The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1840, 1842, and 1843, vol. 2 of 2
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: Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1840, 1842, and 1843, vol. 2 of 2
Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Release date: August 23, 2024 [eBook #74301]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: Edward Moxon, 1844
Credits: Richard Tonsing 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 RAMBLES IN GERMANY AND ITALY IN 1840, 1842, AND 1843, VOL. 2 OF 2 ***
RAMBLES
IN
GERMANY AND ITALY,
IN
1840, 1842, AND 1843.
BY
MRS. SHELLEY.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET.
MDCCCXLIV.
O vedovate da perpetuo gelo
Terre, e d’incerto di mest sorriso,
Addio! * * * Questo petto anelo
Scosse di gioia un palpito improvviso,
Quando il Tiranno splendido del cielo
Mi rivelò d’ Italia il paradiso.—NICCOLINI.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS WHITEFRIARS.
CONTENTS.
PART III.—1842 AND 43.
LETTER I.
PAGE
PRAGUE 1
LETTER II.
MÜLCHEN.—BUDWEIS.—LINZ 10
LETTER III.
THE TRAUN.—THE GMUNDEN-SEE.—ISHL.—ST. WOLFGANG LAKE.—SALZBURG 22
LETTER IV.
ENTRANCE TO THE TYROL.—VILLAGE FÊTE.—PASS STRUB.—SWARTZ.—INSPRUCK 37
LETTER V.
THE PASS OF THE
BRENNER.—HOFER.—BRESSANONE.—EGRA.—TRENT.—RIVA.—LAGO DI
GARDA.—PROMONTORY OF SIRMIO 48
LETTER VI.
VERONA.—JOURNEY TO VENICE.—LEONE BIANCO.—HOTEL D’ITALIA 74
LETTER VII.
THE DUCAL PALACE.—THE ACCADEMIA DELLE BELLE ARTI 82
LETTER VIII.
CHIESA DE’ FRARI.—SAN GIORGIO MAGGIORE.—SANTA MARIA DELLA
SALUTE.—LIDO.—THE GIUDECCA.—THE FONDAMENTI NUOVI.—THE
ISLANDS.—THE ARMENIAN CONVENT 92
LETTER IX.
FREE PORT.—VENETIAN SOCIETY.—TITLES OF THE NOBILITY.—THE
DOTTI.—INFANT SCHOOL 103
LETTER X.
VENETIAN PALACES.—GONDOLIERI.—BASILICA OF ST.
MARK.—OPERA.—ILLUMINATION OF THE FENICE 119
LETTER XI.
JOURNEY TO FLORENCE.—COLD AND RAINY SEASON.—EXCURSION TO
VALLOMBROSA 131
LETTER XII.
ART AT FLORENCE.—COSIMO ROSSELLI.—GHIRLANDAJO.—BEATO FRA
ANGELICO.—POCCETTI.—LATER FLORENTINE SCHOOL 140
LETTER XIII.
THE GALLERY.—PALAZZO PITTI.—LE BELLE ARTI.—PORTRAIT OF DANTE.—THE
CHURCHES 152
LETTER XIV.
THE CARBONARI 161
LETTER XV.
TUSCANY 181
LETTER XVI.
ITALIAN LITERATURE.—MANZONI.—NICCOLINI.—COLLETTA.—AMARI 190
LETTER XVII.
VOYAGE TO ROME 212
LETTER XVIII.
RAFFAELLE AT ROME 216
LETTER XIX.
RUINS OF ROME.—THE HOLY WEEK.—MUSIC AND ILLUMINATIONS 225
LETTER XX.
THE PONTIFICAL STATES 234
CHAPTER XXI.
INSURRECTION OF 1831, AND OCCUPATION OF ANCONA BY THE FRENCH 249
LETTER XXII.
SORRENTO.—CAPRI.—POMPEII 262
LETTER XXIII.
EXCURSION TO AMALFI 280
RAMBLES
IN
GERMANY AND ITALY.
PART III.—1842.
LETTER I.
PRAGUE.
THURSDAY, 1ST SEPTEMBER, 1842.
Strange and wild legends appertain to Prague, and people the heights
that overhang the city. The Bohemians are of Sclavonian race; they were
in early times fire-worshippers, and offered victims to their divinity
on the Laurenzi Berg, which rises behind the town. On the Hradschin, an
eminence that frowns above the Moldau, was built the palace of the old
Bohemian kings; and the metropolitan church of Prague stands in the
palace-yard, on the highest point of the imperial hill.
The most prosperous period for Prague was the reign of the Emperor
Charles IV. He appears in no favourable light in the pages of Italian
history; but he won immortal and deserved renown as King of Bohemia, by
his acts of magnificence, and the liberality and sagacity of his
government. He caused the Neustadt to be built, marking the width and
termination of the streets, and leaving the spaces to be filled up by
private individuals, on whom great privileges were bestowed: the size of
the streets and open areas interspersed, give it a noble distinction
among the ill-built towns of the middle ages. Churches and convents rose
around. He built also the grand old Bridge, which spans the broad and
curved stream of the Moldau, and he founded the University, which long
vied with Paris and Oxford in celebrity.
The earliest Reformers sprung up in Prague. John Huss was rector of the
University: his tenets were the source of that independent and
Protestant spirit which then first began to undermine the Roman Catholic
faith. In early times, the Church of Bohemia obtained from the Council
of Basle, that the sacramental cup should be administered to the laity;
and this of itself was a broad distinction between Catholic Bohemia and
the rest of the Papal world.
Although John Huss died at the stake, his influence continued high in
his country, where he was reverenced as a saint. The Bohemians, loving
their own language and their own customs—a sagacious and intelligent
race—were well pleased with any state of things that should conduce to
separate them more widely from the surrounding German nations.
The time came when they were to fall. When the rest of Europe was in
darkness and enslaved, Bohemia had a pure religion and free
institutions: now it is but a province of Austria, and there are not one
hundred Protestants in the country. The Emperor Mathias first
endeavoured to uproot its liberty, and the Jesuits had been established,
to counterbalance, by their insidious system of encroachment, the
influence openly possessed by the Protestants. This state of things
could not last. The Emperor supported Catholicism, and wished to
assimilate Bohemia to his Austrian provinces in language, laws and
religion: the national Diet endeavoured to preserve their country as a
distinct kingdom. The Emperor insisted on naming his successor, in the
person of his brother Ferdinand: the crown had hitherto been elective,
and the nobles resolved to preserve their rights. On the death of
Mathias, they called to the throne the Elector Palatine, a Calvinist:
the Emperor Ferdinand claimed the country as his own, and invaded it.
For one year, Elizabeth of England held a gay and chivalrous court in
Prague. Had her husband been a statesman and a soldier, he might have
disciplined his brave, enthusiastic subjects, and have repulsed the
invasion of Austria. He was vanquished ingloriously, and, forced to fly
from the city, he became a wanderer and an exile. Ferdinand triumphed;
but a collision between his pretensions and the free institutions of
Bohemia was inevitable. The nobles resisted the Emperor’s edicts, and
tossed his commissioners out of the windows of the Green Chamber of the
palace. This act was the first deed of violence of the thirty years’
war, which hence began, nor ended till all Germany was devastated, and
Bohemia enslaved.
We set out on a brief drive round the town, to view the spots where
these scenes had taken place. Leaving our hotel, we passed through the
crowded and trading Altstadt, and crossed the bridge which connects the
Klein Seite with the city. On this stands the statue of St. John
Nepomuk, who, the legend says, was thrown from that spot into the Moldau
below, for refusing to betray to Wenceslaus IV. secrets confided to him
by his Queen in the confessional. A constellation of five stars was
observed to hover over the water, exciting the curiosity and terror of
the pious; so that at last the river was dragged; the body of the saint
was found, and received honourable interment—though not canonization
until some centuries after. Such is the legend; but the true history of
this saint, as Mr. Reeve[1] relates it, differs materially, and is
curious. He tells us, he perished a martyr to church reform:—“During the
contests between Wenceslaus IV. and the then Archbishop of Prague (John
of Genzstein, afterwards Patriarch of Alexandria), with regard to
certain matters of church property, the prelate was vigorously supported
by his Vicar-General, Johanko von Pomuk, upon whom the King wreaked his
vengeance; and the spot is still shewn where he was thrown into the
river. This event took place in 1381, and was soon forgotten by the
people. Time, however, rolled on; John Huss perished in the flames at
Constance, and, as his schism was followed by the larger portion of the
Bohemian nation, St. John Huss became an object of popular reverence. I
have seen hymns in his honour, which were sung in churches even towards
the close of the sixteenth century. But when the Jesuits were installed
at Prague, to extirpate the Bohemian heresies, they found it useful to
have a St. John of their own. The legend of St. John Nepomuk was
invented; his relics were shewn; an epic poem, the Nepomuceidon, was
composed by the Jesuit Percicus in his honour in 1729; he was canonized,
and his fame spread with amazing rapidity throughout the Catholic
Church. These honours are now so intimately connected with the system in
which they originated, that I once heard a distinguished Bohemian
declare that no good could befal his country till St. John Nepomuk was
once more thrown into the Moldau.” Meanwhile, he has become the guardian
saint of bridges; his statue, surmounted by the image of the five
miraculous stars, in a more or less rude form, finds a place on almost
every bridge of Catholic Germany, as it does here on the Bridge of
Prague—on the very spot whence he was thrown.
In the Klein Seite the nobles had their palaces, and we saw that of the
princely Wallenstein: “coiled as it were round the foot of the imperial
rock,”[2] to make room for which a hundred humbler houses were rased.
Wallenstein, who had arrived at mid life in comparative obscurity, first
came forward in a conspicuous manner in the Bohemian war. His immense
riches were principally derived from the confiscations of the expelled
and exiled Hussites. When some years after his command was taken from
him, he built this palace, where he lived in princely grandeur, feeding
his imagination with dreams of yet higher glory, ministered to him by
Seni the astrologer. It was in early life, during his residence at the
University of Padua, that Wallenstein first heard from the Professor
Argoli that the stars above echoed the cherished dreams of his own
heart. There is no trace, we are told, that Wallenstein ever followed
any particular directions emanating from the stars[3]; but the knowledge
that they predicted greatness biased his imagination, strengthened his
resolutions, and made him boldly enter on a career from which a man of
lowlier hopes had shrunk.
The stars foretold greatness to Wallenstein; did they foretell,
obscurely, so that he could not decipher their true meaning, that he
should obtain that, the want of which made Alexander weep—a poet to
illustrate his deeds? This greatness was perhaps written in the starry
scroll, whose real meaning he could not decipher, and so aimed at a
success that ended in defeat, but which, by means of Schiller, has
become immortal glory. Such lights as well as shadows lure us on under
the form of regarded or despised presentiments.
“I would not call them
Voices of warning that announce to us
Only the inevitable.”
Wallenstein has been peculiarly fortunate in having two poets; for
Coleridge’s translation of Schiller’s tragedy, giving the German poetry
an English poetic form, causes him to belong to both countries.
Dark shadows for centuries have obscured the name of Wallenstein; amidst
the uncertain there is enough of certain to form a hero both in good and
ill; but the chief good, which places him side by side with his
illustrious rival, Gustavus Adolphus, was his religious toleration, in
an age of bitter, cruel, unrelenting religious persecution.
Passing this extensive palace, we ascended the height on which the
Hradschin is situated; old princely Prague, the native city of the
savage Ziska, of the martyred Huss, and of generations of resolute,
free, and noble citizens, lay beneath in sleepy decay. It is impossible
not to ponder upon the world’s fate. Had the Prince Palatine been a
hero; had Wallenstein, by birth a Bohemian, not fallen in his youth into
the hands of the Jesuits; had he grown up as he was baptized, a
Lutheran, would not Bohemia have been able to maintain its political and
religious liberty? Would not the thirty years’ war have been crushed in
the egg? would not Germany, which has never recovered the devastation
and massacres of that period, have continued flourishing and become
free? and might the Huguenots, so supported, not have been quite crushed
in France.
But Frederick was an empty coward, Wallenstein a pupil of the Jesuits,
and the world is as it is.
Our coachman went a little out of his way up the river, to shew us where
a suspension bridge is hung across the Moldau; but disdaining the modern
invention, we caused the horses’ heads to be turned, and recrossed the
bridge of St. John Nepomuk, that we might view the traces of the
bombardment of the gate by the Swedes; the defaced ornaments and
battered appearance still recall that time. I was very sorry to see no
more, but though thus an outside view was all I caught of this
picturesque and ancient city,—its mosque-like churches, the dark pile of
the old royal palace, its deserted mansions, and noble river, form a
living scene in my memory never to be effaced. “The day we come to a
place which we have long heard and read of, is an era in our lives; from
that moment the very name calls up a picture.”[4] The stilly evening
shed golden rays over dome, tower, and minaret, and brightened the wide
waters of the river. I returned with regret to our hotel.
LETTER II.
Mülchen.—Budweis.—Linz.
FRIDAY, SEPT. 2.
We hired a _lohn kutscher_ to take us to Budweis—about sixty miles—which
was to occupy two days: for this we are to pay, including _drink-gelt_,
forty-four florins. I ought to mention, that the coachman who took us
from Dresden to Prague, refunded the overcharge of two thalers made by
the fellow employed by him to take us through the Saxon Switzerland.
I must tell you that the Germans look down on the _voituriers_ as people
of the lowest grade of society. One German master at Kissingen, who made
the bargain with the man who took us to Leipsic, actually spoke to him
with the _er_—the third person singular—than which no greater insult can
be imagined. These distinctions are droll, varying as they do in
different countries. The Germans do not address each other with the
plural _you_, as is our custom: _thou_ denotes affection and
familiarity. The common mode of speaking to friends, acquaintances,
servants, shopkeepers—to everybody indeed—is the third person plural,
_sie_, they: your own dog you treat with the _du_, thou; the dog of your
enemy with _er_, or he. The Germans have a habit of staring quite
inconceivable—I speak, of course, of the people one chances to meet
travelling as we do. For instance, in the common room of an hotel, if a
man or woman there have nothing else to do, they will fix their eyes on
you, and never take them off for an hour or more. There is nothing rude
in their gaze, nothing particularly inquiring, though you suppose it
must result from curiosity: perhaps it does; but their eyes follow you
with pertinacity, without any change of expression. At Rabenau, and
other country places, the little urchins would congregate from the
neighbouring cottages, follow us about, up the hills, and beside the
waterfall, form a ring and stare. A magic word to get rid of them is
very desirable: here it is—ask one of them, “_Was will er?_” “What does
_he_ want?” The _er_ is irresistible—the little wretches feel the insult
to their very backbone, and make off at once. That the _kutchers_ endure
the _er_ is astonishing. I could not address them so: for surely it is
the excess of inhumanity as well as insolence to use a form of speech
that denotes contempt to persons who have never offended you. With the
starers it is otherwise; they do offend grievously, and one has a full
right to get rid of them at almost any cost. I will just add, that
except the under-driver who had charge of us during our tour through the
Saxon Switzerland, we have not had reason to complain of our German
_kutchers_—nor any reason to be pleased: they are quiet to sullenness;
never gave up a point; and never seemed to care whether we were pleased
or not. However, under this sort of sulky apathy there lurked an
aptitude for getting into the most violent rage, if their pockets are
touched, which was very startling, as compared with the absence of all
expression of kindly feeling.
We set out from Prague in the morning, not quite as early as we ought,
which disturbed the order of our travelling—a fact difficult to instil
into the minds of some travellers,—but in _voiturier_ travelling the
whole comfort depends on an early departure. It seems that if a certain
portion of work, with certain rests, are to occupy the day, it does not
much matter how these are portioned out. It is not so; and experience
shows an early departure in the morning and an early arrival in the
evening to be the only arrangement that makes this method of travelling
at all comfortable. We set out late, and we had a carriage provided,
uncomfortable from its extreme smallness: it was, indeed, a mere hack
drosky, taken from the streets; one person only could sit outside, and
four were exceedingly confined for room inside.
The weather continued fine and warm; and now in the heart of Bohemia, we
looked inquiringly abroad to see how a portion of earth, with a name
sounding to our western ears strange and even mysterious, differed from
any other. We saw few distinctions—the villages were low-built and
dirty; the towns rather pleasing in their appearance, looking airy, with
a large square or market-place in the midst, surrounded by low white
houses. Hill and dale surrounded us, consisting of a good deal of
pasture; but the circumstance that chiefly struck us was, that we saw
not a trace of the residence of any landed proprietor, no château, no
country seat, no park, nor garden. We saw no house which any but a
peasant, or in the infrequent towns, that any but one in an under grade
of life, could inhabit. I cannot in my ignorance explain either the
meaning or results of this state of things. Perhaps it arises from the
circumstance, that the domains of the Bohemian nobility are so large
that they are rather small tributary states.[5] The nobles possess ample
privileges; and some among them, who belong to the old native families,
are truly patriotic, and devote themselves to the good of their tenants,
who are almost their subjects; but Prince Swarzenberg and Prince
Metternich, who are among the richest landed proprietors of the
province, are certainly absentees; and probably the list of such is
considerable. However this may be, and whatever may be the cause, we
looked out eagerly, as we crawled slowly along, for traces of the
habitations of gentry—a race more important often to the prosperity of a
country than the nobility—but we saw none.
We expected to sleep at Tabor—our kutcher had so designed, but our late
setting out changed his views. This annoyed us; and one of our party,
familiar with German—of no great use, since the man was a Bohemian—sat
by him and gave him _kirch-wasser_ and cigars, and used what verbal
eloquence he could, to persuade him that we might get on to Tabor. The
man drank the _kirch-wasser_, smoked the cigars, and said nothing; while
we hoped, in accordance to the old saying, that silence gave consent. At
about ten o’clock we arrived at a miserable-looking village, with a
worse-looking inn—such as carters and waggoners might frequent. With
difficulty, for the entrance was encumbered and tortuous, we entered the
court-yard. We sat in silent despair; but it was necessary to yield. I
was taken up a broken staircase to a barn-looking room, with a number of
beds in it—it was the only sleeping-room. A handsome, proud-looking
girl, the daughter of the house, with a hand-maiden under her, began to
arrange my bed. The people in the south of Germany are not disinclined,
when generous, to give you a clean under sheet; but the upper one is
double and encases the quilt, and this they do not think it necessary to
change. I summoned all my German, consisting but of single words;
_schmutzig_, or dirty, applied to the sheet, made the girl angry; but,
on my insisting on having another, she complied with the air of an
offended empress. My maid slept in the same room. I never dared ask how
my companions passed the night—the beds were taken for them out of my
room. However, they got an excellent supper (of which I was too tired to
partake) of venison—not a common thing in Bohemia; for usually we only
got a disastrous _huhn_ (a fowl), rather drier and tougher than deal
chips. The name of this village was Mülchen. Our bill was six florins
and a half. I mention these prices; for they show, as they vary from one
end of Germany to another, sometimes the value of money, sometimes the
inclination to extort. The _schein_ money still continues; so you will
understand that a bill was brought in for more than sixteen florins,
which, multiplying by two and dividing by five, we reduced to the real
demand in florins Münz. This sort of currency probably springs from the
Austrian money introduced by conquest being of too high value for the
poverty of Bohemia, who adhered to their own inferior coin, with a new
name.
