Gleanings in Europe : Italy, vol. 2 of 2

By James Fenimore Cooper

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Gleanings in Europe
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Gleanings in Europe
        Italy, vol. 2 of 2

Author: James Fenimore Cooper

Release date: October 13, 2025 [eBook #77046]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard, 1838

Credits: Richard Tonsing, Emmanuel Ackerman, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLEANINGS IN EUROPE ***





                          GLEANINGS IN EUROPE.
                                 ITALY:


                                   BY

                              AN AMERICAN.

                            IN TWO VOLUMES.

                                VOL. II.

                            _PHILADELPHIA_:
                       CAREY, LEA, AND BLANCHARD.
                                 1838.




        ENTERED according to ACT OF CONGRESS, in the year 1838,
                     BY CAREY, LEA, AND BLANCHARD,
 In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of
                             Pennsylvania.




                                 ITALY.




                             LETTER XVIII.

  Mountain paths near Sorrento.—The Scaricatòjo.—Picturesque
    house.—Amalfi.—Salerno.—Eboli.—The Castle.—View from
    it.—Unhealthiness of the Peasantry.—Buffaloes.—Useful breed of
    Oxen.—Scene of Murder.—Pæstum.—The Temple of Neptune.—Scenery of
    Pæstum.—Beautiful route to Pompeii.—Castel-a-Mare.—American Vessels
    seized by Murat.—Influence of the Commercial Class in
    America.—Rights of individual Citizens disregarded.


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 Pæstum. 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 _Scaricatòjo_, which signifies, I
believe, a place to discharge at, or a landing. W——, 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 _Scaricatòjo_, 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 scend 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 _Scaricatòjo_ 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 châteaux, 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
molehills 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——’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 _á 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 Angra,—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 dependents 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 every thing 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 Pæstum, 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 Pæstum. It is now
nearly deserted; though there are a few hunting 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 Pæstum 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 Angra, 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 Pæstum, 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 Pæstum. 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 Pæstum 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.[1] 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.

Footnote 1:

  Ποσειδων.

In the first place, Pæstum, 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, Pæstum
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 wore 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 Pæstum 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 at 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 amphitheatre, or
of a theatre, and of many other edifices that belonged to the
civilisation 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 any thing
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 Pæstum, 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 epochs 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
civilisation. 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 Pæstum, 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 Pæstum, 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 Pæstum 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 Pæstum 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
every thing 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 Stabiæ, 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_,[2] 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.

Footnote 2:

  “_Here one is cured_,” literally translated.

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 every thing, 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 any thing 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 feelings
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 rule, (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.[3]

Footnote 3:

  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!

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.




                              LETTER XIX.

  Passage to Naples in a heavy gale.—Street amusement at Naples.—The
    Mole.—Shipping and Vessels of War.—Neapolitan Skies.—Effect of
    Sunset.—The Museum.—Process of unrolling and decyphering the
    Herculaneum MSS.—Liberality of Government in carrying on the
    investigations.—Familiar articles found in the ruins.—Suggestions
    for the improvement of American Coinage.—Moral evidence of articles
    deposited in the Museum.


The November of Sorrento proved a rough visiter, and we were driven to
cluster around the solitary fire-place of the _Cassa detta del Tasso_.
We resisted every inducement to remove, until the _tramontane_ 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 sparanaro
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 every thing, 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 out-door 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 _ménage_, 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 Polichinello 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 every thing 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°; 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 any thing
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 needlework. 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 contemn every thing 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 any where 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 hogsheads 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
civilisation. 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 enjoy baths, 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.




                               LETTER XX.

  Departure for Rome.—Campagna Felice.—Aqueduct and Palace of
    Caserta.—Capua.—Sessa.—The Appian Way, and Bridge upon
    it.—Gaeta.—Cicero’s death.—Terracina.—The Pontine Marshes.—Peasants
    mistaken for Banditti.—Velletri.—Albano.—The Campagna of
    Rome.—Distant view of the City.—Entrance by the gate of St.
    John.—St. Peter’s.—Vastness of the fabric.


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 _détour_, 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 it; 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 sufficient-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 staterooms 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 città_.” 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 Auruncorum, 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
A—— 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 farther 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 Græcia 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. Æneas 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 _littus_ 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 the 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, A—— 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 A——. 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 farther, 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 (Iulus); and I have a faint recollection of having somewhere
read that the Julian family, or that of the Cæsars, 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 Cæsars.

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. Farther in advance was a straggling sort of
town, a mere suburb, and the line of houses 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 Hôtel de Paris, entirely across the city, near the Porto
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—— 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 façade 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 façade, 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. Every thing 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—— 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
église?_”

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!




                              LETTER XXI.

  The Campagna.—The Tarpeian Rock:—doubts as to its identity.—The Walls
    of Servius Tullius,—and of Aurelian.—The Muro Torto.—The Wall of
    Honorius, or the present wall.—Errors of Literary Men with respect
    to measurement.—The Walls and Ruins of brick.—Limits of modern
    Rome.—Rome.—Rome not a continued ruin like Pompeii.—The ruins
    scattered, and well preserved.


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 work 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 with 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 _débris_ 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,
Cœlimontana, 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.[4] 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.[5]
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.

Footnote 4:

  In the subsequent editions these errors of the author, or blunders of
  the press, which ever they may be, have been corrected.

Footnote 5:

  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° 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.

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’œil_
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 any thing 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.




                              LETTER XXII.

  Morning ride round the City.—Egyptian Obelisk.—The Pincian
    Hill.—Raphael.—Villa Borghese.—Muro Torto.—Invasions on this side
    the town.—Pretorian Camp.—A Basilica.—The Campagna.—Fine breed of
    Horses.—Temples of the god of Return, and of Bacchus.—Fountain of
    Egeria.—Tomb of Cæcilia Metella.—The Circus ascribed to Caracella
    erected by Maxentius.—Rome never materially larger than at
    present.—Tomb of Caius Cestius.—Protestant Cemetery.—Monte
    Testaceo.—The old system of Patron and Client.—Anecdote of
    Ferdinando King of Naples.


