for nature. The sane objection is often made
to the skies of Italian and Grecian landsapes, and to the other tints, as
exaggerated. All this is a consequence of judging of Nature by a rule that is
applicable only to her laws under particular circumstances. These hues certainly
vary, but the writer has often seen the lakes of Switzerland and the bay of
Naples almost as dark as ultra-marine itself.
[8] "Marina Grande," and "Marina Piccola," or the "Marinella."
[9] The
writer kept up his mendicant corps until he left Sorrento, there being no less
than ninety-six paraded in the court the day he departed. Many of these poor
people came ten miles! Some of them, he was told, passed the last week of his
residence in Sorrento, in order to receive the pittance more at their ease.
[10] The experiment
of a right course has since been tried. A President of a strong will has made a
tardy attempt to rescue the honour and character of the nation, and, favoured
by circumstances, he has partially succeeded. The treaty with France has not
been complied with, according to either its spirit or its letter; but it has
been enough to satisfy those who had lost all hope. It has not been complied
with, because the money stipulated to be paid with interest has not been paid
according to those stipulations, making a difference against the claimants of
more than a million. But what was the course of Congress, under the
circumstances of a violated treaty, in addition to the original outrage!
[11]
In the subsequent editions these
errors of the author, or blunders of the press, whichever they may be, have
been corrected.
[12]
Mr. Washington Irving, in his Life of
Columbus, vol. i. p. 83, has the following: — "Between them is placed the
island of Cipango, or Japan, which, according to Marco Polo, lay fifteen
hundred miles distant from the Asiatic coast. In his computation, Columbus advanced this island about a thousand
leagues too much to the east, supposing it to be about in the situation of
Florida, and at this island he hoped first to arrive." The centre of Florida and the centre of the
island of Japan lie about 130 degrees asunder." A degree of longitude in
those latitudes will average somewhere about fifty miles, (this is
approximative, not calculated,) which will give two thousand leagues as the distance between them.
[13] This name
is a proof of the manner in which words become changed by use. The bridge has
been termed Milvius, Mulvius, Mobius, and Molle, the latter being its present
Roman name.
[14] The Italians
use this article very familiarly in speaking of persons. They say the Pasta, and even the Borghese and the
Chigi, in speaking of the Princesses of those names. But this is not often done
by people of breeding. The custom of speaking of female artists, such as
Mademoiselle Mars, without using the prefix of Madame, or Signora, is deemed mauvais ton, I believe: certainly, it is
not common among the better classes, though quite common among the cockney
genteel, especially among those who have travelled just enough to be
preeminently affected.