The people of Bohemia, such as we saw them, are better-looking than the
peasantry of those parts of Germany which we had visited; but there is
nothing particularly attractive about them. It is impossible, however,
to judge fairly even of the surface of a people whose language one does
not understand. The Bohemians do not expect to be understood by
strangers, unless they can themselves speak German; and they are too
little conversant with foreigners to take any sort of interest in them.
Their manner was abrupt and decided, with a mixture of sullen disdain:
dirty enough they are, and very poor. The Bohemians are, indeed,
singularly cut off from the rest of the earth. Their language is
exclusively their own—not understood beyond the boundary. Except to
visit Prague, and one or two of their Baths, no strangers enter their
country. From what I can gather, they bear the marks of a conquered
people, adhering to the customs and practices of their forefathers,
forgotten everywhere else—satisfied with themselves—averse to
improvement, which, indeed, has no avenue by which to reach them—they
remember that they were once free, though they have forgotten that they
were Protestants.
3D SEPTEMBER.
We still proceeded, not a little weary—the _drosky_ was so very
uncomfortable—over hill and dale, and through miserable villages, or now
and then a larger town, with its wide square and long range of low
houses. We stopped at a better-looking inn than that of Mülchen for our
mid-day meal, but fared worse; the only thing they could give us was the
unfortunate _huhn_, against which we had made many violent resolutions,
and now entered many vain protests; this, and the absence of bread—for I
cannot give that name to the sour, black, damp, uneatable substance they
brought as such—made our meals very like a Barmecide feast. Nor was the
table graced with clean linen; but to this we had become painfully
accustomed.
We rolled on. The weather was beautiful; the country was pleasing
without being striking.
The day’s journey was long; we entered Budweis late, by moonlight. This
is a large town; and by this light, there was something singular in the
appearance of its extensive market-place, surrounded by arcades. The
Goldene Sonne is marked by Murray as good, and we had no reason to alter
this decision. The hostess was a tall, large woman, of resolute and
abrupt manners; she spoke German readily, and, uncommon in Germany,
served us with expedition, but with an authoritative and condescending
manner, which amused us very much.
We inquired, and found that there was no locomotive on the railroad,
that it was drawn by horses; that it set out at three in the morning,
and that we should reach Linz the next day. We sent to take our places,
and made a great mistake in not securing an “exclusive extra” as the
Americans call it—a coach and horse all to ourselves, which we might
have obtained at a slight extra expense, and we should have been
perfectly comfortable. Our five places cost fifteen florins, and we had
to pay seven extra for luggage; which, considering the quantity we had,
was dear. Our bill at Budweis for supper and beds, and a cup of coffee
in the morning, was eleven florins—nearly double the bill at Mülchen,
and, compared even with Prague, dear.
SEPTEMBER 4TH.
We did not go to bed till nearly twelve. We were to rise at two; and at
the blast of a trumpet we were awakened. You must know, besides its
glass, Prague is famous for the manufacture of brass wind instruments,
and P— bought a trumpet for sixteen florins (thirty-two shillings): to
prevent all possibility of any of the party not shaking off slumber at
the right moment, he blew a blast which must have astonished all the
sleepers in the inn.
We again traversed the ghostly-looking white market-place of Budweis by
the light of the unset moon, and took our places in one of the carriages
on the railroad. Day soon struggled through the shades of night,
quenched the moonbeams, and disclosed the face of earth. I never
recollect a more delightful drive than the hundred miles between Budweis
and Linz: each hour the scene gains in beauty—from fertile and
agreeable, it becomes interesting, then picturesque; and at last it
presents a combination of beauty which I never saw equalled. I hurry
over the miles, as our carriages were hurried along the railroad, which
having an inclination down toward Linz, went very fast—I hurry on, and
speak briefly of the ever-varying panorama of distant mountain,
wood-clothed upland and fertile plain, all gay in sunshine, which we
commanded as we were whirled along the brink of a chain of hills. I
never can forget the glorious sunset of that evening. We were on the
height of a mountain,
“At whose verdant feet
A spacious plain, outstretched in circuit wide,
Lay pleasant.”——[6]
As we descended towards Linz, the sun dropped low in the heavens. The
prospect was extensive; varied by the lines of wooded hills and majestic
mountains, and towering above, on the horizon, was stretched the range
of the Salzburg and Styrian Alps. The Danube wound through the varied
plain below; the town of Linz was upon the banks, and a bridge spanned
the river; above, it swept under high precipices—below, it flowed
majestically on: its glittering waves were seen afar giving that life
and sublimity to the landscape which it never acquires without the
addition of ocean, lake, or river—water, in short, in some magnificent
form. Golden and crimson, the clouds waited on the sun, now dazzling in
brightness; and now, as that sunk behind the far horizon, stretching
away in fainter and fainter hues, reflected by the broad river below.
The town of Linz was a point or resting place for the eye, which added
much to the harmony and perfection of the landscape. I held my breath to
look. My heart had filled to the brim with delight, as, sitting on a
rock by the lake of Como, I had watched the sunlight climb the craggy
mountains opposite. The effect of this evening—when instead of _up_, I
looked _down_ on a widespread scene of glorious beauty, was different;
yet so poor is language, that I know not how to paint the difference in
words. I had never before been aware of all the awe the spirit feels
when we are taken to a mountain top, and behold the earth spread out
fair at our feet: nor of the delight a traveller receives when, at the
close of a day’s travel, he—
“Obtains the brow of some high-climbing hill,
Which, to his eye, discovers unawares
The goodly prospect of some foreign land
First seen; or some renowned metropolis,
With glistening spires and pinnacles adorned,
Which now the _setting_ sun gilds with his beams.”[7]
It was dark when we descended into the town: as we crossed the bridge,
the waters of the Danube gleamed beneath the hills.
We repaired to the hotel of the Goldener Löwe, which we find comfortable
and good.
LETTER III.
The Traun.—The Gmunden-see.—Ishl.—St. Wolfgang Lake.—Salzburg.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 5TH.
The train of the railroad started at two in the afternoon for Gmunden:
we thus had a few hours to spare. One of our party climbed the heights
above Linz, to feast his eyes on the view which had enchanted me the
preceding evening. There is no circumstance in travelling, consequent on
my narrow means, that I regret so much, as my being obliged to deny
myself hiring a carriage when I arrive at a strange town, and the not
being able to drive about everywhere, and see everything. I wandered
about the town, and stood long on the bridge, drinking in the beauty of
the scene, till the soul became full to the brim with the sense of
delight. The river is indeed magnificent; with speed, yet with a
vastness that renders speed majestic, it hurries on the course assigned
to it by the Creator. Never, never had I so much enjoyed the glory of
earth. The Danube gives Linz a superiority over a thousand scenes
otherwise of equal beauty. Standing on the bridge, above is a narrow
pass, hedged in by high sombre rocks, and the river sweeps, darkening as
it goes, beneath the gloomy shadows of the precipices; below, it flows
in a mighty stream through a valley of wide expanse, till you lose sight
of it at the base of distant mountains. I should have liked to have
stayed some days at Linz: I grieved also not to be going by steam to
Vienna.
Our drive by the railroad to Gmunden was delightful. We had a little
carriage to ourselves. Our road lay through a valley watered by a
stream, and adorned by woods; it was a sequestered home-felt scene;
while the high distant mountains redeemed it from tameness. After the
sandy deserts of Prussia, and the burnt-up country round Dresden, the
freshness and green of a pastoral valley, the murmur of streams and
rivulets, the delightful umbrage of the trees, imparted a sense of peace
and amenity that lapped me in Elysium. We changed the train at Lambach,
a quiet shady village. We had bargained that we should be allowed to
visit the falls of the Traun on our way. It was evening before we
reached the spot, and the falls are nearly a mile from the road; we had
no guide, but were told we could not miss the way. Our path lay through
a wood, and as twilight deepened we sometimes doubted whether we had not
gone astray through the gloom of the thicket. You know that a mile of
unknown road, with some suspicion hovering in the mind as to whether you
are in the right path, becomes at least three, or rather one feels as if
it would never end. We came at last to the brink of the precipice above
the river, and descended by steps cut in the rock. We thus reached the
lower part of the fall. With some difficulty, it being so late, the
Miller was found, and meanwhile we clambered to the points of rock from
which the cascade is viewed. It was dim twilight, with the moon quietly
moving among the summer clouds, and shedding its silver on the waters.
The river winding above through a wooded ravine comes to an abrupt rocky
descent, over which it falls with foam and spray. The drought had
reduced the supply of water; a portion also is carried off for the
purpose of traffic—a wooden canal being constructed to allow the salt
barges to ascend and descend the Traun without interruption from the
cascade. This canal is on an inclined plain, and it would be very
delightful to rush down: we could not, as there was no boat; but for six
swanzikers (six eightpences) the sluices were shut and the water,
blocked up, turned to feed and augment the fall. The evening hour took
from the accuracy of our view, but added immeasurably to its charm; the
mysterious glittering of the spray beneath the moon; the deep shadows of
the rocks and trees; the soft air and dashing waters—here was the reward
for infinite fatigue and inconvenience; here we grasped an hour which,
when the memory of every discomfort has become almost a pleasure, will
endure as one of the sweetest in life. Our carriage all the time was
waiting for us by the road-side, so we tore ourselves away. We procured
a boy with a lantern to guide us on our return through the wood; and,
reaching the road, away we sped along the rails. Our moonlit view, as we
went, was pregnant with a sense of placid enjoyment, being picturesque
but gentle in its features of wood, village, and glimmering stream;
while the dark and gloomy Traunstein rose frowning before our path. We
reached Gmunden late, and found a very comfortable inn; it had a court
in the middle and an open balcony on the different floors, into which a
number of cell-like rooms opened. We had a good supper of fish from the
lake, and the comfortable promise of a steam-boat at eleven the next
morning; so there was no need for anxiety with regard to early rising.
SEPTEMBER 6TH.
We fared sumptuously this morning on fish and game; our bill was
therefore comparatively high—thirteen florins; it had been the same at
Linz. The cost of the railroad to Gmunden, for which we had a carriage
for four to ourselves and a place in one of the _diligences_ of the
train for my maid, was thirteen florins; we had to pay three extra for
our luggage.
But enough of these matters. Now for another scene, which will ever
dwell in my memory, coloured by the softest tints, yet sublime—the lake
of Gmunden. As the steamer carried us away from the town, which appeared
noisy and busy after Bohemia, we might believe that we broke our link
with vulgar earth—the waters spread out before us so solitary, so
tranquil. The lofty crags of the Traunstein rose on our left—bare,
abrupt, and dark—while the sunlight varied its shadows as we moved on;
opposite, the lake was bounded by grassy hills, speckled with villages
and spires, with here and there a cove, half shut in by precipitous
rocks, half accessible through shady thickets, with green sloping sward
down to the water’s edge. These bays had a sequestered appearance, as if
the foot of man had never desecrated their loneliness. By one of those
unexplainable impulses of the mind, which spring up spontaneously and
unlooked for, a sense of the beauty of the Greek mythology was awakened
in me, more vivid, more real than I had ever before experienced. As the
poet[8] says, I could, while looking
“On that pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;”
of dryad hiding among the trees; of nymph gazing at her own beauty in
the lucid wave; of an immortal race—in short, the innocent offspring of
nature, whose existence was love and enjoyment; who, freed from the
primæval curse, might haunt this solitary spot. Why should not such be?
If the earthly scales fell from our eyes, should we not perceive that
“all the regions of nature swarm with spirits,[9]” and affirm, with
Milton, that—
“Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.”
It is easier for the imagination to conjure such up in spots untrod by
man, so to people with love and gratitude what would otherwise be an
unsentient desert. Not that I would throw contempt on the pleasures of
the animal creation, nor even on those of tree, or herb, or flower,
which merely enjoys a conscious life, and in its pride of beauty feels
happy, and, as it decays, peacefully resigns existence. But this does
not satisfy us, who are born to look beyond the grave, and yearn to
acquire knowledge of spiritual essences.
I cannot tell you the sacred pleasure with which I brooded over these
fancies, which were rather sensations than thoughts, so heartfelt and
intimate were they. I scarce dared breathe, and longed to linger on our
way, so not so quickly to put from my lips the draughts of happiness
which I imbibed.
You may remember that this was the spot that poor Sir Humphry Davy
visited during his last painful illness: many hours he beguiled fishing
in the streams that fall into the lake. Happy, or in sorrow, I hope to
return, and spend a summer in this neighbourhood: joy would be more than
doubled, and grief softened into resignation, amidst scenes which, among
many beautiful, exercised a power over my imagination I never felt
before. How deeply I regret not having spent the season here instead of
at Kissingen and Dresden; but last summer in Wales so blended the idea
of deluges of rain with mountain scenery, that the search of health, a
wish to see some friends, and a longing to behold strange cities, made
us prefer the North. Regret is useless now. Shall I ever have a sunny
summer, when I may choose at will a retreat? If I have, it will be spent
here.
The scenery round the lake increased in wildness and sublimity as we
lost sight of Gmunden. I was very sorry when our one-hour’s voyage was
over, and we landed at Ebensee. Here a sort of large car waited for the
passengers, and we drove up a wooded glen, through which the Traun
flowed—a mountain torrent, broken by rocks—to Ishl. This is a
fashionable bathing-place: it is situated in a deep valley, surrounded
by hills; though beautiful, it had not the charm of the scenes we had
just left; indeed, a lake amidst mountains must always exceed a grassy
valley: there is a magic charm in the notion of a cot on the verdant,
wooded banks of a lonely lake—the boat drawn up in a neighbouring
cove—the sheltering mountains gathering around. However, Ishl presents
excellent head-quarters for excursions in this neighbourhood.
We here seriously discussed our future progress. A desire to visit an
Italian lake, as yet unknown, made us select the Brenner pass and the
Lago di Garda for our entrance into the Peninsula. The extreme beauty of
the country in which we are, makes us desire to see as much of it as
possible; and various names, the lake of Hallstadt and Bad Gastein, hung
before, to lure us towards them. But we cannot linger; and, on making
inquiries, it seems that, unless we make excursions perfectly
independent of our ultimate bourne, we cannot visit these spots,—in
short, that to do so we ought to spend a summer, choosing some
head-quarters, from which to diverge in different radii; but that to go
to Venice, we must abide by a known and frequented road.
I gave up the idea of a prolonged stay in this neighbourhood with
exceeding regret; but when resolved to proceed, many difficulties
presented themselves. The people of the hotel at Ishl, which was large,
new, clean, and good, but at the moment nearly empty, were resolved that
we should spend at least one night there; and neither post-horses with
carriage, nor _voituriers_, could be procured,—being a fine day, they
declared that every horse had been taken out by various parties of
visitors for picnics and excursions. This was a renewal of the scene at
Schandau. We ought to have yielded at once, and been satisfied to make
an agreement for setting out the following morning; but we were
stubborn, and much time was very disagreeably taken up by the struggle;
and the dogged obstinacy and rude sullenness of the people exasperated
some among us very much. They had the best of it however, and we were
forced to resign ourselves to remain the night: a change then came,
almost magical; the people, late so rude, were all courtesy; and
sullenness turned into obligingness. Nor were they bent on extortion:
our bill altogether was seventeen florins.
Being now at peace in our minds, we wandered for some time beside the
Ishl. If we had been transported suddenly to this spot, we had been
enchanted; but we had passed through more beautiful scenery to reach it.
There were a good many visitors: among them, Maria Louisa, a woman who
might have been respected among women; but she forfeited her privilege.
SEPTEMBER 27.
The drive from Ishl to Salzburg was delightful. The road, for a
considerable space, bordered the St. Wolfgang Lake. At the head of the
lake, the horses rested for an hour; and my friends took a boat, and
went on it to bathe. I joined them afterwards. There was not the same
charm in this lake as in the Gmunden-see. I cannot tell you why; for I
find no language to express differences which are immense to our
perceptions, and yet vary little in the description. Both present a wide
expanse of water, surrounded by precipitous mountains or grassy banks.
This, too, was grand, and solitary, and beautiful, but less softly
inviting—less, as it were, holy in its calm, and, at the same time, less
cheerful in its aspect—than the Gmunden-see.
What will you say to me when I say that Salzburg surpassed all? It has
indeed been pronounced to be the most beautiful spot in Germany.
Wherefore? It has not the majestic Danube, as at Linz, sweeping under
dark, overhanging cliffs, and winding through a spacious valley, till
lost to sight beneath distant mountains: it has not a lake sheltered by
hills, with bay and inlet sacred to the sprites. It is observed that one
of the most admirable features of a scene is where lofty mountains and
an extensive plain unite. This is rare: usually mountains inclose a
ravine, or valley, or lake; and the scenery around Salzburg is a
specimen on the grandest scale in the world of this mixture.
Imagine a vast, fertile, various plain, half-encircled by mighty
mountains—those near the town are abrupt cliffs, which tower above,
crowned by castle and convent—with a river sweeping round their base;
others, high and picturesque, but of softer forms, and wooded; and then,
high above all, craggy, gigantic Alps—not the highest, for at this
summer season scarcely a north-turned peak has preserved its snow, but
still stupendous—some showing their dark, beetling sides, like Cader
Idris, but on a larger scale; others, with what in Switzerland are
called _aiguilles_, their spire-like peaks seeking the upper skies.
Remember, we saw all this beneath a bright sun, the air so dry and pure
that every crag and cleft was distinct on the face of the hills at an
immense distance. The plain itself has a richer and more cheerful and
rural appearance than any I have seen since I left England. The beauty
of its meadows and gardens, the frequency of its country-houses, the
indescribable variety of the landscape, enchant the eye. What a summer
might here be spent!—what a life, I would say, had not society and home
a claim;—were it not a dream that we can be happy only in the
contemplation of nature, removed from all intercourse with our equals.