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 any thing 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 any where!

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 Buon Compagni 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 Salara. 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
any where 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
basilicæ 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 brickwork 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,[6] a deity of whom you probably never heard before.

Footnote 6:

  _Fanum Rediculi._

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 brickwork, 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 with 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 _détour_, 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
Cæcilia 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 civilisation 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 those 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 210
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 which
ever 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 Testaceo, from the
circumstance of its having been entirely formed of broken pottery,[7]
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.

Footnote 7:

  Testa.

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 England itself, we have seen
Indian Rajahs returning members to parliament by means of their gold; in
France, the king’s mistresses, for a long time, had a monopoly of this
species of power; and in several of the other great powers that have
dependencies, I hear it whispered that the system still prevails to a
great extent. In America, the clients are the nation; and the patrons
the demagogues, under the name of patriots. If, however, our
discontented, the salt of the earth in their own imagination, had a
taste of the abuses of this hemisphere, they would gladly return to
their own, bad as they are.

When at Naples, I was told an anecdote of the good old King Ferdinando,
which is in point. His generals were deliberating on a new uniform for
the army, when the honest old prince, tired of the delay, and anxious to
get at his game again, exclaimed—“Ah, Signori, dress them as you please,
they will run away.” I do not repeat this because I believe the
Neapolitans are cowards, for I think them traduced in this respect, but
because it is with politics as in war, “dress men as you will, they are
still that godlike-devil man.”

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.




                             LETTER XXIII.

  The Tiber.—Monte Mario.—Milvian Bridge.—Bridge of Nomentanus.—The
    Sacred Mount; Apologue of Menenius Agrippa.—City
    Walls.—Amphitheatre.—Santa Scala.—The Lateran.—Works of the Empire
    and the Republic contrasted.—The Coliseum.—Via Sacra.—The Capitoline
    Hill.—The Palatine.—Imperial Palace.—The Forum.—Arch of Septimius
    Severus.—Column of Phocas.—The Capitol.—Statue of M.
    Aurelius.—Columns of Trajan and Antoninus.—The Pantheon.


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 _débris_ 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 an 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 Falonieri, 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,[8] 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.

Footnote 8:

  This name is a proof of the manner in which words become changed by
  use. The bridge has been termed Milvius, Mulvius, Molvius, and Molle,
  the latter being its present Roman name.

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 _patulæ fagi_, not playing on the oaten reed, it is true, but
mending their leathern 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 trades’ 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 any thing, and, after all, a fact is a
fact.

Proceeding another mile, some extensive ruins are seen between the road
of Nomentanum and that of Salaria, which are the remains of the
country-house of Phaon, the freedman of Nero, where the last of the
Cæsars 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 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 be surprised to
see men and women ascending a long plain flight of broad steps in it, on
their knees. This is done because tradition hath it that these steps
belonged to the palace of Pilate, and that they were transferred from
Jerusalem to this spot because Christ descended them when he went from
condemnation to the cross.

You probably know that this church of St. John in Laterano is the first
of the Christian world, and that the palace was long celebrated for its
bulls and councils. The present edifices are about five centuries old,
though the church is as fresh and rich as if just finished. The obelisk
came from Thebes, and was brought to Rome in the fourth century, and
placed in the great circus. Sixtus V. had it disinterred and brought to
this spot.

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
imperishablé.” 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 Rome. This period, however,
longer than that of the existence of our American community, is but a
speck in the history of the building, as a short retrospect will show.
Vespasian died in 79, Titus in 81, and Domitian in 96. The first
commenced, the last is said to have finished, this edifice. For three
hundred years it was used for the exhibitions of the gladiators, and,
down to the year 523, for battles of wild beasts. For five hundred years
more there is little account of it; but it was probably too vast for the
purposes of the people who then dwelt among the ruins of Rome. Then came
the civil contentions, and near three centuries of military occupation.
In 1381, it is said to have been much dilapidated, particularly on the
southern side, when it was converted into a hospital. After this, the
popes and their favourites began to pull it to pieces, for the stone.
Several of the largest palaces of modern Rome have certainly been
erected out of its materials; that of the Farnese, in particular. The
quay of the Ripetta, or the port, is also enriched from this classical
quarry. It is only within a few years—less than thirty, I believe—that
any serious attempts have been made to preserve what is left; and, to
the credit of the papal government be it said, these attempts are likely
to be successful. The walls require little but the “let us alone”
policy, for they seem to defy time and the seasons. As there was a
possibility of their crumbling, however, at the broken extremities of
the outer circle, vast piers of brickwork have been erected, and in a
style that, in this species of construction, is only equalled in Italy.

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 every where 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 Rome so imposing as the Coliseum. It was erected in an
incredibly short time, in a way to resist wars, earthquakes, time, and
almost the art of man, and now offers one of the most imposing piles
under which the earth groans; in some respects the most imposing. The
uncertainty that hangs about the Pyramids impairs their interest; but
the Coliseum is almost as well known to us, through the lapse of
eighteen centuries, as Drury Lane or the Théâtre Français.

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 Palatine, or the cradle of Rome, will first attract our attention.
It lies on our left as we advance towards the Forum, and exhibits a
confused surface of ruins, gardens, vines, and modern villas. Its
prevailing appearance, however, is that of ruin. For several reigns,
this mount sufficed not only to contain the residences of the kings of
Rome, but all Rome itself. The antiquarians pretend, on what authority I
do not know, but that of Livy, I believe, to point out the precise spots
where several of the first princes lived. In time it did not suffice for
the palace of a single monarch. The palatine was probably much larger
then than now, the eastern end having the appearance of being cut. Thus
the house of Ancus Martius is said to have been on the summit of the Via
Sacra, which would carry the hill near the present site of the Temple of
Venus and Rome. On this hill, the Gracchi, Cicero, Cataline, Marc
Antony, Catullus, and Octavius, with many others of note, are known to
have lived; though, after the fall of the republic, it passed entirely
into the hands of the emperors. In the time of Caligula, the imperial
palace had a front on the Forum, with a rich colonnade, and a portico. A
bridge, sustained by marble columns, crossed the Forum, to communicate
with the Capitol Hill. One here sees the rapid progress of luxury in a
monarchy. Augustus lived modestly in what might be termed a house;
Tiberius, his successor, added to this house until it became a palace;
Caligula, not satisfied with the Palatine, projected additions on the
Capitol Hill; Claudius, it is true, abandoned this plan, and even
destroyed the bridge, but Nero caused an enormous edifice to succeed.

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 descendent of the Cæsars,
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 Cæsars, 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 every thing 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 Rome, much to the damage of modern travelling.

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
capitol 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 Vendôme, at Paris. There is 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
Antonnius. 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 Antonnius, in honour of his
father-in-law, Antonnius Pius, when, in fact, it was erected by the
senate, in honour of Marcus Aurelius Antonnius, 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 Egypt by Augustus. It was placed in the Campus Martius,
and found there as lately as in 1748.

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 at 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’œil_ 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.




                              LETTER XXIV.

  Mode of living, and uncleanliness of houses, unjustly
    censured.—Palazzo Borghese.—State of Society.—Cecisbeism.—Females of
    Rome.—Higher and lower classes of Italians.—The English
    disliked.—Hopes of advancing Romanism in America.—Religious bigotry
    diminished.—Disrespect of Protestants in attending the Singing at
    St. Peter’s.—Buffoonery of Servants of a Cardinal at
    devotion.—Magnificence of Church Architecture.—Roof of St.
    Peter’s.—The Lateran.—The Vatican.—Frescoes of Raphael.—Celebrated
    Pictures.—Statuary.—The Apollo, and the Laocoon.—Fresco by Michael
    Angelo.


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 abominations 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
minutiæ 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 townhouse, compared to those of an Italian
townhouse? 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 Florence were as spacious, and much more elegant than our
entire lodgings in London; and I think all our rooms in the latter town
had not more space than one of the principal rooms in the former. I paid
thirty-five dollars a week for the London house, and forty-two dollars a
month for the Florence lodgings!

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 _appartamente 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
_mezzinino_, which is frequently better than the first floor of an
English townhouse. 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. Cecisbeism 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 Frenchwoman’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 civilisation 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 civilisation, 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 dependents 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 Rome at this moment; and you can judge of their effect on
the modes of living of so small a town. The English, as a matter of
course, predominate, at least in the public places and in the hotels. At
the ball I attended, however, there were but three English present,
though half the other nations of Christendom were fully represented.
This fact was observed, and I ventured to inquire of a Roman the reason.
The answer was, that the master of the house did not like the English;
and although the entertainment was given to a prince of a royal family
nearly connected with the royal family of England, but three of the
latter country were invited. I was told that the disposition to force
their own opinions and habits on the strangers they visited rendered the
English unpleasant, and that there was a general feeling against
receiving them. This may be just enough as respects a portion, perhaps
the majority of those who come here; but it is singularly unjust as
respects the better class of them, and it is the Romans who are the
losers.

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 America are not always purely a
convocation of saints.

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 _conservatoirs_ 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 any where 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 any thing 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 baldachino,
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 lackqueys 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 Dominichino and Guido, or perhaps of Raphael,—though the
latter is to be seen to advantage elsewhere,—of 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, 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
basilicæ, of which there are now six, is nearly, if not quite as large,
in cubic contents, as all the churches of New York united. St. Peter’s,
of course, is much larger; and, if the colonnade be included, I feel
persuaded all the public buildings of New York might stand on its
area,—to say nothing of the height.

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. John _in Laterano_ is said to get its name from Plautius Lateranus,
whose house stood at the same place. The Lateran Palace joins the
church, as the Vatican joins St. Peter’s. The present palace was built
by Sixtus V; but Constantine resided here. There is a very ancient
baptistery in the group of buildings, in which it is pretended that
emperor was baptised; though a man who had made up his mind to be a
Christian, would hardly wait to build a church to perform the initiatory
ceremony in, I think. The term “councils of the _Lateran_” came from
their being held in this palace, as that of the “thunders of the
Vatican” from the circumstance that the popes, who issue the bulls,
usually live here.

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 Vatican is an immense structure, covering more ground than St.
Peter’s itself; though it is a succession of courts and palaces rather
than a single edifice. Vasi gives its dimensions at about 1100 by near
800 feet. This includes the courts, but not the gardens. I have
somewhere read, that if the buildings of the Vatican were placed in a
line, they would reach a mile.

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 façade, the latter is almost lost in the _coup d’œil_ 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 Vatican; but I
understand here, that the last election of the pope was held in the
Quirinal, or rather in the building adjoining the Quirinal. The palace
of the Quirinal is called the Pontifical Palace, and I believe most of
the time of the pope is passed in it. His apartments are very plain, so
much so as to excite surprise: but here are the noble _bas reliefs_ of
Thorwaldsen.