But you see the magic circle: Linz, Gmunden, Ishl—these are in
Styria—then the district called the Salzkammergut. Such is the region in
which I design, if I am ever able, to pass some long months, and to
enjoy even more than I have ever yet done, the delight of exploring
scenery unrivalled in the world. Yes; though the thought of Italy
reproaches, and for _life_, I should not hesitate to choose between the
two; yet there is something more sublime, more grand, more mysterious,
in this Alpine region; which, as far as I have seen, I infinitely prefer
to Switzerland.
As we approached Salzburg, we found the fields and green uplands near
the town alive with people. Horse-racing was going on; and the whole
population had poured out to see it, reproaching our dusty carriage and
our fatigue by the gaiety of the equipages and the holiday trim of the
spectators. I do not know anything more humbling to one’s self-conceit
than arriving travel-tired and soiled amidst a crowd of well-dressed
people; so we looked another way, and went right on to the inn. We found
that the inauguration of the statue of Mozart and the anniversary of the
century after his birth had been celebrated by three days of holiday at
Salzburg—this, the last. It was a great pity we had not arrived the day
before to hear one of his Operas; but we were too late. As a token of
veneration for this greatest of all composers, Mr. P—— endeavoured to
gain admission to the organ on which Mozart had played for years; but
the absence of the person in authority prevented his success.
The inn of the Erzherzog Carl is very good; but our duties pressed on
us. We could not linger, and we must make arrangements for our further
progress. We ascertained here a fact, which we suspected before, that
the addition which our party had received at Dresden, however delightful
in other respects, spoiled the financial economy of our journey. Persons
travelling in Austria without a carriage can, if four in number, secure
a _separat wagen_, and obtain a clean carriage to convey them post the
whole way, at a slight advance on the price of the _eilwagen_; but we
were five—we must, therefore, have two carriages, and the expense was
doubled. We did not find a _voiturier_ much cheaper. Had we gone post,
we should have gone by Villach, and reached Venice in four or five days.
But we had set our hearts on the Lago di Garda, and that decided us. We
made a bargain for two _calèches_, with a pair of horses to each, to
take us over the Brenner to Trent, in five days and a half, for a
hundred and forty florins.[10] We have now left the Münz and schein
money, and have passed from the Austrian to the Bavarian florin: this is
a gain—the former is two shillings, the latter two francs; and they are
worth the same in expenditure. Settling this affair occupied us, at
intervals, during the whole evening. We rambled a little about the town,
which is remarkable for a large handsome square, with a fountain, built
of white marble, and said to be the finest in Europe: it would be finer
had it more water. The statue of Mozart is placed in another part of the
square: it is of a large size, and striking. On account of the festival,
there was no possibility of visiting the _lions_—every body was out, and
all things closed. We wandered beyond the town, on the margin of the
Salzer—an impetuous torrent, rushing at the foot of romantic crags. It
is a region of enchanting beauty, which I shall leave with great regret.
Still, it is much to have had this sort of _flash-of-lightning_ view of
the lovely scenes we have lately passed through; and I hope, some day,
to visit them again at leisure.
LETTER IV.
Entrance to the Tyrol.—Village Fête.—Pass Strub.—Swartz.—Inspruck.
MONDAY, 8TH SEPTEMBER.
We left Salzburg at ten o’clock, on a fine sunny morning. We were about
to penetrate the most celebrated passes of the Tyrol,—and the name has
magic in it. We wound through the plain of the Salzkammergut, hedged in
by lofty mountains, that rise sheer and abrupt from the plain, without
any apparent opening by which their recesses may be penetrated. The
Tyrol is the most continuously mountainous district in Europe.
Switzerland contains plains and lakes—the Tyrol has only defiles and
ravines, hedged in closely on all sides by precipice and mountain;
while, in the depths, the torrents from the hills unite and form rivers,
which turn many a mill-wheel destined for domestic use, besides carrying
the riches of the country (salt) down various canals, fed by them, till
it reaches the Danube. Once, these streams were laden with the hopes—the
fate—of the Tyrolese, and watched with beating hearts by the heroes
about to combat for their country—by the women and children who
sympathised with and aided the stronger sex in their glorious struggle.
The night of the 8th April, 1809, was fixed on for the general rising of
the peasantry against the French and Bavarians: the signal agreed upon
was throwing sawdust into the Inn, which floated down, and was seen and
understood by the peasants. In addition to this, a plank with a little
pennon was launched on the river and borne down the stream, and hailed
with enthusiasm, as it carried the tidings that all were about to rise
to liberate their country.
It is by these defiles—that of the Saal—and afterwards of the Inn—that
travellers reach the Brenner. We approached the mighty crags, and by
degrees they closed around us, and we found ourselves in a ravine, with
the Saal—a common name of a river in Germany—flowing through its depth.
This sort of route is familiar to all who have travelled among
mountains. Thus are these districts traversed. The chains of mountains
are intersected by ravines, and torrents work their way in the depth;
the road is carried along the margin—now ascending, now descending, now
turning the huge shoulder of a hill, now penetrating into its recesses,
according as the formation of the pass requires.
Soon after leaving Salzburg, we came upon a strip of Bavarian territory;
and it was necessary to stop at the last Austrian Custom-house, to have
our luggage loaded. While this was being done, the sounds of a fiddle
caused us to peep into the public room of a little inn. A marriage was
being celebrated, and dancing going on. A curious sight it was. The men
are a handsome race, dressed as we are accustomed to see them
represented—the jacket, tight breeches fastened at the knee, the sash
round the waist, stockings and shoes, and high hat and feather, form a
very becoming costume for a good figure. But, alas! for the women: their
waists are placed up between their shoulders; their petticoats, short; a
peaked man’s hat, like a Welchwoman’s, completes their ungainly
appearance. Nor did I see any beauty: the youngest were weather-beaten
and clumsy: they were destitute of all soft feminine grace, and seemed a
cross between a boy and an old woman. The dancing is infinitely strange.
They _walz_ with impetuosity—with frenzy—interspersing their dance with
certain capers, twists, hugs and leaps, which evidently excited great
admiration: a Highland fling was nothing to it. We found Murray’s
description true to the letter, and were much amused. Remember, too,
that amidst all the twirlings, springs, and kickings, in which they
indulged, the dance was performed with a gravity worthy of a Parisian
ball-room, and with infinite precision; no jostling; no romping; their
capers were executed by rule, and with perfect decorum.
The pass we continued to penetrate—_Pass Strub_, which forms the portal
of the Tyrol—is one of the most beautiful in the world. We left the
Saal; and now crossing the huge shoulders of mighty hills, now thridding
other deep gorges, we wound our tortuous way, till we should reach the
Unter Innthal, or valley of the lower Inn. This night we slept at
Waidringen, a very rustic place; but we were comfortable enough. Our
fare was wild food: we had supper, our rooms, and coffee in the morning;
and our bill amounted to four Bavarian florins, for five persons.
SEPTEMBER 9.
The Tyrol was ever celebrated for the beauty of its scenery, and the
integrity and simplicity of its inhabitants. In 1780, Mr. Beckford
travelled here, and celebrates, in various of his inimitable Letters,
“the Tyrol, a country of picturesque wonders.” “Here,” he says, “those
lofty peaks, those steeps of wood I delight in, lay before us.
Innumerable clear springs gushed out on every side, overhung by
luxuriant shrubs in blossom; soft blue vapours rest upon the hills,
above which rise mountains that bear plains of snow into the clouds.”
The Tyrol is now endowed with a higher interest: it is hallowed by a
glorious struggle, which gifts every rock, and precipice, and
mountain-stream, with a tale of wonder.
The Tyrol became by inheritance a possession of the house of Hapsburgh
as far back as the fourteenth century. The princes of Austria showed
themselves worthy sovereigns of this province. The internal government
of the country was the object of wise legislation; and, in spite of the
opposition of Pope and noble, and imperial city, the Tyrolese received
the gift of a free constitution, and governed and taxed themselves.
These blessings are guarded by the fact that the soil of the mountains
is their own. There are no noble landlords to carry off the wealth of
the country in the shape of rents, forcing the labourers to waste their
lives in penury and toil, that they may squander in vice and luxury. The
peasant possesses the land he cultivates. He is independent, pious, and
honest. No mercenary troops have ever been hired among these mountains;
but the Tyrolese are not unwarlike. They are devotedly attached to the
House of Austria, which conferred their privileges, protected them,
exacted few taxes, and in no way displayed the cloven foot of despotism,
in this happy region. Their domestic government is carried on by
themselves. They furnish a slight contingent to the imperial armies,
which is looked upon as an opening to active life, and operates rather
beneficially on the population. They are accustomed to the use of arms,
for the militia is called out and exercised each year. They are a happy,
brave, religious, free, and virtuous people.
But what is all this to ambition? It suited the views of Napoleon that
the Tyrol should belong to Bavaria, when he raised it from an electorate
to a kingdom; and by the treaty of Presburg in 1805, Austria ceded, with
reluctance it is true, but still it ceded, the best jewel of its crown.
The Tyrolese had lately, under the command of the Austrians, defended
their passes against the Bavarians with heroic bravery—now they were to
become subjects of the inimical power.
Their very hearts revolted against their change of masters. But they had
far worse to suffer. Their new sovereign promised solemnly to govern
them by their old laws, and to respect their institutions; but no sooner
were the Bavarian authorities established in the country, than these
stipulations were basely violated. The constitution was at once
overthrown by a royal edict. Hitherto they had taxed themselves; now
eight new and oppressive taxes were imposed and levied with rigour.
Convents and monasteries were confiscated, their estates sold, and their
chalices and other sacred treasures seized, melted down, carried off.
Not content with inflicting these wrongs and insults, Bavaria attempted
to obliterate the very name of the Tyrol from the map of Europe. The
district was divided into provinces, called after the various rivers
which flowed through them. The inhabitants were ordered to change their
language, and only permitted to use that of their forefathers for four
more years.
Napoleon, when the country rose against this misrule, declared “the
Bavarians did not know how to govern the Tyrolese, and were unworthy to
reign over that noble country.” But these words only add greater
heinousness to his crimes against them; for his exactions on Bavaria
were the primal cause of the heavy taxes—his example had taught that the
best way to tame a people was to give them new names, and change their
local demarcations; and when they revolted against the tyranny which he
himself declared unworthy, he punished without mercy the oppressed,
wronged, and insulted insurgents.
What wonder that the Tyrolese detested their new rulers; or that, fondly
attached to their old ones, they should hear and answer with enthusiasm
the call of one of their ancient princes. When war again broke out
between France and Austria, the Archduke John called on the Tyrolese, in
a spirited and exciting proclamation, to expel the French and Bavarians.
With transport they prepared to obey. The country rose to a man: women
and children assisted; carrying to the scattered peasantry the
watchword, “_s’ist zeit_,” “it is time,” which bade them at once
assemble and prepare for action. Slightly aided by the Austrian regular
troops, at the cost of many victories and some defeats, they drove the
enemy from their country.
But peace was again to prove fatal to them. By the treaty that was
signed after the battle of Wagram, they were ceded anew to Bavaria. What
wonder that they shrunk from the hated yoke, whose weight they had
before experienced, and almost without hope, yet resolved not to yield.
They continued the heroic struggle; and in this last contest, their
combats and their victories were even more wonderful than in the first
instance.
Every portion of the route we traversed had been the scene of victory or
defeat, and rendered illustrious by the struggle for liberty. Our road
lay through Unter Innthal, which presented mountain scenery, infinitely
various in aspect;—glen, wood, and stream;—sunrise, noon, and
sunset—shine and shadow added perpetual changes to the ravines and their
skreens of precipices. I confess there was none of the charm of Styria
or the Salzkammergut. It was beautiful and sublime to pass through, to
look upon, but the wish to take up my abode in any of these solitudes
never presented itself to my mind. I have even seen passes I have
admired more; it bears some resemblance to that of Saint Jean le
Maurienne, for instance, on the way from Chablais to Mont Cenis; but
that is more beautiful from its walnuttrees and loftier Alps.
We slept at Swartz—a town of sad celebrity in the wars of 1809. The
Bavarians took it by storm, and were guilty of cruelties which the
historian refuses to depict, as too horrible and too sickening for his
pages.[11] A new race has sprung up; but the town has not recovered its
former prosperity.
The inn here is excellent; it is kept by Rainer, known in England as one
of the Tyrolese minstrels. His rooms are clean and comfortable; we fared
sumptuously, indulging in Rhenish wine. Our bill, with all this, was
only ten florins, or thirteen shillings and fourpence, for all; by which
you may judge for how small a sum a man alone, bent on economy, might
make a tour of the Tyrol.
Leaving Swartz, by degrees the pass widened, and from a height we saw
Inspruck, white and nest-like, basking in the valley beneath. All this
portion of the country was the theatre of many mortal combats between
the Tyrolese and Bavarians and French, in 1809. The town was taken and
retaken several times; the bridge of Hall, the Brenner, and Berg Isel,
were the scenes of gallant exploits; and the rustic chiefs of these
hardy mountaineers were often victorious over officers, who, commanding
disciplined troops, disdained the ill-armed and tumultuous peasantry
with whom they had to contend. Dietfurth, a Bavarian colonel, had
boasted at Munich that, “with his regiment and two squadrons of horse,
he would disperse the ragged mob.” He was wounded to death in one of the
assaults, when Inspruck was taken; and while lying in the guard-house of
that city, singularly added to the enthusiasm of the pious, not to say
superstitious, peasantry. He asked, Who had been their leader? “No one,”
was the reply; “we fought equally for God, the Emperor, and our native
country.” “That is surprising,” said Dietfurth; “for I saw him
frequently pass me on a white horse.” These words caused the report to
spread that their patron saint, St. James, frequently celebrated in
Spanish annals of Moorish wars for his white charger, had appeared in
person to guard the city, placed under his especial protection.
Besides this more modern source of interest, we were told to look with
curiosity at an old castle, from a high window of which Wallenstein,
then a page of the Margraf of Burgau, fell to the ground without hurting
himself—an accident which was said to have sown in his mind the seeds of
that superstitious reverence for his own fortune which followed him
through life, and was the instigator of many of his exploits.
Unfortunately for the fame of the castle, Wallenstein’s biographers tell
us that this story is a fiction; that he was never page to the said
nobleman; never inhabited this castle.
Inspruck, lying in the centre of a little plain, surrounded by Alps,
with its tall steeple and white walls, has a thousand times been
painted, and is a sort of ideal of what these Alpine cities are. It is
clean and fair; one wide well-paved street, which midway enlarges into a
square, runs the whole length. There is an immense hotel, usually
thronged with travellers, as the road into Italy by Munich, and by the
passes of the Tyrol or the Stelvio, is much frequented. We had a very
good breakfast here, for which we paid as much as for supper, rooms, and
breakfast the night before; the numerous English have taught them high
charges. Here we found some letters from England, and wrote answers, and
rambled about, but saw not half of what we ought to have seen in this
capital of a free country.
LETTER V.
The Pass of the Brenner.—Hofer.—Bressanone.—Egra.—Trent.—Riva.—Lago di
Garda.—Promontory of Sirmio.
Immediately on leaving Inspruck we began the ascent of the Brenner. The
road is being greatly improved; as long as we continued along the new
portion, it was admirable, but we were forced to turn off very soon into
the old road, now in a neglected state. The northern side of the Brenner
is very dreary. For awhile we commanded a view of the plain of Inspruck,
and its gem-like town; but when a turn of the road hid this, we found
ourselves winding along beside a tiny rill, and spread around was a wild
and dreary mountain side: a drizzling rain fell, which shut out the view
of the surrounding country. The people we met looked poor, and the
villages through which we passed seemed wretched enough. In one of them
we passed the night. The name of the village is not even mentioned in
Murray, and the inn was very bad; so you may think we were
disgusted—especially as we had entertained hopes of getting on as far as
Brenner: but the elder _voiturier_, who was captain of our movements,
was silent, sulky, and obstinate. Endeavours to move him, only added to
his sullenness.
The road in the morning presented the same disconsolate appearance: the
town of Brenner is on a level, shut in by heights. We were still on the
banks of the Sill, which joins the Inn, and pursues its course to the
Black Sea; but with delight I saw, and with ecstacy my two companions,
who had never visited Italy, hailed, a little rivulet and tiny
waterfall, the Eisach, which flows south and joins the Adige; it was
grasping Italy, to behold a stream that mingled its mountain-born waters
with the rivers and lakes of that divine country.
We descended rapidly; and, passing across the Sterzinger Moss, a marshy
flat, we again entered the mountain defiles. After passing through
Mittenwald, the ravine closes still more narrowly. This was the scene of
a most tremendous conflict during the Tyrolese struggle. Every stone and
every crag, indeed, has its tale of victory and defeat.
I have mentioned, that after the battle of Aspern, the Tyrolese had
delivered their country from the Bavarian yoke. The desire to be free
caught the neighbouring provinces of Bavaria, Vorarlberg, and the
northern Italian mountains, and in every part the native peasantry,
joined to their Austrian allies, were victorious. The Tyrolese believed
that they had regained their liberty, when the battle of Wagram,
followed by the armistice of Znaym, crushed all their hopes. The Tyrol
was re-demanded by Napoleon for Bavaria—and ceded again by Austria. The
Emperor, after vowing never to desert them, wrote to the Tyrolese to
announce, with expressions of paternal regret, the necessity he was
under of yielding to Napoleon, and to order his troops to evacuate their
country.
The mountaineers received these tidings with indignation, but without
despair. They had struggled, bled, and been victorious; but battles in
which they had no share, fought at a distance from their territory, were
to decide their fate; and they were to be made over like a flock of
sheep, bought and paid for, to a master who had oppressed them and
endeavoured to destroy all they held dear—constitution, name, language,
all! They refused to submit to so inglorious a destiny. At first they
deliberated on forcing the Austrian troops to remain; but deserted by
them, and by many of their own leaders, who accompanied the retiring
army, they turned to Hofer, who accepted the command. The whole of the
Tyrol again rose, and many of the Austrian soldiers deserted their
banners to join the peasantry. The hopes of the patriots were now high,
and they resolved to close their passes against the French and the
Bavarians.