The frescoes of Raphael in the Vatican, and those of the Sistine Chapel,
in the same palace, by Michael Angelo, are deemed the respective _chefs
d’œuvre_ of these artists. The _loggie_ of Raphael contain some
extraordinary things. The paintings are on the ceilings of compartments,
in what we should call piazzas, or open galleries. The subjects commence
with the Creation. On one, God, in the form of a venerable old man, is
throwing himself into the midst of chaos, in order to separate and
reduce to order the materials of the universe. The sublimest conception
of this subject, the only one that will bear critical examination, is
that of a being whose will and knowledge, without an effort, can create
a universe. The simple language of the Bible can never be surpassed. The
representation of this majesty of a will might possibly be partially
portrayed by the pencil; but few could enter even into the sublimest
conceptions of the countenance of a being filled with so much power,
admitting the success to be equal to the thought, in the application of
the means. Failing this, we are driven to some such imagery as this of
Raphael’s. His idea is noble, and, considered in connexion with the
usual means of his art, perhaps one of the best that could have been
suggested. The idea of the Deity’s throwing himself into chaos, to
separate light from darkness, and to reduce the materials of the
universe to order, is magnificent, and it might be made to tell in
poetry. It never can equal the majesty of the exercise of the pure will;
but, descending from this severe grandeur, it is one of the finest of
the thoughts that follow. What a different thing it appears reduced to
visible agencies! An old sprawling man, casting his body, with open
palms and extended arms, into a chaotic confusion of gloomy colours, is
not without the wild and indefinable feeling of poetry, I admit; but how
much is it inferior to mere thought, or even thought as it may be
expressed in language! Had Raphael painted that sublime verse of the
Bible—“And God said, Let there be light, and there was light,” in this
compartment of the gallery, he would have commenced his subject as well,
perhaps, as by human means it can ever be presented to human senses.

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 Vatican. They are kept in a room by themselves, for
the convenience of being copied. The Transfiguration is at their head;
and the Communion of St. Jerome is placed at its side, as its great
rival. Of these pictures I prefer the last; though the delineation of an
old man certainly admits most of the trickery of the art. I think, were
the choice mine, I would select many pictures before the
Transfiguration. Still, it is a great picture, and in some respects,
perhaps, unequalled. Its beauties, too, are of a high order, being
principally intellectual, and its faults are more mechanical. I must
think, however, that this picture owes a portion of its great reputation
to the fact that it was the last the artist painted; and he died, as one
may say, with its subject in his mind.

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 Carrara, a circumstance that at
once destroys its Greek origin. If this be a copy, the original was
probably of bronze, and is now corroding somewhere in the earth, if,
indeed, it be not melted down. The polished roundness of this statue,
which shows a pretty even surface for want of muscles, may account for a
copy of so much beauty. The expression is principally in the attitude,
which might be imitated with mathematical accuracy; and though the most
pleasing, and, in some respects, the noblest statue known, I should
think it one of those the most easily reproduced by skilful artists. For
your comfort I will add, that the casts and copies of this statue that
are usually seen in America, bear some such resemblance to the original
as a military uniform made in a country village bears to the regulation
suit ordered by government and invented by a crack town-tailor. You get
the colour, facings and buttons, with such a cut and fit as Providence
may direct. The Dying Gladiator and the Faun are in the collection of
the Capitol. I think this distribution of the _chefs d’œuvre_
unfortunate.

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 Rome. He
ascribes it to _three statuaries_! If this fact were well authenticated,
I should hesitate about believing it any thing more than a copy from the
bronze. Is not Pliny’s authority enough, you may be inclined to ask, to
settle a question like this?—I think not. Pliny wrote about the year 90.
Winkelman refers this statue to the age of Alexander the Great; who died
four centuries earlier. Now, you may judge how much more likely Pliny,
in the condition of the world in his time, would be, than we ourselves,
to get at the truth of a similar fact of an old date. Europe is filled
with pictures that the imputed artists never saw. The celebrated “Belle
Jardinière” of the Louvre is said to be a copy surreptitiously obtained
by Mazarin; and I remember one day, when admiring the beautiful Marriage
of St. Catharine, in the same gallery, to have been almost persuaded
against my will that it was a copy, and yet Correggio has not been dead
three centuries.

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 Rome. Seven thousand feet may be true; though even
that appears a large allowance to me.

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
rest 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
Carrara marble, for instance, it is scarcely probable it can be a
Grecian statue, and then it is at once reduced to the rank of a copy;
for no Roman sculptor could have made it. The alternative is to suppose
it the work of some Greek, in Italy. It is just possible, it is true,
that a block of Carrara marble may have found its way to Greece; but,
admitting this, it would scarcely have been used by the artist of _the_
Apollo, on an original of so much merit and importance.

The fresco painting of the Last Judgment, 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 Farnesina Palace here, when Raphael was employed on its
celebrated frescoes, among which is the Galatea, and finding no one in
the room, by way of contempt for the prettiness of the divine master,
his sketching a gigantic head in a cornice with coal. This head still
remains, Raphael, having had the good-nature not to disturb it, and
every one sees it as a proof of the rivalry of these celebrated men.
Michael Angelo has painted the Last Judgment with the same ideas of the
grand as he sketched the Farnesina head. It is not a pleasing picture,
the subject scarcely admitting of this; but it is certainly an
extraordinary one. I never see the works of these two men without
thinking what an artist Buonarotti would have made had he possessed
Raphael’s gentleness and sensibility to beauty; as one is apt to fancy
what Shakspeare might have done with Milton’s subject, had he enjoyed
the advantages of Milton’s learning and taste. There would have been no
stealing from Virgil, through Dante, in the latter case.

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.




                              LETTER XXV.

  A pic-nic on Monte Mario.—Modes of ordinary address in Europe.—View of
    Rome from Monte Mario.—Comparison between modern Rome and New
    York.—Contempt of Romans for strangers.—Rome kept from utter ruin,
    by the Papacy;—its ultimate fate.—The pic-nic.