Hofer is no silken hero. Many portions of his character militate against
the laws of romance; he had the German defects joined to their nobler
qualities. He was born in the station of an innkeeper, a position rather
of distinction in the Tyrol, since bringing the publican into contact
with travellers, he acquires knowledge and civilisation. He is said to
have been indolent, as well as convivial, even to intemperance, in his
habits. He was often to be found carousing in a way-side inn, while his
companions in arms were in the field. With all this, his countrymen
idolised him, and he was esteemed and distinguished by the Emperor and
the Archduke John, who was the chief instigator of the first rising of
the Tyrol. He was possessed of unblemished integrity—honest, brave,
open-hearted, resolute, and pious, he had all the virtues of the hardy,
untaught mountaineer.
It is an interesting circumstance in his career, that when called upon
to lead his countrymen against the Bavarians, he underwent a violent
struggle of feeling. When General Hormayr withdrew from the Tyrol, he
persuaded several of the chiefs to accompany him in his retreat. Hofer
refused to go, and exerted his eloquence to prevail on his friends to
remain, imploring them to make “one more effort in behalf of their
beloved country.” Yet his own resolution was not entire. He felt that he
was about to lead his countrymen against forces which held the whole of
Europe in awe, which had humbled that Emperor, under the protection of
whose sceptre he desired to remain. Could anything but ultimate defeat
ensue? On the other hand, he could not contemplate with any sense of
resignation a renewal of the tyranny of Bavaria: and, doubtless, he
entertained a hope that their continued resistance would cause Austria
to make another, and probably a successful attempt to claim its own. He
passed several days in his native valley of Passeyr, a prey to
irresolution, striving to seek a decision by the force of prayer.
Meanwhile, General Lefevre, at the head of a force composed of French,
Saxons, and Bavarians, penetrated to Inspruck, took possession of the
city, and advanced southward across the Brenner. The peasantry assembled
in arms, and Hofer not appearing, Haspinger came forward to lead them.
Father Haspinger was a Capuchin friar; he was young and athletic. In his
student days, in 1805, he had fought the French; since then he had lived
secluded in his monastery; but the cause of his country called him out.
He had been present at all the previous battles, and was always seen in
the thickest of the fight, bearing no arms except a large ebony
crucifix, with which he dealt tremendous blows on the heads of his
adversaries, and did great execution. In the absence of Hofer, this
singular man came forward to direct the exertions of the peasantry. It
was in the narrow pass below Mittenvald, that he prepared a fearful
ambush. He caused enormous larch-trees to be felled, upon which were
piled huge masses of rock and heaps of rubbish; the whole being held
together by strong cords, and thus suspended over the edge of the
precipice.
“We had penetrated to Inspruck,” writes a Saxon officer, belonging to
Lefevre’s army, “without great resistance; and, although much was
reported about the Tyrolese stationed upon and round the Brenner, we
gave little credit to it, thinking the rebels might be dispersed by a
short cannonade, and already looking on ourselves as conquerors. Our
entrance into the passes of the Brenner was only opposed by small corps,
which continued to fall back after an obstinate but short resistance:
among others, I perceived a man, full eighty years of age, posted
against the side of a rock, and sending death among our ranks at every
shot. Upon the Bavarians descending from behind to make him prisoner, he
shouted aloud, ‘_Hurrah!_’ struck the first man to the ground with a
ball, seized the second, and, with the cry, ‘_In God’s name!_’
precipitated himself with him into the abyss below. Marching onward, we
heard from the summit of a high rock, ‘_Stephen, shall I chop it off
yet?_’ to which a loud, ‘_Nay!_’ reverberated from the other side. This
was told to the Duke of Dantzig, who, notwithstanding, ordered us to
advance. The van, consisting of 4000 Bavarians, had just stormed a deep
ravine, when we again heard over our heads, ‘_Hans! for the Most Holy
Trinity!_’ The reply that immediately followed completed our terror.
‘_In the name of the Most Holy Trinity, cut all loose above!_’ and ere a
minute had elapsed, thousands of my comrades in arms were crushed,
buried, and overwhelmed by an incredible heap of broken rock, crags, and
trees, hurled down upon us.”
Mr. Alison, in his “History of Europe,” tells us that in 1816 he visited
this spot, and says “the long black furrow, produced by the falling
masses, like the track of an avalanche, was, even then, after the lapse
of seven years, imperfectly obliterated by the bursting vegetation which
the warmth of the Italian sun had awakened on these beautiful steeps.”
Now, thirty-three years, with their various seasons, snow, rain, and
sunshine, have drawn a green veil over the ruins; and there is nothing
left to tell the tale of defeat and death.
To return to Hofer—for these valleys are filled with his name, and it
were sacrilege to traverse them without commemorating his glory and
lamenting his downfall.
On hearing of this success, Hofer, joined by many thousand peasants,
descended from the valley of Passeyr; through the whole region the hardy
inhabitants rose _en masse_. Count Wittgenstein succeeded, however, in
clearing the northern slope of the Brenner, and General Lefevre once
more advanced, intending to cross and enter the Italian Tyrol. He was
attacked on all sides by innumerable and determined foes. After an
obstinate conflict he was defeated, forced back down the mountain; he
lost his ammunition and cannon, and, hotly pursued, had only time to
take refuge in Inspruck, disguised like a common trooper.
The peasantry collected in thousands, and another battle ensued. The
disciplined troops of the invader were unable to cope with the
enthusiastic numbers that assailed them; their mercenary courage quailed
before the noble ardour of the free mountaineers. Mount Isel was again
the scene of the conflict; it ended in the total defeat of the French
and Bavarians. Inspruck was evacuated, and General Lefevre retreated to
Salzburg. Hofer became commander-in-chief of the Tyrol. The simplicity,
the almost childish earnestness to act with justice that characterised
his rule, in no way deteriorates from the real elevation of his
character. He was an ignorant peasant, and his eyes did not look beyond
the well-being of his native province and of his countrymen, who were
also his personal friends. To this he was devoted, and no act of
arbitrary power or of insolence, no shadow of such a thing, clouded his
short-lived prosperity.
It was indeed brief. New armies poured into the devoted country, and the
mountain passes were invaded at all points. For three months the
peasants kept up their resistance, but the coming of winter forced them
from their mountain fastnesses into the valleys below; food became
scarce; their power of resisting the foe dwindled, faded, and became
extinct—the Tyrol again became a province of Bavaria.
Napoleon, in his haughty contempt and insolent indignation at any
opposition to his will, chose to regard the struggle of the Tyrolese for
liberty as the lawless tumult of freebooters; he magnified the very few
acts of barbarity of which the peasantry had been guilty (not to be
compared in number to the atrocities perpetrated by their opponents) and
had the baseness to set a price on the head of the peasant chiefs.
Hofer wavered several times. Now, conceiving that farther resistance
could only injure his country, he issued a proclamation inviting his
countrymen to lay down their arms; but finding they would not yield, he
resolved not to desert his post, and told the peasantry that “he would
fight with them and for them, as a father for his children.” Various
feats of arms ensued, and the Tyrolese were often victorious—even while
ultimate and absolute defeat could only be deferred a few days by their
heroism. At last all was lost; the chiefs for the most part fled; some
fell into the hands of the enemy; others, with more or less of peril and
hardship, escaped to Austria.
Hofer refused to fly; he refused to surrender. He retired to his native
valley of Passeyr. He concealed himself in an Alpine hut four leagues
distant from his home, and almost inacessible amidst the snows. His wife
and child accompanied him, and his friends supplied him as they could
with food, and brought him messages even from the Emperor of Austria,
entreating him to escape. He refused. A stubborn patriotism held him to
his native mountains, and he declared he would never leave them. Nor
would he disguise himself, nor cut off his beard, which, flowing to his
waist, rendered him conspicuous. At the same time he probably believed,
now the country was subdued and tranquil, that the French would soon
cease to desire to possess themselves of him.
He was deceived. A cunning intriguing priest, of the name of Donay, had
insinuated himself into his confidence, and now, for the sake of the
price set upon his head, betrayed him to the French general. An officer
was sent with sixteen hundred men to take him prisoner; two thousand
more were ordered up the pass to be at hand—so fearful were they that
the peasants would rise to the rescue.
The column began their march at midnight, on the 20th January, over ice
and snow. At five in the morning they reached the hut in which Hofer and
his family harboured. He heard the French officer inquire for him, and
came to the door and at once delivered himself up. He was bound, and
amidst the shouts of the French and the tears of the peasants, he was
marched to Botzen. Here he was received by the French commandant,
Baraguay d’Hilliers, who treated him with courtesy, and even with such
kindness as may be afforded a prisoner. Hofer was greatly altered by his
long retreat amidst the snows, and by frequent want of food. His hair
had grown gray, but his spirit was untamed, and his countenance beamed
with cheerfulness and serenity. He was separated from his family, and
carried to the shores of the Lago di Garda. He was put in a boat at the
little village of Simone, and on disembarking again was carried on to
Mantua.
A court-martial was immediately summoned: but even the laws of war were
dispensed with; for the sentence of death was not passed by this court;
the telegraph declared it from Milan, ordering his execution within
twenty-four hours. Until this moment he had apprehended no danger to his
life; yet he received the sentence with unshaken firmness, and only
requested the attendance of a confessor: this was complied with. On the
following morning, he was taken from the prison. He passed by the
barracks of the Porta Molina, where the Tyrolese prisoners were
confined, who all wept, and implored his blessing. This Hofer gave them,
entreating their pardon for being the cause of their misfortunes, and
declaring his conviction that they would soon be delivered from the sway
of Bavaria. On the broad bastion at a little distance from the Porta
Ceresa, a halt was commanded. Hofer refused to be blind-folded—he
refused to kneel. He said, “He was accustomed to stand upright before
his Creator, and in that posture he would deliver his spirit up to Him.”
He said a few words of farewell, expressing his undying love for his
country; and pronounced the word “Fire!” with a firm voice.
The spot on which he fell is still considered sacred by his countrymen.
His funeral was conducted with solemnity by the French. But this was
only an act of hypocrisy; such as instigated Berthier, then at Vienna,
to declare that Hofer’s death would cause great pain to Napoleon, and
that he would never have permitted it, had he been aware. Had Hofer
suffered by sentence of the court-martial by which he was tried, there
had been some colour to this assertion; but the telegraphic dispatch
that commanded and hurried his execution, in spite of the milder
dealings of the military tribunal, in fear lest the intercession of the
Emperor of Austria would prevent it, could only emanate from an
authority intimately conversant with, and blindly obedient to,
Napoleon’s will.
When, after landing from Elba, and losing the battle of Waterloo,
Bonaparte was taken prisoner, was he less an outlaw than Hofer, who
defended his country against invasion? His want of magnanimity does not
excuse that of others, but it takes from the respect, the compassion,
and the indignation, with which he demanded that his imprisonment should
be regarded. It has been justly pronounced, that Napoleon was not guilty
of any acts of wanton cruelty; but the pages of his history are also
destitute of any record of his magnanimity.
The Emperor of Austria invited the wife of Hofer to Vienna. She refused
to quit her native mountains; and resided, till her death, under her
husband’s roof, in the Valley of Passeyr.
Such are the deeds, such the name, that shed glory over the rugged and
romantic passes of the Tyrol. We continued to thread them; and the
interest with which we regarded the scene of these patriotic exploits
became exchanged for a more personal feeling of joy as we felt the
climate alter, in token that we were advancing nearer and nearer to
Italy.
The valley we traversed was met here by another; the scenery was huge,
craggy, and picturesque. Through this second valley is carried the road
called the pass of the Ampezzo, the shortest road from Inspruck to
Venice. We had several times debated whether we should not go by it; but
the wish to see the Lago di Garda decided our negative.
We slept at Brixen—Bressanone is its musical Italian name; but we heard
no Italian yet, nor saw a trace of Italy. Murray calls Brixen “a dirty,
inanimate town, of 3200 inhabitants.” We saw nothing of it. The inn—the
Elephant, is a pleasant, country-looking hostelry, on the road-side;
trees grow in front, and it resembles the best specimen of a rustic inn
in England. Everything was clean and comfortable, and the waiter spoke
English. I bought a tiny figure of Hofer, carved in wood, to do honour
to the “Tyrolean Champion,” who, as Wordsworth well expresses it, was
“Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck cast,
Murdered without relief.”
We found here the moderate charge of a good inn among these mountains:
including what we gave to servants, it was nine florins.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 12TH.
Our journey continues through a most beautiful part of the Tyrol. The
road first lay through a narrow, gloomy pass, closed in by dark majestic
cliffs, till we crossed the Eisach, when the valley of the Adige opened
on us, with the town of Bolzano—still lingering in Germany we called it
Botzen—surmounted by the Castle of Eppan; again, I repeat, differing as
these valleys and mountains do one from another, delightedly as the eye
dwells on the unimaginable variety of grouping which this picturesque
and majestic region presents, words cannot describe it. Our road was cut
in the side of a mountain, and wound beneath lofty crags; a narrow
plain, with a dashing torrent, the Eisach in the depth, and lofty
mountains closing in the valley on either side. I have used such words
before: mark the difference here. Fair Earth scents the gales of Italy,
and already begins to assume for herself the loveliness which is the
inheritance of that country. The slopes of the lower hills are covered
by vines. We stopped to bait the horses at what, in England, would be
called an ale-house, a very humble inn, which we did not enter; but
there was a sort of rustic summer-house and terrace overlooking the
Eisach. The terrace was shaded by what, in Italy, is called a pergola,
or trellised walk of vines; the vegetation was luxuriant; the sun shone
bright, and dressed the whole scene in gaiety. My companions felt that
they were approaching scenes dreamt of—ardently desired, never seen. The
days of my youth hovered near. I stole away among the vines by the
margin of the river, to think of Italy, and to rejoice that I was about
to tread again its beloved soil; to find myself surrounded by my dear,
courteous, kind Italians, instead of the Germans, who, honest-hearted as
they doubtless are, under the repulsive mask that invests them, have yet
no grace of manners, no show of that intuitive desire to please—none of
that cordial courtesy, which renders the lowliest-born Italian gentle in
his bearing, and eager to render service.
We slept at Neumarkt, called in Italian, Egna. We had left our beautiful
valley here; and, as is too often the case, in a region of transition
from mountain to plain, the soil is marshy and the district unhealthy.
There was a large, new-built, clean hotel at Neumarkt; but though the
rooms were good, the living was intolerably bad, so that we went nearly
supperless to bed.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 13TH.
Still we approached Italy; the hills were covered with vines, the road
shut in by the walls of vineyards. Various valleys branch off at
intervals, all affording the scenery peculiar to the Tyrol. I own I had
no desire to linger longer in this land: we had continued for so many
days among ravines, defiles, and narrow valleys, peering up at the sky
from the depths between mountains, that the eye grew eager for a view of
heaven, and yearned to behold a more extensive horizon. When the bourne
of a journey lies beyond, the desire to linger, even in beautiful
scenery, is weak. Since I had left Gmunden and Salzburg I had
experienced no desire to stop short.
Some names of cities are so familiar, that one forms an idea of them in
one’s mind as one does of a celebrated, but personally unknown,
individual. The Council of Trent is associated with cardinals and
bishops—shepherds of the church, legislators of religion: there was
something princely, yet holy, in its idea. What we saw of it looked
miserably dirty; grand at a distance and beautifully situated, on
entering it, it was common-place; but, after all, nothing can be more
deceptive than the impression a way-worn traveller receives, driven,
perhaps, through the meanest streets to an hotel where, fatigued, body
and mind, he reposes, and then is off again. Mr. P—— sought out the
cathedral and the organ, but the organist declared that the instrument
was out of tune, whether from laziness or not, I cannot say. The hotel
was good; we dined at the _table d’hôte_. Again I was restored to the
privilege of speech, as Italian here is as common as German.
Our compact with our _lohn kutschers_ ceased at Trent. We paid them 140
Bavarian florins, and gave them 30 swanzigers as drink-gelt; a swanziger
is the third of an Austrian florin, its worth is eightpence English, and
is a very intelligible and convenient coin. The men were satisfied and
we had no reason to be otherwise: their conduct had been, on the whole,
negative—sullen and silent; and yet with a latent violence and insolence
which peeped out as a rank weed on a grassless plain, strangely,
unexpectedly, and by no means welcome; I believe they thought of nothing
but their drink-gelt the whole way. I was much more interested in the
horses, who had done their duty rather better.
We had now to look out for a conveyance to Riva, the town at the head of
the Lago di Garda, where we are to find the steam-boat, which is to
convey us to its southern shores. We engaged a _calèche_ and a
_caratella_ for twenty-two Austrian florins, and were soon on our way.
We were in high spirits on having parted with our Germans, and on
finding ourselves on the very verge of Italy. I do not pretend to say
that this is a correct feeling; but it was natural, considering our
ignorance of German. The valley of the Adige is very grand; and the
stream, broad and swift, was more of a river than we had seen since the
Danube. Several valleys branch off here; and there is another route to
Venice. We were sorry not to see the famous Slovino di San Marco, or
avalanche of stone, near Serravalle, celebrated by Dante, who was for
some time a guest at the Castello Lizzana; where, exiled from Florence,
he was entertained by the lord of Castelbarco.
At Roveredo we changed horses: our road, always on the descent, now
became exceedingly precipitous, and ran on the very edge of the steep
bank of the Adige. Our drivers were strange fellows. He who drove the
_calèche_ in which I sat, was a rough, uncouth animal; but he of the
_caratella_ was the most singular—neither Italian nor German in his
ways, wild as an untamed animal—coarse and vulgar as a metropolitan
vagrant. He was civil enough, indeed; but seemed half-mad with high
spirits. You might have thought him half-drunk, but he was not—roaring
and singing, and whipping his horses, and turning round to talk to the
gentlemen in the _caratella_ with a dare-devil air. I saw him whip his
horses into a gallop, and heard him laughing and singing as he dashed
down a road, which, in truth, required the drag. It was quite dusk—or
rather, but for the stars, dark; which added not a little to the
apparent danger. Our driver, a little more tame, yet disdained the
drag—and we went down at a rattling pace: I was not sorry, for I was
eager to assure myself that our friends in advance were not upset and
rolled in the Adige, which rushed at the foot of the rock which our road
bounded;—not they,—we reached the bottom, and saw the _caratella_
dashing madly on in the advance. Before or since I never met such
fellows; if my friends thought that Italians resembled them, they were
indeed mistaken; they had none of their innate refinement, but they had
their good humour: they were more like what one reads of as the
wanderers of the far west—except, we are told, the Americans appear
always to calculate, and so perhaps did these fellows; but they had the
outward guise of nearly being insane.
We got to Riva safe. It stands exactly at the head of the Lago di Garda;
Suso in Italia bella giace un laco,
Appiè dell’ alpe, che serra Lamagna,
Sovra Tiralli, ed ha nome Benaco.
Per mille fonti credo, e più si bagna,
Tra Garda, e Val Camonica e Apennino
Dell’ acqua, che nel detto lago stagna.
The coast, with the exception of the spot on which the town stands, is
iron-bound; dark precipices rise abruptly from the water; a bend in the
coast limits the view of the lake to a mile or two merely: behind is the
chasm of the Adige, beside which Monte Baldo rises, lofty and dark—and
mountains somewhat lower—but even they, sublime in altitude, darken the
prospect immediately behind Riva. The town is mean and dirty; the
inn—not bad to look at, is dirty and uncomfortable. It is kept by a
large family; but how different are they from our Cadenabbia people!
There are seven sisters—some dress smartly, and sit and receive company,
and act the _Padrona_; others are the Cinderellas of the establishment;
but all are lazy and negligent. The beds were not bad, it is true; but
the fare was uneatable.
We had congratulated ourselves that the steam-boat, which plies every
other day, would leave Riva on the morrow of our arrival; but we found
it had not arrived as it ought, and doubts of course hung, as it had not
arrived, over the date of its departure.
WEDNESDAY, 14TH.
The morning has come, but no steam-boat. It is detained, we are told, at
the other end of the lake by the wind. This assertion seems fabulous; we
have no breeze, the waters are glassy: but thus is it with lake Benacus.
The wind, coming down the chasms of the mountains, is not felt in the
sheltered nook in which Riva is situated; but drives with violence on
the southern portion of this vast inland sea, and lashes it into
tempest.
We walked out: there is a path for a short distance on one side under
the rock, but the road soon ends; the coast, as I have said, is
iron-bound. One of my friends began a sketch of the castle La Rocca,
built by the Scaligers, and which forms a picturesque object: then I
loitered in the town, delighting my eyes with Italian names and words
over the shop-doors. We went out for a short time on the lake, but a
shower came on—a drizzle first, which ended in pouring rain. We were
truly uncomfortable—forced into the dirty, uncomfortable inn, unprovided
with books; and, worst of all, quite uncertain as to the arrival of the
steamer. The house is full of travellers similarly situated, and others
continually arriving; this does not comfort us. Our madcap drivers of
the night before are still here; we have canvassed with them the expense
of going by land to Venice, but their demands are exorbitant. We have
talked with the boatman, of making the voyage in a large open boat; but
the time that this would occupy is evidently uncertain: besides, a
lingering remnant of reason assures us that, if the steamer be detained
by adverse winds at the other end of the lake, this wind, however
favourable, must have raised a sea to endanger our navigation. Our
projects, therefore, have only served to cheat time a little, and are
given up. Dinner has proved no occupation or relief; it was so
singularly and uncomfortably bad, that it was difficult to eat any
portion of it. Now evening has come, and still it rains hard; the many
travellers are dispersed about the house in a state of listless anxiety.
Another day like this is too fearful a vision: we have ceased even to
speak of the chances of release, for we grow hopeless. The people of the
inn finding the boat does not arrive, begin to talk of some accident in
the machinery; conversation languishes among all the groupes. I sit
writing at a window till twilight is thickening into darkness. Hush! a
sound—distant—increasing; can it be the splash of paddles? The bend of
the lake prevents the boat being seen till quite close at hand; my soul
is in my ears, listening: at length the sound draws the attention of
others; one by one they congregate near the windows, but there is
silence among all, broken only by hurried interjections swiftly
silenced, that each may listen more intently. At last—there can be no
doubt—there is a burst of joy as we behold the smoky, but most amiable
monster, double the headland and bear down on the town. O, how
good-humoured and communicative we are all become; what a clatter of
voices, what joyful mutual congratulations! One sight we have just
witnessed, is ridiculous to us who have the best of it—very disagreeable
to the actors in the scene: on arriving at the quay the travellers
poured out from the steamer, the porters shouldered the luggage, and all
came in one stream to our hotel. There was no room; the voyagers
expectant occupied every apartment. Travellers and porters went their
way out again—the world was before them; but their choice was limited to
some most wretched holes.
SEPTEMBER 15TH.
We thought ourselves in all things fortunate, when the morrow dawned
bright and sunny. We had a heavenly voyage, which repaid us for
yesterday’s _ennui_, and satisfied us that we had done the wisest thing
in the world in entering Italy by the Lago di Garda. We left the abrupt,
gloomy, sublime north, and gently dropped down to truly Italian scenes.
The waters of the lake are celebrated for their azure tint; no waves
could be so brightly blue, so clear, so that we saw the bottom of the
lake, fathoms below. The mountains sank to hills, with banks cut into
terraces, and covered with olives and vines, decorated by orange and
lemon-trees; the country-houses sparkled in the sun. One of my friends
quoted the lines that celebrate Benacus. Strangely enough, though
weather-bound at Riva by one of those storms for which this lake is
famous, we saw not a wave upon its surface; not even a curled ripplet,
reminded us that it was
teque,
Fluctibus et fremitur assurgens,
Benace marino.
We landed at Lasise, a town distant fifteen miles from Verona, and while
I employed myself in engaging a _veturino_ for that place, and wandered
about the town, my companions went to bathe in the clear waters of the
azure lake. The promontory of Sirmio was in sight; an Italian landscape
all around, an Italian sky, bright above: it was an hour of delicious
joy—set, like a priceless diamond in the lead of common life—never to be
forgotten.
O, best of all the scattered spots that lie
In sea or lake, apple of landscape’s eye,—
How gladly do I drop within thy nest,
With what a sigh of full, contented rest,
Scarce able to believe my journey o’er,
And that these eyes behold thee safe once more!
Oh, where’s the luxury, like the smile at heart,
When the mind, breathing, lays its load apart,—
When we come home again, tired out, and spread
The loosen’d limbs o’er all the wished-for bed!
This, this alone, is worth an age of toil.
Hail, lovely Sirmio! hail, paternal soil!
Joy, my bright waters, joy; your master’s come!
Laugh, every dimple on the cheek of home![12]
LETTER VI.
Verona.—Journey to Venice.—Leone Bianco.—Hotel d’Italia.
SEPTEMBER 18TH.
I am again in Italy. The earth is teeming with the wealth of September,
the richest month of the year. The harvest of the Indian corn has begun;
the grapes are hanging in rich ripening clusters from the vines,
festooned from tree to tree: a genial atmosphere mantles the earth, and
quickens a sense of delight in our hearts. The road lies through a
richly cultivated country: the immense plain around us is bounded to the
north by the mountains of the Tyrol, amongst which we seemed to have
lost ourselves for an age, so refreshing, so new, so enchanting, is the
wide expanse of fertile Lombardy, opening before our eyes.
A sad disaster happened on our arrival at Verona. We had each our
passport, and the whole was consigned to the pocket-book of one of the
party; and when they were asked for at the gates of Verona, the
pocket-book was not to be found. Except our passports, and Coutts’
_lettre d’indication_, it contained no papers of importance; but still,
after all the annoyance the Austrians give about passports, it was
rather appalling. Nothing could be done. It was remembered that when
bathing, the pocket-book was safe; it must have been lost since. We were
allowed to go on to the inn, and time would shew the result.
The Gran Parigi is one of the most comfortable hotels I was ever at; it
has the air of a palace, as doubtless it once was. The same evening, by
the light of the clear full moon, my companions rambled about the town
and entered the amphitheatre, which is used as a circus, and
horsemanship was going on, and music filled the air. There was something
startling in finding the building of ancient days used for its original
purpose—the seats occupied by numerous spectators; the partial moonlight
veiled with some mystery what the garish sun had disclosed as below
Roman dignity in the assemblage.
You know the charm of these Lombard cities. Built by a prosperous
people, they have a princely and magnificent appearance: their grandeur
is what grandeur ought to be—not gloomy and menacing, but cheerful and
inspiriting. The cities look built by a happy people in which to be
happy—by a noble and rich people, whose tastes were dignified, and whose
habits of life were generous.
We were promised a paper that would give us free course to Venice—for
our Consul was at that city—and we were to be transferred to him, and
meanwhile, our loss was made known in the country about. But, though the
paper was promised, one or another of my friends was employed the whole
morning in getting it properly signed. These delays were vexatious, more
from the uncertainty that hung about the whole transaction, which kept
us in attendance and perplexity. There was no help. We rambled to the
garden, or walled _podere_, in which there is an open _fosse_, and an
old sort of sarcophagus, which they show as Juliet’s tomb. That Juliet
lived and died, as Baldelli recounts, there can be little doubt; but it
is not likely that this was “the tomb of the Capulets.” Still such a
scene—a garden, with its high antique walls, its Italian vegetation, and
the blue sky, cloudless above—was a scene familiar to Juliet; and her
spirit might hover here, even if her fair form was sepulchred elsewhere.
It was a long walk thence to the tombs of the Scaligers. The most fairy
architecture—not dark and Gothic, nor immured within the walls of a
church;—a small open court encloses these elegant sepulchres.
At length we obtained the paper, and set out. We had engaged a
_veturino_ for Venice. Some hope had we that the railroad might be open
from Padua to Mestri; if not, we were to be taken to Fusina, sleeping at
Vicenza in our way. The charm of autumnal vegetation, in a rich vine
country, adorned the road, and a distant view of the Alps bounded the
scene. We arrived at Vicenza at eleven o’clock, by a bright moonlight. I
was sorry to see no more of these Palladian palaces than the glimpses we
caught from our carriage-windows. Architecture shows to peculiar
advantage by the silver radiance of a full moon: its partial white light
throws portions into strong relief, and the polished marble reflects
its, so to speak, icy radiance.
SEPTEMBER 19TH.
We found, on our arrival at Padua, that the railroad was not open; so we
proceeded along the banks of the Brenta to Venice. Many a scene, which I
have since visited and admired, has faded in my mind, as a painting in
the Diorama melts away, and another struggles into the changing canvass;
but this road was as distinct in my mind as if traversed yesterday. I
will not here dwell on the sad circumstances that clouded my first visit
to Venice. Death hovered over the scene. Gathered into myself, with my
“mind’s eye” I saw those before me long departed; and I was agitated
again by emotions—by passions—and those the deepest a woman’s heart can
harbour—a dread to see her child even at that instant expire—which then
occupied me. It is a strange, but to any person who has suffered, a
familiar circumstance, that those who are enduring mental or corporeal
agony are strangely alive to immediate external objects, and their
imagination even exercises its wild power over them. Shakspeare knew
this, and the passionate grief of Queen Constance thence is endued with
fearful reality. Wordsworth, as many years ago I remember hearing
Coleridge remark, illustrates the same fact, when he makes an insane and
afflicted mother exclaim,—
“The breeze I see is in the tree;
It comes to cool my babe and me.”
Holcroft, who was a martyr to intense physical suffering, alludes to the
notice the soul takes of the objects presented to the eye in its hour of
agony, as a relief afforded by nature to permit the nerves to endure
pain. In both states I have experienced it; and the particular shape of
a room—the progress of shadows on a wall—the peculiar flickering of
trees—the exact succession of objects on a journey—have been indelibly
engraved in my memory, as marked in, and associated with, hours and
minutes when the nerves were strung to their utmost tension by the
endurance of pain, or the far severer infliction of mental anguish. Thus
the banks of the Brenta presented to me a moving scene; not a palace,
not a tree of which I did not recognise, as marked and recorded, at a
moment when life and death hung upon our speedy arrival at Venice.
And at Fusina, as then, I now beheld the domes and towers of the queen
of Ocean arise from the waves with a majesty unrivalled upon earth. We
were hailed by a storm of _gondolieri_; their vociferations were
something indescribable, so loud, so vehement, so reiterated; till we
had chosen our boat, and then all subsided into instant calm.
I confess that on this, my second entrance into Venice, the dilapidated
appearance of the palaces, their weather-worn and neglected appearance,
struck me forcibly, and diminished the beauty of the city in my eyes. We
proceeded at once to the Leone Bianco, on the Canale Grande; they asked
a very high price for their rooms, which rendered us eager, as we
intended to remain here a month, to make immediate arrangements for
removing elsewhere.
Our first act was to send our letters of introduction; the second, for
two of us to go out to look for lodgings. The account brought back by
our second dove from the ark was rather discouraging; but our first
brought better things. Count —— and Signor —— loved and respected too
sincerely the writer of our letters not to hasten on the instant to
acknowledge them. Signor —— at once perceived and entered into our
difficulty. I never saw such friendly zeal; nor was Count —— behind in
kindness, though, as a younger man, and not so conversant with the
perplexities of travellers, he could not be so efficient in his help.
The thing was soon settled. Signor —— remarked that if we took lodgings
we should want a cook, and that housekeeping in an unknown town, for a
short space of time, was fraught with annoyance. There was a new hotel
just established, which desired to be made known to the English, and
which therefore would be moderate in its charges. We went to see the
rooms. The Hotel d’Italia is situated in a canal, three oar-strokes from
the Canale Grande; so far we lost what is most to be coveted at
Venice—the view from our window of this ocean stream, with its bordering
palaces,—but we were within three minutes’ walk of the Place of Saint
Mark. Our rooms were on the second floor, a bed-room apiece, and a
_salon_, spacious, turned to the sun, and being but just furnished,
clean in the excess of newness. Many a palace had been spoiled of its
marble architraves and ornaments to decorate this new hotel. We made our
bargain; we calculated that, everything included, each of our party
would pay nine pounds a month for lodging and board.
This done, we returned with our kind friends to the Leone Bianco, as we
are not to remove till tomorrow. Evening has come, and the moon, so
often friendly to me, now at its full, rises over the city. Often, when
here before, I looked on this scene, at this hour, or later, for often I
expected S.’s return from Palazzo Mocenigo, till two or three in the
morning; I watched the glancing of the oars of the gondolas, and heard
the far song, and saw the palaces sleeping in the light of the moon,
which veils by its deep shadows all that grieved the eye and heart in
the decaying palaces of Venice. Then I saw, as now I see, the bridge of
the Rialto spanning the canal. All, all is the same; but as the Poet
says—
“The difference to me!”
LETTER VII.
The Ducal Palace.—The Academia delle Belle Arti.
VENICE, SEPTEMBER.
I miss greatly the view of the Canale Grande from my window; however,
the result, probably, of our being in a narrow canal will be, that I
shall see much more of Venice: for were we among its most noble palaces,
it would suffice and amply fill the hours, merely to loiter away the day
gazing on the scene before us. As it is, though singularly Venetian—the
wave-paved streets beneath, the bridge close at hand—the peep we get at
wider waters at the opening,—it is but a promise of what we may find
beyond, and tempts us to wander.
There is something so different in Venice from any other place in the
world, that you leave at once all accustomed habits and everyday sights
to enter enchanted ground. We live in a palace; though an inn, such it
is: and other palaces have been robbed of delicately-carved mouldings
and elegant marbles, to decorate the staircase and doorways. You know
the composition with which they floor the rooms here, resembling marble,
and called everywhere in Italy Terrazi Veneziani: this polished uniform
surface, whose colouring is agreeable to the eye, gives an air of
elegance to the rooms; then, when we go out, we descend a marble
staircase to a circular hall of splendid dimensions; and at the steps,
laved by the sea, the most luxurious carriage—a boat, invented by the
goddess of ease and mystery, receives us. Our gondolier, never mind his
worn-out jacket and ragged locks, has the gentleness and courtesy of an
attendant spirit, and his very dialect is a shred of romance; or, if you
like it better, of classic history: bringing home to us the language and
accents, they tell us, of old Rome. For Venice
“Has floated down, amid a thousand wrecks
Uninjured, from the Old World to the New.”[13]
With the world of Venice before us, whither shall we go? I would not
make my letter a catalogue of sights; yet I must speak of the objects
that occupy and delight me.
First, then, to the Ducal palace. A few strokes of the oar took us to
the noble quay, from whose pavement rises the Lion-crowned column, and
the tower of St. Mark. The piazzetta is, as it were, the vestibule to
the larger piazza.
But I spare description of a spot, of which there are so many
thousand—besides numerous pictures by Cannaletti and his imitators,
which tell all that can be told—show all that can be shown: to know
Venice, to feel the influence of its beauty and strangeness, is quite
another thing; perhaps the vignettes to Mr. Rogers’s Italy, by Turner,
better than any other description or representation, can impart this.
From the piazzetta we entered a grass-grown court, once the focus of
Venetian magnificence—for, at the top of that majestic flight of steps
which rises from it, the Doges were crowned. The _cortile_ is surrounded
by arcades, decorated by two magnificent bronze reservoirs, and adorned
by statues. The effect is light and elegant, even now that neglect has
drawn a veil over its splendour. Yet Nature here is not neglectful; her
ministrations may be said even to aid the work of the chisel and the
brush, so beautiful are they in their effects.
The Scala de’ Giganti was before us, guarded by two almost colossal
figures of Mars and Neptune, the size of whose statues gives the name to
the steps: ascending them, we found ourselves in the open gallery that
runs round three sides of the court, supported by the arcades. Yawning
before us was the fatal lion’s mouth, receiver of those anonymous
accusations, the terror of all, and destroyer of many of the citizens.
Ringing a bell, we were admitted into the palace.
We do not visit it once only; day after day we wander about these
magnificent, empty halls—sometimes going in by the hall of audience,
sometimes ascending the Scala d’Oro, we enter in by the library.
Sometimes we give ourselves up to minute view of the many frescoes,
which record the history, the glories, and even the legends of Venice.