The Princess V——, a Russian, now in Rome for her health, has lately
given a pic-nic on Monte Mario,—if that can be called a pic-nic to which
but few contributed.—A pic-nic on Monte Mario! This was not absolutely
junketing _in_ a ruin, but it was junketing _over_ a ruin, and but for
the amiable patroness I should have been very apt to decline the
invitation. As it was, however, the[9] Chigi—not the _prince_, but the
_horse_ of the princely breed—was bestridden, and away I galloped, two
or three hours before the time. By the way, I do not remember having any
where spoken of the usages of Europe, as relates to the modes of
ordinary address, except, as I have told you, that, in society,
simplicity is a general rule of good taste; a law you know as well as
the best here.

Footnote 9:

  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.

The Germans have a long-established reputation for the love of official
titles. In this respect they resemble the people of New England, who are
singularly tenacious of titles, while they are offensively forgetful of
the ordinary appellations of polite intercourse. Thus, the very man who
will punctiliously style a thief-taker “Officer Roe,” will speak of a
gentleman as “Doe,” or “Old Doe,” or “Jim Doe,” or as one of his
intimates. “Well-born,” “nobly born,” and such terms, are common enough
among the Germans, used by the inferior; but wo betide the wight who
forgets to give a man his official title! In France there is little of
this, though, in business, titles are given freely. M. Préfet, M.
Sous-Préfet, M. Sergeant, even, are common French styles of address;
but, in society, one hears little of all this,—nothing, it might be
said. Military titles, below that of general, are scarcely ever given.
This arises from the fact that most officers are, or were, nobles, and
their private appellations are thought the most honourable. The same
rule exists, more or less, in England. There is at Rome, now, an
Englishman of my acquaintance, who lately left a card with “Lt. Colonel”
on it; and when I expressed to him my surprise that he should never have
used this title before, he answered that until lately he was on
half-pay, but that now he was attached, though his regiment was in
another country, of course. In private, I never heard him called
Colonel; and I presume half his acquaintances here, like myself, were
ignorant, until lately, that he was in the army at all.

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 Rome, as she now is, and one of our
own large towns, has irresistibly forced itself on all such occasions.
New York, for instance, and the Rome of to-day, are absolutely the moral
opposites of each other; almost the physical opposites too. One is a
town of recollections, and the other a town of hopes. With the people of
one, the disposition is to ruminate on the past; with the people of the
other to speculate eagerly on the future. This sleeps over its ruins,
while that boasts over its beginnings. The Roman glorifies himself on
what his ancestors _have_ been, the American on what his posterity
_will_ be.

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 Rome are a fragment of the
millions that once crowded her streets and Forums; whereas, they who
bustle through the avenues of New York would have to hunt among
themselves to find the children of the burghers of the last generation.
_Rome_, like Troy, _was_; but it does not seem that _New York_, though
accumulating annually her thousands, is ever _to be_.

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 America but a country of ships!”
was the haughty answer. What is a ship to a cameo?

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.

Rome is a city of palaces, monuments, and churches, that have already
resisted centuries; New York, one of architectural expedients, that die
off in their generations, like men. The Roman is proud of his
birth-place, proud of the past, satisfied with the present, proud of
being able to trace his blood up to some consul perhaps. In New York, so
little is ancestry, deeds, or any thing but money esteemed, that nearly
half of her inhabitants, so far from valuing themselves on family, or
historical recollections, or glorious acts, scarcely know to what nation
they properly belong. While the descendants of those who first dwelt on
the Palatine cling to their histories and traditions with an affection
as fresh as if the events were of yesterday, the earth probably does not
contain a community in which the social relations, so far as they are
connected with any thing beyond direct and obvious interests, set so
loosely as on that of New York.

“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 New
York, I would “rather be a dog and bay the moon, than such a Roman.”

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 Rome and New York. If
the people of these two places could be made, reciprocally, to pass a
year within each other’s limits, the communion would be infinitely
salutary to both; for while one party might partially awake from its
dream of centuries, the other might discover that there is something
valuable besides money.

How much longer Rome will stand, is a question of curious speculation. I
do not remember to have seen a single edifice in the course of
construction within its walls; those already in existence sufficing, in
the main, for its wants. The long supremacy of the Papacy, succeeding so
soon to that of the Empire, has been the means of bringing Rome down to
our own times; else would the place have most probably been an utter
ruin. The palaces of the great nobility, many of whom still possess
large estates, the general advancement of Europe in taste, and in a love
for art and antiquities, which induce crowds from other countries to
resort hither, and the traffic in cameos, mosaics, statuary, and
castings, which adds to the other receipts of the place, will probably
suffice to keep Rome a town of interest for ages to come. Its greatest
enemy is the _malaria_, which some people affirm is slowly increasing in
malignity and extent annually, while others affirm it is stationary. As
the descent towards the sea must, in the nature of things, be gradually
lessening, it is quite within the limits of possibility that the fate of
this illustrious place should be finally decided by the slow progress of
those invisible and mysterious means that Providence is known to use in
carrying out the great scheme of creation. After all its wars, and
sieges, and conflagrations, Rome will, in all likelihood, finally fall
“without hands.” If you quicken your movements a little, however, it
will probably be in your power to reach this memorable spot in time to
anticipate the consummation. Like the often-predicted and much-desired
dissolution of the American union, it will not arrive in your time or
mine.

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 Rome itself, as if to show that its light was never to be
extinguished.

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 Europe, in
a gig!




                              LETTER XXVI.

  The Carnival at Rome.—Masquerade at a Theatre.—Ludicrous
    mistake there.—Joke on a New England Clergyman.—Beauty
    of Roman Women.—Gaieties of the Carnival.—Sugar-plum
    artillery.—The Races.—Extinguishing of Tapers.—Observance of
    Lent, and of Palm Sunday.—Canonical orders of the Romish
    Church.—Cardinals.—Popes.—Ceremonies of Holy Week.—The Benediction
    of the Pope.—Impression left by these ceremonies.—Illumination of
    St. Peter’s.—Fireworks.