At the dawn of the art, the more than royal government caused the walls
to be thus adorned by Gentile and Giovanni Bellini, and subsequently by
Titian: a fire unfortunately destroyed their work in 1577; and the
present paintings are by Tintoretto, Paul Veronese, and others. On an
easel in the library, is a picture in oil by Paul Veronese,—the Queen of
Cyprus, Catherine Cornaro, a daughter of Venice, resigning her crown to
the Doge—an iniquitous act enough on the part of the republic; as
others, heirs of Cyprus, with claims more legitimate than Catherine’s,
existed. There is the grace and dignity, characteristic of this painter,
in the various personages of the group. It is to be raffled for, and the
proceeds of the lottery are to be given to the infant schools; but the
tickets are sold slowly, and the time when they are to be drawn is yet
unfixed. There are marbles also, in this room, that deserve
attention,—some among them are relics of antiquity; for the Rape of
Ganymede is attributed to Phidias, and worthy of him. Sometimes we
wander about, content only with the recollections called up by the spot;
and we step out on the balconies which now command a view of the
piazzetta, now of the inner courts, with a liberty and leisure quite
delightful: and then again we pass on, from the more public rooms to the
chambers, sacred to a tyranny the most awful, the most silent of which
there is record in the world. The mystery and terror that once reigned,
seems still to linger on the walls; the chamber of the Council of Ten,
paved with black and white marble, is peculiarly impressive in its
aspect and decorations: near at hand was the chamber of torture, and a
door led to a dark staircase and the state dungeons.
The man who showed us the prisons was a character—he wanted at once to
prove that they were not so cruel as they were represented, and yet he
was proud of the sombre region over whose now stingless horrors he
reigned. A narrow corridor, with small double-grated windows that barely
admit light, but which the sound of the plashing waters beneath
penetrates, encloses a series of dungeons, whose only respiratories come
from this corridor, and in which the glimmering dubious day dies away in
“darkness visible.” Here the prisoners were confined who had still to be
examined by the Council. A door leads to the Ponte de’ Sospiri—now
walled up—for the prisons on the other side are in full use for
criminals: years ago I had traversed the narrow arch, through the open
work of whose stone covering the prisoners caught one last hasty glimpse
of the wide lagunes, crowded with busy life. Many, however, never passed
that bridge—never emerged again to light. One of the doors in the
corridor I have mentioned leads to a dark cell, in which is a small door
that opens on narrow winding stairs; below is the lagune; here the
prisoners were embarked on board the gondola, which took them to the
Canal Orfano, the drowning-place, where, summer or winter, it was
forbidden to the fishermen, on pain of death, to cast their nets. Our
guide, whom one might easily have mistaken for a gaoler, so did he enter
into the spirit of the place, and take pleasure in pointing out the
various power it once possessed of inspiring despair; this guide
insisted that the Pozzi and Piombi were fictions, and that these were
the only prisons. Of course, this ignorant assertion has no foundation
whatever in truth. From the court, as we left the palace, he pointed to
a large window at the top of the building, giving token that the room
within was airy and lightsome, and said with an air of triumph, _Ecco la
Prigione di Silvio Pellico!_—Was he to be pitied when he was promoted to
such a very enviable apartment, with such a very fine view? Turn to the
pages of Pellico, and you will find that, complaining of the cold of his
first dark cell, he was at midsummer transferred to this airy height,
where multitudinous gnats and dazzling unmitigated sunshine nearly drove
him mad. Truly he might regret even these annoyances when immured in the
dungeons of Spielburg, and placed under the immediate and _paternal_
care of the Emperor—whose endeavour was to break the spirit of his
_rebel children_ by destroying the flesh; whose sedulous study how to
discover means to torment and attenuate—to blight with disease and
subdue to despair—puts to shame the fly-killing pastime of Dioclesian.
Thanks to the noble hearts of the men who were his victims, he did not
succeed. Silvio Pellico bowed with resignation to the will of God—but he
still kept his foot upon the power of the tyrant.
Having visited every corner of the palace, and heard the name given for
every apartment, we asked for the private rooms in which the Doge slept
and ate, which his family occupied. There were none. A private covered
way led from these rooms to an adjoining palace, assigned for the
private residence of the Doge. The council were too jealous to allow him
to occupy the palace of the republic, except for the purposes of the
state.
At other times, turning to the right, when we leave our canal, we are
rowed up the Canale Grande to the Accademia delle Belle Arti, to feast
our eyes on the finest works of Titian. The picture usually considered
the _chef-d’œuvre_ of this artist, the Martyrdom of St. Peter the
Hermit, has, for the purpose of being copied, been removed from the dark
niche in which it is almost lost in the church of the Saints Giovanni
and Paolo, and is here. The subject is painful, but conceived with great
power. A deep forest, in which the holy man is overtaken by his
pursuers, sheds its gloom over the picture; his attendant flies, the
most living horror depicted on his face; the saint has fallen, cut down
by the sword of the soldier; an angel is descending from above, and,
opening heaven, sheds the only light that irradiates the scene. It is
very fine; but in spite of the celestial messenger, there is wanting
that connecting link with Heaven,—the rapture of faith in the sufferer’s
countenance, which alone makes pictures of martyrdom tolerable.
I was struck by the last picture painted by the venerable artist—Mary
visiting the Tomb of Jesus. I was told that I ought not to admire it;
yet I could not help doing so: there was something impressive in the
mingled awe and terror in Mary’s face, when she found the body of Jesus
gone.
The Marriage at Cana, by Paul Veronese, adorns these walls, removed from
the refectory of the suppressed Convent of San Giorgio Maggiore. It is
the finest specimen of the feasts which this artist delighted to paint;
bringing together, on a large scale, groups of high-born personages,
accompanied by attendants, and surrounded by a prodigality of objects of
architecture, dress, ornaments, and all the apparatus of Patrician
luxury. It is filled, Lanzi tells us, with portraits of princes and
illustrious men then living.
We turned from the splendour of the feast to the more noble beauty of
Titian’s Presentation of the Virgin—a picture I look at much oftener,
and with far greater pleasure, than at the more celebrated Martyrdom.
The Virgin, in her simplicity and youth; in the mingled dignity and
meekness of her mien, as she is about to ascend the steps towards the
High Priest, is quite lovely; the group of women looking at her, are
inimitably graceful: there is an old woman sitting at the foot of the
steps, marvellous from the vivacity and truth of her look and attitude.
In another large apartment is the Assumption of Titian. The upper part
is indeed glorious. The Virgin is rapt in a paradisiacal ecstacy as she
ascends, surrounded by a galaxy of radiant beings, whose faces are
beaming with love and joy, to live among whom were in itself Elysium.
Such a picture, and the “Paradiso” of Dante as a commentary, is the
sublimest achievement of Catholicism. Not, indeed, as a commentary did
Dante write, but as the originator of much we see. The Italian painters
drank deep at the inspiration of his verses when they sought to give a
visible image of Heaven and the beatitude of the saints, on their
canvass.
There are other and other rooms, all filled with paintings of merit. One
hall contains the earlier productions of Gentile and Giovanni Bellini.
The genius and the elevated piety of these painters give expression to
the countenances; but the dry colouring, the want of foreshortening, the
absence of grace everywhere except in the faces—which are often
touchingly beautiful—all exhibit the infancy of the art.
The Academy contains also a hall for statues; in which the glossy marble
of Canova’s Hebe looks, I am sorry to say, shrunk and artificial, beside
the mere plaster casts of the nobler works of the Ancients.
LETTER VIII.
Chiesa de’ Frari.—San Giorgio Maggiore.—Santa Maria della
Salute.—Lido.—The Giudecca.—The Fondamenti Nuovi.—The Islands.—The
Armenian Convent.
VENICE, SEPTEMBER.
There are three churches here in particular, which we have visited
several times, with interest; the most venerable, the Westminster Abbey
of Venice, is the church of Santa Maria de’ Frari, built in the middle
of the thirteenth century. Every portion of this vast and noble edifice
is filled with tombs and pictures, exciting respect and admiration. Many
a Doge is here buried; and many monuments, some mausoleums in size and
magnificence, some equestrian, some mere urns, Gothic or of the middle
ages, crowd the walls. With more veneration we looked on the unadorned
stone, inscribed with the honoured name of Titian. He died on the 9th
September, 1575, at the age of ninety-nine, of the plague, and the
visitation of this calamity caused the citizens to consign him hastily
to the grave, without thought of marking it by any monument or
inscription, so that the spot was almost forgotten. The mortuary
registers of the church of S. Tommaso prove that he then died, and was
here buried, and his name with a few words conjoined have been chiselled
in the pavement. The republic of Venice projected a monument, which the
troubled times and invasion of Napoleon prevented their accomplishing.
Canova made a model subsequently; but, dying before he could execute it,
the marble was entrusted to various sculptors, and is erected in his own
honour in this church on the side opposite to the spot where Titian
lies. There is something very impressive in the idea of this monument—a
procession of figures entering the half-opened door of a dark tomb.
There are several pleasing pictures in the church, chiefly by Salviati;
but its pride in painting is an altar-piece of Giovanni Bellini. He had
lived long and painted much in fresco, when, at more than sixty years of
age, he was initiated in oil painting by Antonello of Messina, and
executed his _chefs-d’œuvre_,—a picture in the church of San Pietro, on
the island of Murano, and that which we have looked at with interest and
delight in the sacristy of this church. “It presents,” says Mr. Rio,
“the imposing seriousness of a religious composition, in the figure of
the Virgin, and in that of the saints which surround the throne on which
she sits; in the faces of the angels it equals the most charming
miniatures for freshness of colour and ingenuousness of expression. A
foretaste of beatitude seems to have warmed the old man’s soul as he
worked—he has removed the cloud of melancholy with which he formerly
loved to cover the Virgin’s countenance; he no longer paints the Mother
of the seven sorrows, but rather the cause of our joy.”[14]
Exactly opposite our canal, at the entrance from the Quay to the Canale
Grande, is the church of San Giorgio Maggiore; it is built chiefly from
a model of Palladio, and is the noblest in Venice. Our gondola landed us
at the spacious marble platform before the church. Its situation is most
happy. Looked at from the Piazzetta, it is the most stately ornament of
Venice. Looking from it, a view is commanded of the towers, and domes,
and palaces, that illustrate the opposite shore. The church is immense,
and adorned by several pictures of Titian. A convent adjoined, now
destroyed; but as we rambled about, we found that they had kindly
retained, and left open for the visits of strangers, the celebrated
cloister, surrounded by an elegant colonnade of Ionic pillars, and the
staircase, which is one of the boasts of Venice.
Somewhat above, within the Canale Grande, is the church of Santa Maria
della Salute; this was built in 1631, a time when architecture had
degenerated, and a multiplicity of ornaments was preferred to that
simple harmonious style, whose perfection has to my eye the effect of
one of Handel’s airs on the ear—filling it with a sense of exalted
pleasure. Here was beauty, but it existed even in spite of the defects
of the building; it sprang from its situation, its steps laved by the
sea, its marble walls reflecting the prismatic colour of the waves, its
commanding a view of great architectural beauty; within also it contains
pictures of eminent merit.
The roof of the Sacristy possesses three Titians, which overpaid you for
twisting your neck to look at them. Methinks they ought to convert the
exclusive admirer of the mystic school, who would confine painting to
the expression of one, it is true, of the most exalted among the
passions—adoration, love, and contemplation of Divine perfection. These
paintings are, what surely pictures ought to be allowed to be, dramatic
in the highest sense; they tell a story; they represent scenes with
unsurpassed truth and vigour. The killing of Goliath by David, is
admirable. The countenance of the youthful hero, as he stands unarmed,
“with native honour clad,” is instinct with the glow of victory,
purified by his artless reliance on the God of his fathers. The
Sacrifice of Isaac, is the only representation of that tremendous act
that ever pleased me: generally it inspires pain—often disgust; a
father, unimpassioned and pitiless, about to cut the throat of his
innocent and frightened child. But Titian’s imagination allowed him to
conceive the feelings that must have actuated and supported both father
and son—that of unquestioning certainty that what God ordered was to be
obeyed, not only without a murmur, but with alacrity and a serene
conviction that good alone could be the result. In particular, the
countenance of Isaac is the most touching commentary on this story; it
displays awe of approaching death, without terror; it is solemn, and yet
lit up by that glance into eternity, and unquestioned resignation to a
will higher and better than his own, which alone could sanctify the
horror of the moment.
But, perhaps, surpassing these in power, is the Death of Abel. Usually,
you see a man striking his brother the death-blow, as it seems, with
cold-blooded brutality: here, you behold the wild frenzy that
transported the fratricide out of himself. I have seen the passion of
violent and terrible anger well expressed in two pictures only—this one,
and that at Berlin, where the Duke of Gueldres clenches his fist at his
father.
One day, in one of our many rambles, we tried to get into a church, but
it was at the worst hour for such a visit—between one and four—when the
churches are closed. We tried to find the sacristan, when a workman came
to us—“You cannot get in there,” he said; “but I will show you
something.” He took us to the building at which he was at work—a convent
for Dominicans. The French, during their rule, suppressed all the
convents; they are being revived, even in Lombardy, where, till lately,
there were none. There was nothing attractive in a modern house divided
off into narrow cells, two of which were windowless, and pointed out as
_luoghi di castigo_, by our guide; but it was curious (whether
satisfactory or not, I leave to others to decide,) to see this building,
narrow of dimensions, mean in its proportions, altogether insignificant
in size and aspect, replace the stately edifices in which monks of olden
time passed their fives.
The church of the Jesuits is in the ornate style dear to this order, and
is even in worse taste than usual. Before the high altar is spread the
imitation of a carpet, formed of party-coloured marbles. Even the
pictures—many of which are by Palma—that hang around, are robbed of
their beauty by their juxtaposition to heavy, inelegant ornaments.
We were glad to leave it, and to turn our steps to the church of the
Saints Giovanni and Paolo, a very large and majestic edifice; it is more
venerable than any other in Venice, and belongs to the middle ages; the
name of the architect is lost: an inscription under the organ only tells
us, that it was begun in 1246, and consecrated in 1430. It is filled
with magnificent tombs of the old Doges, and rich in pictures by
Bonifazio, Bassano, Bellini—the famous Martyrdom of Titian is taken
hence. We often wander about its vast and stately nave, reading, with
pleasure, the historical names on the tombs—taking delight in the many
remains of the middle ages—and filled more and more with veneration for
the energy, magnificence, and taste of the Venetians.
I cannot tell you of all we see, or it would take you as long to read my
letter as we shall be at Venice. As we remain a month, we do not crowd
our day with sights; our gondoliers come in the morning, and we pass our
time variously. Sometimes, after visiting a single church, we are rowed
over to Lido; and, crossing a narrow strip of sand, scattered with
Hebrew tombstones, find ourselves on the borders of the ocean; we look
out over the sea on vessels bound to the East, or watch the
fishing-boats return with a favourable wind, and glide, one after the
other, into port, their graceful lateen sails filled by the breeze. We
thus loiter hours away, especially on cold days, when we have been
chilled at home; but Lido has a heat of its own—its sands receiving and
retaining the sun’s rays—which we do not enjoy among the marbles and
pavements of Venice.
As the sun sinks behind the Euganean hills, we recross the lagune. Every
Monday of this month is a holiday for the Venetian shopkeepers and
common people; they repair in a multitude of gondolas to Lido, to
refresh themselves at the little inn—to meet in holiday trim, and make
merry on the sea-sands. We pass them in crowds as we return on that day.
Our way is, sometimes (according as the tide serves,) under the walls of
the madhouse, celebrated in Shelley’s poem of Julian and Maddalo—
“A windowless, deformed, and dreary pile.”
Yet not quite windowless; for there are grated, unglazed
apertures—against which the madmen cling—and gaze sullenly, or shout, or
laugh, or sing, as their wild mood dictates.
We often allow our gondolier to take us where he will; and we see a
church, and we say, what is that? and make him seek the sacristan, and
get out to look at something strange and unexpected. Thus we viewed the
church of St. Sebastian, which contains the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Paul
Veronese, the Martyrdom of St. Mark. There is something in the works of
this artist, which, without being ideal or sublime, is graceful and
dignified—according to the dignity of this world;—his groups are formed
of the high-born and high-bred, and all the concomitants of his pictures
are conceived in the same style of mundane but elegant magnificence.
Sometimes we walk: passing through the busy Merceria, we get entangled,
and lose ourselves in the _calle_ of Venice;—we see an open door and
peep in, and ask where we are from a passer by; and hear a name of
historic renown, and find ourselves viewing, by chance, one of the
wonders of the place. A favourite walk is straight across towards the
north, till we reach the Fondamenti Nuovi, a handsome quay, from which
we command a view of many of the smaller islands; and far distant, the
Julian Alps and the mountains of Friuli. It is to me a most exalted
pleasure to look on these heaven-climbing shapes.
Sometimes, if the morning be “kerchiefed in a comely cloud,” and it
feels chilly, we cross merely to the Canale della Giudecca, which is
almost a lagune, and being very much wider than the Canal Grande, is not
so convenient for common traffic; a handsome street or quay, turned to
the south, borders the water—which, receiving the noonday sun, forms a
pleasant and warm promenade.
Madame de Genlis exclaims, “Quelle triste ville que Venise!” For those
who love the confusion and clatter of carriages, the garish look of
smart shops, and a constant flux and reflux of passers-by, it is indeed
_dull_. There is no noise (except the church bells, of which there is
too much)—no dust; the waters sparkle silently at your feet; the marble
palaces catch their radiance and are dressed in prismatic colours,
reflected from the waves. It is a place where you may dream away your
life, quite forgetful of the rubs, thorns, and hard knocks of more
bustling cities.
But if Venice be tranquil, come with me beyond Venice, and tell me what
name to give to the superlative stillness that reigns when we cross the
lagunes to the islands—Murano, Mazzorbo, Burano Torcello. Little remains
on them, except the churches, built in the younger days of Venice;
several of these are magnificent in marbles, and interesting from their
pictures, painted in the infancy of the art. We rambled about, and our
very footsteps seemed unnaturally to invade the stillness that dwells on
these desert shores, beside the waveless lagune. For a time we might
fancy ourselves—
“The first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.”
We were pleased; but quiet became lethargy; and the dank grass and
marshy ground looked unhealthy. We were glad to be rowed back to Venice.
It was much pleasanter to visit the Armenian convent. This is the _beau
idéal_ of gentlemanly and clerical seclusion. Its peaceful library; its
cultivated and shady garden; the travelled tastes of its inmates, who
all come from the East, and are not imprisoned by their vows, but travel
on various missions, even as far as that _Ultima Thule_ which we
consider the centre of all busy life—the view of the domes and towers of
Venice; and further still, of the Euganean hills to the west, and of the
Alps to the north; the sight you caught of some white sails on the far
ocean;—all this gave promise of peace without ennui—a retreat—but not a
tomb.
Thus I dwell on the beauty, the majesty, the dreamy enjoyments of
Venice. I will now endeavour, though the time I stay is too short to
enable me to observe much, to tell you something of the Venetians.
LETTER IX.
Free Port.—Venetian Society.—Titles of the Nobility.—The Dotti.—Infant
School.
OCTOBER.
When I was here last, the duties on all imports to Venice were high,
living became expensive, and the city languished;—it is now a free port;
everything enters without paying the slightest toll, with the exception
of tobacco. The Emperor of Austria grows a wretched plant, to which he
gives this name, on his paternal acres, and will not allow his subjects
to smoke anything else. If that were the only misdeed of his government,
I should not quarrel with him, but only with the people, who do not
thereon forego the idle habit of cigars altogether.
The free port gives a far greater appearance of life and activity to the
city than it formerly had; and some luxuries—such as Turkish coffee,
and, indeed, all things from the East, are much better and cheaper than
with us. To the Venetians, coffee stands in lieu of wine, beer, spirits,
every exciting drink, and they obtain it in perfection at a very low
price. The Austrian is doing what he can to revive trade, so to increase
his store; for two thirds of the taxes of the Regno Lombardo-Veneto go
to Vienna. He desires that railroads should be made, and one is being
constructed from Milan to Venice. Nay, they are in the act of building a
bridge for the railroad carriages from Mestre to the centre of the city;
however convenient, it is impossible not to repine at this innovation;
the power, the commerce, the arts of Venice are gone, the bridge will
rob it of its romance.
With scarcely any exception, all the Venetians of the higher ranks are
at Villeggiatura at this season, so we have seen but very few of them.
The manner in which the upper class live is, I fancy, monotonous enough.
In the winter, the Viceroy comes from Milan to inhabit his palace, and
gives a few balls. Some ladies open their houses for _conversazioni_ in
the evening; but the usual style is for each lady to have her circle,
and the general drawing-room is the Opera-house; or they assemble in the
Piazza of San Marco. There is a plentiful supply of chairs before the
doors of the principal _caffès_, and they sit and converse. It is not
etiquette for a lady to enter a _caffè_, and they are shocked at the
English women, who do not perceive the difference between eating their
ice, or sipping their coffee, in the open Piazza, and entering the shop
itself. To sit or to walk, listening to the band, and exchanging visits
in this glorious drawing-room, lighted up by the mighty lamps of heaven,
is, especially to an unhacknied stranger, a very pleasant way of passing
a summer evening. The _caffè_ to which the noble Venetians resort, is
that of Suttil. Foreigners go next door to Florian, where Galignani is
taken in, which is an attraction to the English.
That reading does not flourish here, may be gathered from the fact that
there is no circulating library, nor any literary society, such as are
frequent in country towns in France and England, where people subscribe
among one another for the supply of books. The French Consul tried to
establish one, but did not succeed. I think it is Doctor Gregory who
says, reading novels is better than a total incapacity to take an
interest in books, since it enlarges the mind more than no reading at
all. It is sometimes alleged, that in a state of society where there is
no thought nor desire for the acquisition of knowledge, it is better not
to read, than to imbibe the opium or exciting cordials of the usual run
of novels. The question is, whether these works are not a step towards
awakening a desire for nobler and more useful mental culture. Meanwhile,
to live among a people who do not read—do not desire to learn—presents
to us a singular phasis of society. What can they do? Many things, it
may be said, remain for women in the discharge of their duties, without
becoming _blue_; but the fact is, that a desire for improvement is the
salt of the human intellect; that a wish to acquire knowledge is natural
to a well-conditioned mind, and ought especially to exist among
individuals of that class of society which enjoys uninterrupted leisure.
The Italians are delicately organised, and have intuitive taste in music
and most of the fine arts; but accomplishments, as they are called,
cannot be cultivated to any extent, nor can even a love of duty subsist
among the idle, which the Italians proverbially are.
Still, among the Venetians, as all over Italy, you must not suppose
because they are ignorant—because they live in a confined
routine—because to make love in their youth, and take care of their
money in later years, be the occupation of the greater number, that you
find the provincial tone of a French or English country town. Graceful
manners—accents modulated by the kindest courtesy—suavity that is all
gentleness, and a desire to do more than please, to be useful, is innate
among them—it reigns in every class of society, and wins irresistibly.
When I was last at Venice, many many years ago, I knew no Venetians, and
it so happened that the English whom I saw chose to erect themselves
into censors of this people, and to speak of them in unmeasured terms of
censure. New to Italy, we believed those who had lived there long.
Shelley, in his letters and poems, echoes these impressions. I cannot
pretend to say with what justice such opinions were formed: I do not
know whether the Venetians are improved. If a foreigner came to England,
and chose to associate with the most vicious of our country people, both
nobles and that worst race who live by the vices of the rich, he might
find as much to abhor as Lord B— represented as detestable at Venice.
But then there is another class among us,—and he declared there was no
other here. We know, indeed, generally speaking, that Italian morality
is not ours; but if it falls short in some things, perhaps in others, if
we knew them well, we should be obliged to confess its superiority.
The duties of husband and wife are in England observed with even more
sanctity than they obtain credit for. But in how many instances do our
affections and duties begin and end there—with the exception of those
exercised by the parents towards their _very young_ children. We all
know that when a son or daughter marries, they literally fulfil the
dictum of Adam, “therefore shall a man leave his father and mother, and
cleave unto his wife.” Our family affections centre in the small focus
of the married pair, and few and ineffectual are the radii that escape
and go beyond.
Now, it must be acknowledged that, however endearing at the outset,
however necessary and proper, to a certain extent, such a state of
things may be, it often degenerates after a little time into the most
sordid selfishness. The Italians are deficient in this self-dedication
to one, but they have wider extended family attachments, of a very warm
and faithful description. We who consider it a necessity of life to have
a _menage_ to ourselves—each couple in its nest—cannot understand the
harmony and affection nourished in a little republic, often consisting
of grandfather and grandmother, who may be said to have abdicated power,
and live in revered retirement—their days not counted and grudged, as
with us is too frequently the case: then comes father and mother,
respected and loved—and then brothers and sisters. If a sister marries,
she becomes a part of another family, and goes away. The son brings his
wife under his father’s roof; but the size of their houses renders them
independent in their daily life. The younger sons are not apt to marry,
because, in addition to their want of fortune, too many women,
essentially strangers, would thus be brought under one roof, and would
be the occasion of discord. We know how readily the human heart yields
to a law which it looks on as irrefragable; submitting to single life,
uncles learn to love their nephews and nieces as if they were their own
offspring, and a strong family chain is thus formed. A question may
arise as to how much of family tyranny turns these links into heavy
fetters. In the first place, their families are seldom as numerous as
with us. The necessities of their position fall lightly on the males.
All over the world younger sons seldom marry; or only do so to exchange
luxury for straitened circumstances; and younger sons who continue to
grow old under the paternal roof, sharing _by right_ the luxuries to
which they were born, and in which they were educated, are better off
than our younger sons, who are often thrust forth from the luxurious
home of their youth, to live on a bare pittance in a wretched lodging.
Unmarried women all over the Continent have so much the worst of it,
that few remain single. How they contrive to dispose of their girls, now
convents are in disuse, I cannot tell; but, as I have said, there are
not so many as with us, and they usually contrive to marry. At times you
may find a maiden aunt, given up to devotion, who sheds a gentle and
kindly influence over the house. It does not strike me that, as regards
daughters who survive their parents, things are much better managed with
us.
This family affection nurtures many virtues, and renders the manners
more malleable, more courteous, and deferential. For the rest, though I
cannot pretend to be behind the scenes—and though, as I have said, their
morality is confessedly not ours—I am sure there is much both to respect
as well as love among the Italians.
The great misfortune which the nobles labour under is, in the first
place, a bad education, and afterwards the want of a career. The schools
for children are as bad as they can be;—at their universities there is a
perpetual check at work, to prevent the students imbibing liberal
opinions; for as the governments of Italy consider that those who
dedicate themselves to study and reflection are sure to be inimical to
them, so do they look on such with jealousy and distrust, while sharp
watch is kept on the professors, to prevent their ranging beyond the
bounds of science, into the demesnes of philosophy.[15] Young men at
college, however, are all liberal, all ardent for the freedom of their
country, all full of the noblest, though too often the most
impracticable views for her regeneration. They leave college,—and what
is to become of them? If they have already distinguished themselves for
boldness of opinions, or even for great capacity and love of knowledge,
they are marked men; they are not permitted to travel;—in any case they
have no career, unless they give in at once their adherence to Austria;
and, certainly, however hopelessness or misfortune may tame and induce
them to do this in after times, at their first outset in life, an
Italian would feel as if, in so doing, he were a traitor to his country.
Some few there are—as many perhaps as with us—chosen spirits, who can
pursue their course, devoted to study, or the service of their fellow
creatures—abstracted from the frivolity or vices of society. But the
majority have either never felt the true touch of patriotism and a
desire for improvement, or find such incompatible with worldly pleasure.
There is little or no public employment; the marine is but a name; the
army, no true Italian would enter; if they did, they would be quartered
far away from their native country, in Hungary or Bohemia; they have
nothing to occupy their minds, and of course plunge into dissipation.
_Play_ is the whirlpool that engulphs most of them. As with us during
the middle of the last century—as among a certain set of our present
aristocracy—play is their amusement, their occupation, their ruin;—many
of the noblest Italian families are passing away, never more to be heard
of, the heirs of their wealth having lost all in play.—New men, mostly
of Jewish extraction, who have gained by banking, stock jobbing, and
money lending, what the others have lost by their extravagance, are
rising on their downfall.
A curious anomaly exists among the nobility of the north of Italy. It is
well known that titles in England are on a different footing from those
on the Continent, and hence are far more respected. In England, a peer
is an hereditary legislator, he is certain to possess a comparatively
large fortune; so that, to be a noble with us, is to be in the
possession of power and influence. His sons, except the eldest, enjoy
little of all this, and in the next generation they sink into untitled
gentry. In Italy, indeed every where abroad, the descendants of a noble
are also noble to the end of time. The individuals of this order, in
consequence, intermarry only among one another, and flourish as a
numerous class, wholly apart; but of course the respect in which titles
are held is greatly diminished, as power and fortune by no means
constantly attend them.
At present many of the most illustrious families of Venice and Lombardy
have lost their titles. Thus it happened. On Napoleon’s downfall, when
Venice and her territories and other parts of Northern Italy were ceded
to Austria, the kingdom Lombardo-Veneto was formed, and all those
persons who wished to become nobles of the new state, were ordered to
prove their titles by producing the diplomas and documents establishing
the same. The Venetians could easily have complied, since the names of
the nobility were, under the republic, inscribed in the _libro d’oro_;
for, although the original of this book was burnt by the republicans in
1797, several copies existed; and the Venetian nobles were informed,
that on presenting a petition to request leave, and paying the tax or
fees, they might retain the titles of their forefathers. Many who were
descended from families which had given doges to the state, refused to
petition.—“What is the house of Hapsberg,” they said, “that it should
pretend to ennoble the offspring of old Rome?” Nor would they deign to
request honours from the invaders of their country, who carried their
insolence so far as to demand proof of noble origin from those who, for
centuries, had illustrated the pages of history with their names.[16]
The nobility of Lombardy were also called upon to ask for the
confirmation of the titles which they already possessed, by producing
the documents that proved them. Very few were able to comply, as the
Jacobins had destroyed their papers when they seized on all public and
private archives, and burned them. Thus many of the most ancient and
illustrious families are deprived of the titles which, for centuries,
they enjoyed. These regulations concern that portion of Lombardy lately
incorporated in the Austrian kingdom. With regard to the Milanese
nobility, and that belonging to the states which Austria possessed
before the French Revolution, the edicts touched only the new nobility,
for which the Austrian government entertained an antipathy, and was
desirous of finding a pretence for depriving of rank; it was often
enabled to succeed by taking advantage of some flaw in their diplomas,
or in the manner in which they had fulfilled the conditions contained in
the article of the constitution which treats of feudal tenures. It also
forced the nobles of Lombardy, who had received additional rank, to
choose whether they would belong to the ancient nobility by their old
titles, or to the modern by their new. Litta and Visconti, who had been
made dukes, as well as others who had been advanced in rank, chose the
former, and thus, though of ancient race, belong to the new nobility.
But to return to the more important topic of the state of knowledge in
Italy—for this matter of titles is held by themselves in great contempt,
and only thought of as marking the desire of Austria to arrogate power
and to annoy. The Italians care very little for titles; and I have often
heard them say, that until they visited France or England, they scarcely
knew or cared whether they possessed any.
You must not suppose, from what I say, that Italy in no way shares in
the enlightenment of the present times. Moreover, the Emperor of Austria
admits the diffusion of _science_ in his dominions. Happy Italians, to
whom is conceded one path, on which their minds may proceed in the
journey _onwards_ for which God created man. The Austrian government is
aware that their own native subjects can go pottering on with theories
and science, without one aspiration to become men, in the free and noble
sense of self-government, stirring in their hearts: it supposes that it
will be the same in Italy; but the people of this country are made of
different clay; and it seems to me, that as Jehovah hardened the heart
of Pharaoh for his own destruction, so does he soften the heart of
Prince Metternich, thus to admit a system of improvement into Lombardy,
which will hereafter prove the instrument of the overthrow of his power.
Science is generally pursued by clever Italians as a mode of employing
their understandings, which does not excite the suspicion of government;
and scientific meetings, such as assemble with us at stated times in the
great provincial towns, take place yearly in Italy. This season the
learned met in Padua; and at the inn where we refreshed ourselves in
that city, we found tables spread for three hundred _Dotti_, as they are
called. A ridiculous story came to us the other day from across the
lagune. A student of the university looking over the bridge, and seeing
come up the river a barge full of pumpkins, cried out, “Vengono i
dotti—see, they have sent their heads before them!” _Testa di zucca_, or
pumpkin-head, answers to our phrase of blockhead. This, however, was
regarded as a serious insult, and the offender has been put under
arrest, and is to be imprisoned till the great men leave Padua.
There is another point for which the government shews toleration, on
condition that its own political catechism is taught—infant schools. I
visited one, and was much interested. It belongs to our district of
Venice, and is one among many. It was for both boys and girls under the
age of nine. I saw the girls’ room first. They learn according to the
system now prevalent everywhere for teaching the poor—Bell’s and
Lancaster’s, as it used to be called. There were some thirty or forty
girls; and I am sorry to say they did not shew so well as the boys; the
cause, _I trust_, being that the head-teacher, a priest, attended only
to the latter. I do not mean to detract from the governesses who
presided over both schools: they seemed sensible and zealous, and in
every way the whole thing was respectable. But the priest, a young man,
has a passion for arithmetic; he teaches it with ardour to his pupils,
who have a happy knack for the same; and the sums we witnessed brought
to a happy conclusion by these little fellows, all under nine years of
age, and one between seven and eight being the cleverest, were to me
quite prodigious. Once the master disputed a point; the boys insisted
they were right, and so it proved. We gave the stuns. As to the
correctness of the computation, we trusted a good deal to the honour of
the governesses and master; but in truth, to see the eager and
intelligent way in which the boys answered, was quite sufficient, for no
one could be so ready and glad unless he felt himself in the right.
These children were not pretty. I have often remarked, that handsome as
the Italian common people are, their children (probably from bad food)
are seldom good-looking.
Unfortunately, when the children leave the infant schools, their
education ends; they fall back on the habits of indolence and ignorance
indigenous here. How far their arithmetical studies may conduce to their
honesty, I cannot guess. I am not one of those who say,
“Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.”
A little light is better than total darkness; especially in Italy, where
the cleverness of the people prevents their ever becoming stupid. They
must learn something; and a little good is better than all bad.
LETTER X.
Venetian Palaces.—Gondolieri.—Basilica of St. Mark.—Opera.—Illumination
of the Fenice.
VENICE, OCTOBER.
Many of the palaces of Venice still preserve their pictures, and shew,
in their numbers and beauty, the wealth and taste of the families in old
time. The Palazzo Manfrin contains, I think, the largest and most choice
collection. It has some incomparable pictures by Giorgione, the
contemporary, and rival, of Titian. He also was a pupil of Gian Bellini,
but invented a style of his own, and first painted with that richness
and grandeur of colouring which is the pride of the Venetian school. His
pictures in the Palazzo Manfrin are wonderfully beautiful. The
Deposition from the Cross, by Titian, is here: indeed, the collection is
in every respect magnificent, and deserves many visits. In the Palazzo
Mocenigo (which Lord Byron inhabited—there are two palaces Mocenigo: it
is one of the most illustrious families of Venice), there is the design
for the Paradiso of Tintoretto. In the Palazzo Pisani is an admirable
picture by Paul Veronese—the Family of Darius at the feet of Alexander.
It rises above his usual style of mere portraiture into the ideal. There
is the true chivalrous expression in the mien and countenance of the
youthful victor—the grandeur of habitual command, the dignity resulting
from noble ambition; at the same time, you see that his very soul is
touched by compassion for the fallen princesses, and the ingenuous shame
which a generous mind feels on beholding those lately placed so high
humiliate themselves before him, mantles in his face.
In the Barberigo Palace is the Maddalena Scapigliata of Titian. Her
eyes, swollen and red, are raised to heaven, and her face is disfigured
by much weeping. Her remorse, her vehemence of grief, differs wholly
from the tender sorrow, chastened and supported by faith, of Correggio’s
Magdalen. At first sight, the deformity of her features produced by
violent weeping, is almost repulsive; but the picture gains on you; the
real beauty of the countenance—a something of noble and soft, in spite
of passionate sorrow and self-abasement—is perceptible through her
tears.
We were taken to-day to see a modern picture painting for the Emperor.
It is on a large scale—Foscari taking leave of his Father; his mother is
fainting; the Doge, struggling with contending emotions, turns half
away. The best figure is that of the son: the feebleness arising from
physical suffering—veneration for his seemingly severe parent—grief,
tenderness, and resignation—are well expressed in his kneeling figure
and downcast face.
The Venetians are much interested at this moment by the restoration of
the Pala of the high altar of St. Mark’s. It required an order to view
it and the other precious objects preserved in the Treasury.
The Basilica of San Marco is the most singular among the edifices of
Venice. Its strange Arab architecture denotes its great antiquity. The
ancient chapel of St. Theodore (who, before the transfer of the body of
St. Mark, was the patron saint of the city), built in 552, was
incorporated in 828 in the ancient church of St. Mark, at the time when
the bones of the Saint arrived. These edifices being consumed by fire,
the foundations of the present were laid in 976, and completed in 1071;
but even until the middle of the last century its internal decorations
were not completed.