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 balls, masquerades, ballets, and operas. Although
Rome has several theatres, it is not allowed to open them unless in
these seasons of licensed gaiety; the clerical character of the
government imposing observances, that are not much attended to
elsewhere.

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 Europe are almost always separated from each other by
partitions, are privately hired by families and parties to sit in
unmasked. I confess to the folly of preferring a mask, though my
ambition has never yet tempted me to go beyond the domino. These places
contain the usual proportions of warriors, Greeks, peasants, doctors,
which are a favourite character at Rome, devils and buffoons. The
Italians are a people of strong humour, and they act their parts, on the
whole, better than most other nations; though a masquerade, at the best,
is but a dull affair, it is so much easier to find money to cover the
body with a rich dress, than brains to support the character!

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 every thing 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 idéal_ 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 skeptics fancy.

I have been amused at meeting several of our own people in these scenes
who would hesitate about being seen in them in America. One may judge of
the amount of freedom in private actions, in the land of steady habits,
in particular, by watching the course of its children when out of it. A
boyish freak came over W——, an evening or two since, on observing a
clergyman of New England standing in the midst of the dancers and masks,
and he resolved to trot him. He went up and told the parson, in broken
English, that there was a person there who was looking for him in every
direction, and, if he was willing, he, W——, would conduct him to the
place where the other might be found. The parson consented, with a good
face, and he was forthwith led up to and introduced to the most
conspicuous devil of the evening. The priest took the thing
good-naturedly, and W—— left him with his regular enemy, to battle the
matter as best he might. I do not mention this circumstance with a view
to censure this gentleman for being at a masquerade, but simply to
contrast it with what is done at home. Cant never yet aided true
religion, or protected morals, but, like the supervision of meddlers, it
is certain to make hypocrites—the most odious of all sinners. This
parson was a liberal at home; a fact that is infinitely to his credit.

I have been struck with the singular beauty of the women who appeared in
the streets of Rome during the last week of the Carnival. Most of them
are of the middling classes; but, as they appear in open daylight, there
cannot be much deception about them. They have all the delicacy of
American women, with better busts and shoulders, and are by no means
wanting in colour. Their appearance is also singularly feminine and
modest.

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
_fêtes_ 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 crupper 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
_mocheletti_, 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 comités_, 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 any
thing 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——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 façade 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 buildings; 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 fireworks 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.




                             LETTER XXVII.

  Departure from Rome.—A scolding traveller put off by a roguish
    innkeeper at Cività Castellana.—Pilgrims returning from
    Rome.—Narni.—Falls of Terni.—Spoleto.—Hermitages.—Temple of
    Clitumnus.—Foligno.


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 cortège. 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 every thing 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 little about his breakfast,
which was certainly any thing 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 Cività
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 argued ill. In the mean time, the rogue looked out of the
window, and perceiving that, including postillions 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 Cività 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 any thing 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—— 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 Cohoos.

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 _mêlée_.

The valley beyond Spoleto was very beautiful. On one side there is a
_côte_, 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 manœuvring, 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.




                             LETTER XXVIII.

  The Col Fiorito of the Apennines.—A race for a good breakfast.
    Tolentino.—Macerata.—Reconati.—Loretto: The _Santa Casa_, or
    Shrine.—Infirmary: Designs by Raphael.—Ancona.—Sinigaglia.—Castle at
    La Catolica.—Scenery near the Adriatic.—Rimini.—Procession for
    rain.—San Marino.—The Rubicon.—Cesena.—Forli.—Napoleon and his
    roads.—Faenza.—Imola.—Country from Ancona to Bologna.


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 every body 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 _à l’outrance_.

This sight quickened our movements, for it was understood that
breakfast, which every body 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 every body 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——
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, Reconati, stands on a ridge, the ascent to and descent
from which were like _Montagnes 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
Reconati: 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 nevertheless. 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 fire-place 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 follows:—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 Reconati, 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 fire-place, 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 Popola_ 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 sea-ports, although the coast is a low sandy beach,
almost without points, or bays, or head-lands: a small creek has usually
sufficed 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 Catolica, 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 Catolica, 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 Catolica.

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 Cæsar 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 Marcochia, the small river that is spanned by
the ancient bridge I have mentioned; while those of Savignano claim the
honour for the Pisatello, 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 Marcochia 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 Cæsar 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 had 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 _faïence_. 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 every body 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.




                              LETTER XXIX.

  Ferrara.—The Prison of Tasso.—The Flying Bridge over the Po.—Austrian
    Custom-house: unnecessary trouble given there.—Venetian
    women.—Padua.—The style of Palladio.—A Miracle.—Infidelity in
    mask.—Road to Mestre, and Villas on the Brenta.—Distant view of
    Venice.—The Lagoons.—Origin of Venice.—Aquatic Post-house.—Approach
    to Venice.—Canals.—The Rialto.


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 any thing 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 trull 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 allées 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——, 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_.




                              LETTER XXX.

  Arrival at Venice.—An hour’s walk by moonlight.—The streets of
    Venice.—The Great Square of St. Mark.—The Piazzetta.—Palace of the
    Doges.—The Campanile.—The Bridge of Sighs.—The Port—Travellers’ book
    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. Every thing 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—— 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—— issued forth immediately; but, after an
unsuccessful search in the maze of lanes, he returned disappointed.

The traveller’s 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.




                              LETTER XXXI.

  Picture of the Assumption, by Titian.—Martyrdom of St. Peter.—Church
    of St. Mark.—Attention to the countenance by the old
    masters.—Canova’s Monument.—Palaces.—Arsenal and Museum.—Gondolas
    and Gondoliers.—Lions’ Mouths.—Concourse in the Square of St.
    Mark.—Attempt to revive Venice as a free port.—Composition
    Floors.—Cause of frequent conflagration in America.—Mr. Owen’s
    social scheme.—Company to erect edifices for lodging mechanics
    suggested.


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’œuvre_. 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 is 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 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—— 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 a picture 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 any thing I
saw, one fresco painting excepted.

Some of the carvings of the churches, that are in _high relief_, surpass
any thing 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 destination 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 Buccentauro, 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 armée_, 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 be 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 versâ_, 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.




                             LETTER XXXII.

  Wearisome calm of Venice.—The Canals and Port the chief resort for
    recreation.—Garden planted by Napoleon.—Misconception respecting the
    Rialto.—The Bridge of Sighs.—Palaces.—The canals without footways on
    their margin.—Intercourse by land.—The Grand Canal.—The Lido.—The
    Islands.


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.

              “I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,”
                    &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

                 “A palace and a prison on each hand,”

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.

               “Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,”

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.




                             LETTER XXXIII.

  New mode of Travelling.—Route from Venice to Vicenza.—Theatre on a new
    plan by Palladio.—Verona: The Amphitheatre, and the Tomb of
    Juliet.—Observations on Italians and Italian Society.—Banditti and
    Assassins.—Lower classes of Italians.—Nobles and Gentlemen.—Italy by
    nature a single country.—Its divisions into States.—Obstacles to its
    consolidation.—Napoleon.—A confederated Republic predicted.—Line of
    the Tyrol.—New mode of Travelling the most expensive.—The Inn at
    Trent.—Picturesque Valley.—Tower at Botzen.—Brixen.—Pass of the
    Brenner.—Innspruck.—The Cathedral, and the Castle of the Counts of
    the Tyrol.


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 postillions. 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 postillions 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 postillions. 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 idéal_
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 Guilietta 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 any thing 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. A—— 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 polices 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 on 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 any thing 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,[10] 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.

Footnote 10:

  This junction has since been made.

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 adapted. 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, the people of a country should 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
postillion, 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. Roveredo
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 post-master, 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 postmasters; 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 _à 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 carriageway, 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 châteaux 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 A—— had a good laugh at me
for a change of character. By the arrangement at Venice, I was not
obliged to give any thing to the postillions; but I usually added a
franc to their regular receipts from the government. On this occasion
the postillion 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 postillion, _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 fairy-like 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 mountain-city, 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 to-day, 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 picture-gallery, 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
“Iser 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.


                                THE END.




                               NEW BOOKS.

                        CAREY, LEA & BLANCHARD,

                             PHILADELPHIA,


                         HAVE LATELY PUBLISHED—

  LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART. By J. G. Lockhart, Esq., his Literary
    Executor. This work is now completed, and may be had in two volumes,
    royal octavo, or seven volumes, duodecimo.

  A VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD, including an Embassy to Muscat and Siam in
    1835, 1836, and 1837, by W. S. W. Ruschenberger, M. D. &c. &c., in
    one volume, 8vo.

  MEMOIRS OF JOSEPH GRIMALDI, the Clown, edited by Boz. 12mo.


                  POPULAR MEDICINE, OR FAMILY ADVISER.

  Popular Medicine, or Family Adviser; consisting of Outlines of
    Anatomy, Physiology and Hygiene, with such hints on the Practice of
    Physic and Surgery, and the Diseases of Women and Children, as may
    prove useful in Families, when regular Physicians cannot be
    procured; being a Companion and Guide for intelligent principals of
    Manufactories, Plantations, and Boarding Schools, Heads of Families,
    Masters of Vessels, Missionaries or Travellers; and a useful Sketch
    for Young Men about commencing the Study of Medicine, by Reynell
    Coates, M. D., Fellow of the College of Physicians of Philadelphia,
    Honorary Member of the Philadelphia Medical Society, &c., assisted
    by several Medical Friends. 1 vol. 8vo.


                            _Now Complete._

  THE BRIDGEWATER TREATISES, in seven volumes, Octavo, and to be had in
    embossed cloth, or half bound with calf backs and corners.

  THE SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF SAMUEL SLICK, OF SLICKVILLE.

            “The cheerful sage, whose solemn dictates fail,
            Conceals the moral counsel in a tale.”

_The Standard Edition._

In one vol. 12mo.

  ETIQUETTE FOR THE LADIES, with Hints on the Preservation, Improvement
    and Display of Female Beauty. A small volume.

  THE LAWS OF ETIQUETTE; or, Rules and Reflections for Conduct in
    Society, by a Gentleman. A small pocket volume.

  AN ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF PICKWICK CLUB, by
    Charles Dickens, Esq. The numerous designs are by Sam Weller, Jr.
    and Alfred Crowquill, Esq., beautifully engraved by Yeager, and
    printed on cream-coloured paper. The whole forming a splendid volume
    in octavo, and bound in elegant embossed cloth.

  OLIVER TWIST, or the PARISH BOY’S PROGRESS, with illustrations by
    Cruikshank; now publishing: PART FIRST, with twelve Plates to match
    the Pickwick Papers—is now ready.

  SKETCHES OF EVERY-DAY LIFE and Every-Day People, with new plates by
    Cruikshank, is preparing in a style to match Pickwick, a part will
    shortly be issued.


                           NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.

                    NOW PUBLISHING IN MONTHLY PARTS.

  The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby, containing a faithful
    account of the Fortunes, Misfortunes, Uprisings, Downfallings, and
    complete Career of the Nickleby family, edited by Boz. Each monthly
    part will be embellished with two illustrations by Phiz, and
    published in a style to match with the other works of Boz.


                        LA MARTINE—NEW EDITION.

  A PILGRIMAGE TO THE HOLY LAND, comprising Recollections, Sketches, and
    Reflections made during a tour in the East, by Alphonse De La
    Martine. Fourth edition.

  ROYSTON GOWER, a Historical Romance, by Thomas Miller, in 2 vols.
    12mo. (In the press.)

  JANE LOMAX, or Crime and Punishment, by Horace Smith. In 2 vols. 12mo.


                            JOHN T. IRVING.

  THE HAWK CHIEF, or the Hunters of the Prairie, a Tale of the Indian
    Country, by John T. Irving, Jr. In 2 vols. 12mo.


                               VANDELEUR.

VANDELEUR; or Animal Magnetism. A novel.

         “Ye shall have miracles, ay, sound ones too,
         Seen, heard, attested, every thing but true.”
                                             _Veiled Prophet._

Two vols. 12mo.


                           LADY BLESSINGTON.

  CONFESSIONS OF AN ELDERLY LADY AND GENTLEMAN, by the Countess of
    Blessington. 2 vols. 12mo.


                              MISS LANDON.

  ETHEL CHURCHILL; or, the Two Brides, by Miss Landon. In 2 vols. 12mo.


                              MARY HOWITT.

  WOOD LEIGHTON; or, a Year in the Country, by Mary Howitt. In 3 vols.
    12mo.


                            CAPTAIN CHAMIER.

  WALSINGHAM, the Gamester, by Captain Chamier. In 2 vols. 12mo.


                              MISS BOYLE.

  THE STATE PRISONER. A Tale. By Miss Boyle. 2 vols. 12mo.

  THE MERCHANT’S DAUGHTER, by the Author of the “Heiress,” “Agnes
    Serle,” &c. 2 vols. 12mo.


                          J. FENIMORE COOPER.

  HOMEWARD BOUND. A Novel. By the Author of “The Spy,” &c. &c. (In
    press.)


                           AN AMERICAN NOVEL.

  CLINTON BRADSHAW, or the Adventures of a Lawyer. In 2 vols. 12mo.


                         _By the same Author._

  EAST AND WEST. A Novel. By the Author of “Clinton Bradshaw.” 2 vols.
    12mo.


                               THEODORE HOOK.

  JACK BRAG. A Novel. By Theodore Hook. 2 vols. 12mo.


                             _Second Edition._

  GODOLPHIN. A Novel. In 2 vols. 12mo.




                               NEW BOOKS.

            _Carey, Lea & Blanchard have lately published_,


                      GLEANINGS IN EUROPE—FRANCE.

             By the author of the Spy, &c. in 2 vols. 12mo.

Extremely amusing, light and piquant, and abounding in anecdotes.—London
Sun.

Characteristic and entertaining volumes, containing much amusing
anecdotes, and well executed sketches of society in Paris.—Morning Post.

As a man of talents, of sound and judicious observation, this work will
add largely to the reputation of the great American Novelist. It is
truth, in its way a masterly performance.—Scotsman.


                        EXCURSIONS ON THE RHINE,

                          IN SWITZERLAND, &c.

               By the author of the Spy, in 2 vols. 12mo.

“Knowing by delightful experience the great descriptive powers of the
author of ‘Excursions,’ we may safely conclude that whoever peruses them
will do so with an additional satisfaction when he reflects that they
are described by the same pen which has drawn such animated portraits of
men and of nature before. This work is indeed a most lively narrative of
travels.”

                                                                  Times.


                        SKETCHES OF SWITZERLAND.

            PART FIRST, by the same author, in 2 vols. 12mo.

“The author of ‘The Spy,’ not content with the fame already acquired in
the field of literature, has here made another effort to impart some
valuable thoughts to the gratification of his friends and the public.
The two volumes before us are a compilation of letters written from
France to the author’s personal friends in America, but these letters
will not be less acceptable because written as private epistles,
inasmuch as they contain much of that peculiar character which it
instructs while it amuses. Mr. Cooper’s testimony in relation to the
then existing state of society in France, may be considered as honest;
whilst in relation to the more weighty matters which fell under his
observation, he appears to have acted upon that most excellent appeal of
Othello, ‘nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.’”—_American
Citizen._

“Whatever Mr. Cooper undertakes to describe, he does it with the hand of
a master, and a single chapter of description from his vigorous pen,
conveys more distinct ideas of the things and persons of whom he writes,
than all the volumes of First Impressions which have ever been
published. His views of society are also such as may be studied with
advantage; and it is to be hoped that the results of his experience will
not be entirely lost on his fellow citizens.”—_Saturday News._


                      GLEANINGS IN EUROPE—ENGLAND.

England, with Sketches of Society in the Metropolis, by the author of
the Spy, &c. in 2 vols. 12mo.

“Mr. Cooper’s new book on ‘England, and Society in the Metropolis,’
will, by the interesting details, gratify all lovers of personal
anecdotes and satirical sketches. If Willis’s Pencillings were found
amusing, Cooper’s book, will, from its independent tone as well as its
frequent anecdotes, be alternately praised and censured according to the
views of the reader; none, however, can deny to it the merit of great
entertainment.

“We recommend this work to a careful perusal. It abounds in curious
anecdotes of the most distinguished authors and politicians of the
day.”—London Sun.

Lately published new editions of the following works by Mr.


                                COOPER.

  THE SPY: a Tale of the Neutral Ground.

  THE PIONEERS, or the Sources of the Susquehanna: a descriptive Tale.

  THE PILOT: a Tale of the Sea.

  LAST OF THE MOHICANS: a Narrative of 1757.

  THE PRAIRIE: a Tale.

  THE RED ROVER: a Tale.

  THE WEPT OF WISH-TON-WISH: a Tale.

  THE WATER WITCH: or the Skimmer of the Seas.

  THE BRAVO: a Tale.

  NOTIONS OF THE AMERICANS: Picked up by a Travelling Bachelor.

  THE HEIDENMAUER; or the Benedictines. A Legend of the Rhine.

  THE HEADSMAN; or the Abbaye des Vignerons: a Tale.

  THE MONIKINS; a Novel by the Author of “The Spy.”

  PRECAUTION: Edited, revised and corrected. (In the press.)

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
 ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GLEANINGS IN EUROPE ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.