Every portion glistens with precious stones. Its walls are covered with
pictures in Mosaic: its pavement, and the five hundred columns that
adorn it, are composed of verde antique, jasper, porphyry, agate, and
the most precious marbles. Usually, one cares little for such things;
but here the barbaric magnificence—the Eastern aspect—the tombs of
heroes it contains, and its association with the glories of the
republic—combine to render the tribute of Mammon to Heaven interesting.
The high altar has two Pale: one covers the other. The internal one, a
curiosity from its richness, has been taken down to be repaired. It is
called the Pala d’oro, and is formed of enamel paintings on silver and
gold, encrusted with a profusion of gems; it was executed at
Constantinople by order of the Doge Piero Orseolo, under whose reign the
Basilica was finished. It now forms the delight of Venice, and many
noble ladies have contributed a quantity of gems, to replace those that
have been lost. It is a curious specimen of the state of the arts in the
middle ages, before it revived and received a soul from the great
painters of Tuscany and Umbria. It is all glitter and richness, and a
sort of barbaric elegance, without real taste.
The treasure of St. Mark once overflowed with wealth, in gems, pearls,
and worked gold, chiefly transferred from Constantinople; these have all
disappeared; the only objects that attract attention are an antique
porphyry vase, with letters carved on it, such as are found in
Persepolis—and a golden rose, one of those which it was the practice of
the popes to present on certain occasions to catholic sovereigns. This
had been presented to a doge of Venice; it was no meagre gift, being a
very large bough, bearing many roses, all formed of the precious metal.
Each day we grow more familiar with this delightful city—favourite of
Amphitrite and the Nereids; the little roots, generated by sympathy and
enjoyment, begin to strike out, and I shall feel the violence of
transplanting when forced to go. I look wistfully on some of the
palaces, thinking that here I might find a pleasant, peaceful home; nor
is the idea, though impracticable for me, wholly visionary. Several of
the palaces, bereft of their old possessors, are used for public
offices, or are let at a low rent. It is easy to obtain a house, whose
marble staircase, lofty halls, and elegant architecture, surpass
anything to be found in France or England. Several English gentlemen
have taken apartments, and fitted them up with old furniture, and find
themselves, at slight cost, surrounded by Venetian grandeur. No one can
spend much money in Venice:—a gondola is a very inexpensive carriage;
hiring one, as we do, costs four swanzikers a day—about four pounds a
month, with a _buona mano_ of half a swanziker a day to the gondolier,
on going away.
Of course, if settled, you must build your own gondola; and to be
_respectable_ you must have two _gondolieri_ in livery. The appearance
of the boatmen dressed like footmen is, to my eye, the only inharmonious
sight in Venice. These men used to be reserved only for the use of the
gondola and carrying messages; but in these poorer days, they serve as
domestics in the house; they are still, however, a race apart,
thoroughly acquainted with every nook and corner of the city;
intelligent, alert, zealous; ready (as we were told of old) to do any
bad errand; but with such having nothing to do, we know nothing. We have
two gondolas in our pay. One of the _gondolieri_ is a favourite, Beppo,
No. 303; the other, Marco, 307. We have no fault to find with either;
and they join intelligence to exactness. At first, we would not engage
Marco, because, accustomed to foreigners, he was proud of his scraps of
bad French. We made a bargain with him that he should always speak
Italian—Venetian we would not insist upon, for we should not understand
him. I am almost sorry to know nothing of Venetian; it was the first
dialect formed from Latin that was written. At the time when, in the
other cities of Italy, the annals were drawn up in barbarous Latin, the
Venetians made their records in their vernacular tongue, which remain to
this day in multitudinous volumes in the Library of St. Mark. It has
been averred that the first colonists from Padua brought this dialect of
the Latin with them, and that it is a remnant of the vernacular of Roman
Italy. Nine centuries later, the _lingua Toscana_ could scarcely be said
to exist; the language of Brunetto Latini, Dante’s master, being very
scant and inefficient. I am told that Dante himself hesitated whether to
write his “Divina Comedia” in Latin or Venetian, till fortunately he
became aware that the talk of the common people of Tuscany possessed all
the elements of expression; and he, collecting them with that
life-giving power proper to genius, “created a language, in itself
heroic and persuasive, out of a chaos of inharmonious barbarisms.”[17]
There is, I believe, even at this day, greater scope for wit and airy
grace in Venetian than in Tuscan.
The _gondolieri_ often sing at their oars; nor are the verses of Tasso
quite forgotten. One delicious calm moonlight evening, as we were
walking on the Piazzetta, an old _gondoliere_ challenged a younger one
to alternate with him the stanzas of the “Gerusalemme.” I have often
wished to hear them. It was a double pleasure that I did not do so by
command, but in the true old Venetian way, two challenging each other
voluntarily, and taking up alternate stanzas, till one can remember no
more, and the other comes off conqueror. We are told that the air to
which they sing is monotonous: so it is; yet well adapted to recitation.
The antagonists stood on the Piazzetta, at the verge of the laguna,
surrounded by other _gondolieri_—the whole scene lighted up by the moon.
They chanted the favourite passage, the death of Clorinda. I could only
follow the general sense, as they recite in Venetian; but the subject of
the verse, high and heroic, the associations called up—the beauty of the
spot—a sort of dignity in the gestures of the elder boatman, and nothing
harsh, though it might be monotonous, in their chaunt—the whole thing
gave me inexpressible pleasure—it was a Venetian scene, dressed in its
best; and the imagination was wrapped in perfect enjoyment.
The weeks pass away, and we are soon, I am sorry to say, about to leave
Venice. We have taken our sight-seeing quietly, and each day has had a
novel pleasure. It is one of our amusements to visit the piazza of San
Marco at two in the afternoon, when, on the striking of the hour on the
great clock, the pigeons come down to be fed. These birds are sacred to
Saint Mark, and it is penal to kill any. They lead a happy life, petted
by all the citizens. Now and then they may be served up at the dinner of
a poor man; but they are too many not to spare, without grudging, an
individual or two for the good of their maintainers.
We have visited the arsenal, a monument of the glory and commerce of
Venice; silent, empty, useless. One poor brig lies in the harbour; it
served during the late war in the East; and the young officer, who
kindly acted as cicerone, had captured a Turkish flag, which showed
fresh among ancient Venetian trophies. It seemed only a pretty
compliment when I told him, that it gave me more pleasure than all the
curiosities he was showing us; but I spoke the simple truth. Anything
that demonstrates the valour and spirit of the present race of Italians,
is more satisfactory to behold, than all the cobwebbed glories of old
times.
No good opera is going on here. The Fenice, the large theatre, is only
open during carnival. The most popular amusement is the _famiglia
Vianesi_, about half a dozen children, who sing the _Barbiere di
Seviglia_ and the _Elisir d’Amore_. It was very wonderful, but not
pleasing. There is a young and pretty prima donna—a mezzo
soprano—Gazzaniga, who takes the part of Romeo in the _Montecchi e
Capuletti_, and sings it very nicely; and there is an amusing buffo.
A grand opera was got up at Padua during the visit of the _Dotti_, and
even Taglioni was engaged. There was a talk of her coming to Venice, but
it fell to the ground. However, after the learned had dispersed, the
operatic company crossed the lagune, bringing the decorations of _Robert
le Diable_. The Italians do not understand German music. They bring it
out because it has been praised; but they do not like it; and alter it,
and try to make it coincide with their taste, and spoil it completely.
The Emperor Ferdinand’s uncle, and the heir presumptive of the imperial
crown, is come to spend a day here, and it is thought proper to mark his
visit by a festival. The Piazza di San Marco has been illuminated—only
with a mezza illuminazione, but still it was very beautiful; nor can
anything be otherwise in the magnificent theatre of this stately square.
In addition they opened the opera-house of the Fenice, and lighted it
up. An illuminara in one of the great opera-houses is almost a national
event in an Italian town: I never witnessed one before, and now could
understand the excitement that it occasions. The price of boxes was very
high, some sixty swanzikers and more. Signor —— kindly brought me the
keys of a very good box, opposite that occupied by the royal party. We
went early; the whole house was full; the passages and corridors, all
brilliantly lighted, were filled with the common people—admitted without
paying. Nothing could be more animated, more gay. Our gondolier, one of
whose offices this is, paid for us, and showed us the way to our box.
When the door opened we were dazzled: it was like a scene in fairy land.
Accustomed to our few wax candles, and the deforming, sombre light of
gas, the innumerable lights that shed more than day over the whole
house, produced an effect of brilliancy and elegance quite
indescribable.
There had been much debating as to the opera, Gazzaniga wished to have
the _Montecchi e Capuletti_, as she shone in the part of Romeo; but the
primo buffo did not like to be excluded from singing before H. R. I. H.
Accordingly, the opera of _Chi dura Vince_ was fixed on, in which
Gazzaniga had a prominent serio-comic part. The story of the play is
similar to that of our _Honeymoon_; and the way in which she acted the
angry, deluded bride was very amusing. This opera is by Ricci, and has a
few agreeable airs in it—though nothing rising above mediocrity. The
Archduke went away before the opera was over. Royal personages labour so
very hard; and the Archduke was to leave Venice at four the following
morning. He went in a steamer to view the sea-wall building at
Malamocco, and thence is to proceed by steam to Trieste. Another steamer
accompanied him; and the first people of Venice, and all strangers, were
invited, as for a party of pleasure. I had a sort of fore-feeling I
should not like it; for though I was assured the steamer would make the
voyage in the lagune on this side Lido, I did not quite believe that to
be possible. So it proved—the steamers took to the open sea, which was
rather rough; and though plenty was provided to refresh and entertain
the guests, very little was eaten.
LETTER XI.
Journey to Florence.—Cold and rainy Season.—Excursion to Vallombrosa.
OCTOBER 30TH.
We have taken flight, over plain, river, and mountain, and are arrived
in the beautiful city of Italy—Firenze la Bella. We parted excellent
friends with the host of l’Hôtel d’Italie, who had shown himself anxious
to please, and fair in his dealings. A _vetturino_ journey is always
somewhat tedious, and the deep roads neighbouring the Po, having been
damaged by rain and flood, our progress was more than usually slow. We
were drawn by two admirable little horses, and their avaricious master
taxed their strength to the utmost. He had demanded more from us,
alleging the necessity of extra horses, but grudged the price asked, and
went on merely with his own. The stinginess of this fellow had its
reward in riches, for he told us he was called Il Miliorino. This it is
that makes avarice an incurable vice. It can never be satiated, for it
ever wants more; and it is seldom disappointed, for it gains its ends
more passively than actively, and its success depends on self, not on
others; but this it is also that renders it so despicable. “Tell him his
soul lives in an alley,” said Ben Jonson, when Charles I. sent him a
niggard gift. The souls of the avaricious live in the narrowest of all
alleys; they are shut up in the dreariest solitary confinement, from
which they have not the spirit to escape.
We contrived to peep at a few pictures. At Padua, we paid a hurried
visit to one or two churches adorned by frescoes by some of the earlier
masters, admirable for the artless gesture—the earnest, rapt
expression—the power of shewing the soul breathing in the face. Every
painter who aims at the ideal—at expressing the purer and higher
emotions of the soul, ought to make a particular study of these early
Christian paintings; they must not imitate them—true genius, indeed,
cannot imitate. He can catch the light which the labours of his
predecessors throw over his path; but he will proceed on one shaped out
by himself. To imitate Perugino would be to write poetry in the obsolete
language of Chaucer. Yet every English writer ought to be familiar with
the pathos, sweetness, and delicate truth of one of our greatest poets.
I was sorry not to spend more time at Ferrara; and in particular not to
revisit the galleries, and palaces, and churches of Bologna. To have
seen these once was no excuse for not seeing them again; but I could
not.
I cannot say why, but the impression left on my mind of the passage of
the Appenines had been unfavourable, and I was agreeably surprised to
find the scenery far more varied—richer in wood, and more picturesque
than I expected. The mountain inns are all much improved since I last
crossed. Evening closed as the valley in which Florence is situated
opened before us; the descent is rapid, ending almost at the gate of the
city itself. We traversed it at its greatest length, from the Porta San
Gallo to Schneiderff’s Hotel, where very uncomfortable rooms were
assigned to us.
This, and the expense of the hotel, made us eager to take apartments. I
was instantly employed in the wearisome task of finding them. There are
a great many, but still it was difficult to find such as we wanted.
There were several numerous and handsome suites of rooms at a high
price, and a great number of narrow and uncomfortable ones tolerably
cheap. Neither suited us. We at last fixed on a second floor, on the
Lungo l’Arno. The rooms are nearly all turned to the south, and look
over the river: they are not large, but they are clean and neat. We are
sure of the sun whenever he shines; which is a great desideratum,
especially in an Italian winter, when the presence of sunshine often
admits of an absence of fire. We have engaged our rooms for four months.
It is very cold—as cold as it can be in England.
NOVEMBER.
To cold has succeeded rain, with a few sunny days to break the
dreariness of the season; but I believe you in England are enjoying fine
weather, and, strange to say, we hear that in Rome and Naples the rain
is still more continuous and chill. Walking is out of the question; and
driving,——how I at once envy and despise the happy rich who have
carriages, and who use them only to drive every afternoon in the
Cascine—the Hyde Park of Florence. If I could, I would visit every spot
mentioned in Florentine history—visit its towns of old renown; and
ramble amid scenes familiar to Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarch, and
Macchiavelli.
The fault of Florence is, that it is built in a basin, too entirely and
too closely shut in by mountains, which collect the clouds, and render
the air stagnant; so that it is hot in summer; and in winter, when there
is snow on the Appenines, sharply cold. Now that there is no snow, the
season being mild, we have the other alternative of rain and mist.
Sometimes the Arno rises so high that it threatens a flood: on these
occasions, it is watched and guarded like a wild beast, and every inch,
as it rises, is proclaimed. I like to hear it, roaring and rushing in
its course—
“Per aver pace co’ seguaci sui,”
as Dante says of the Po; and any one witnessing the turbulence of these
tideless Italian rivers when swollen by rains; who views their
precipitate speed, and listens to their thunder, as the mountain
torrents, named by the poet their pursuers, come dashing after, to
augment their fury—whoso sees this, is conscious that in this passage
Dante displays his peculiar and high power of putting a sentient soul
into nature, and representing it to our minds by images suggested by a
quick and poetic feeling of her vitality.
During the intervals between the rainy days, the mists hang as dense and
low over the city as they used to rest over the valley of Dolgelly
during last year’s wintry summer. But when the sun does shine, and when
the smiles of Nature call me forth, I cross the Ponte alle Grazie—I
leave the town by the gate of San Miniato, and ascend the steep hill to
the platform before the little elegant church (San Miniato fuore delle
mura) on which Michael Angelo delighted to fix his eyes, calling it “_La
bella villanella_.” From the height, you command a view of the city,
crowned by dome and tower, of the Appenine that slopes down to cradle it
in its green lap; and of the Arno, that, having forced its way among the
mountains, now hurries on towards the marine plain. This view, and the
climate also of Florence, was injured not many years ago, when the
forests, that clothed the mountain sides, were cut down, to be replaced
by the olive—a more profitable growth. But the removal of the forests
opened the gullies of the hills; took away the check formerly opposed to
the violent tramontana; which collects its strength on the snowy peaks,
and rushes down the bared sides with mightier power.
I look on those glorious hills, and turn to a map of Italy, and long to
lose myself in their depths, and to visit every portion of Tuscany;
every smaller town and secluded nook of which, is illustrious through
historical association. It is my dream to set out some day on this
ramble, and see places untrod by the usual tourist; but now I cannot.
However, we could not resist the temptation of visiting Vallombrosa. It
is true this is not the season for excursions, autumn being too far
advanced; but a fine day gave us promise, we hoped, for the same on the
morrow: so we hired a _vettura_ and set out.
The road skirts the river, and winds up the Valdarno, the slopes of
whose inclosing hills are thickly studded with country seats. It was a
showery day; but the sun shone at intervals, and brightened the stream
and mountain sides. The road is new and good. At about one o’clock we
reached a small town where a cattle fair was going on.[18] After some
little delay, however, we got ponies and a guide, and proceeded. We now
fell upon a true mountain path, winding up the hill beside a brawling
torrent; the crags rose high above, and the branches of noble
forest-trees were spread over our path—truly they were in the sear and
yellow leaf; but the place was the more consonant with Milton’s verse—
“Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks
In Vallombrosa, where th’ Etrurian shades
High, over-arched embower.”
As we climbed higher, a shower of sleet came on, and we arrived wet
through at the Convent. No women are admitted within these sacred walls,
but a _forestiera_ is built adjoining for our accommodation.
The grassy plain, or platform, before the Convent is at the head of a
huge gully or ravine, which slopes down towards the valley of the Arno.
A mist hung over the scene; but in summer-time it must be—what it is
named—Paradise.
Vallombrosa is situated on the verge of the mountainous region of the
Casentino. This district is little known; it vies with Switzerland or
the Tyrol in beauty; covered by forests, resonant with streams, the
valleys that intervene are green and fertile. Cortona is its capital.
Its nobility is of high antiquity, and the peasantry are attached to it
with a sort of feudal sense of vassalage.
We arrived wet through. The lay-brother made a good fire, and asked us
what refreshment we would have. We had already dined, so he brought us
some excellent coffee, and a _chasse_ of _rosolio_, such as is only to
be found distilled by the Monks of this Convent.
The rain made the scene dreary; but it ceased at last, and we mounted
our ponies. The sun broke out as we descended; and the sparkling torrent
murmured softly as it danced along. I hailed it with delight, as one of—
“Li ruscelletti, che de’ verdi colli
Del Casentin discendon giuso in Arno,
Facendo i lor canali e freddi e molli;”—
Verses are these that might refresh a thirsty wanderer in a hot sandy
desert. There is scarcely a spot in Tuscany, and those parts of the
North of Italy, which he visited, that Dante has not described in poetry
that brings the very spot before your eyes, adorned with graces missed
by the prosaic eye, and yet which are exact and in perfect harmony with
the scene.
There are three convents, Vallombrosa, Calmaldoli, and Laverna, situated
in the depths of the district of the Casentino, of which visitors make
the tour. Monks of old were wise to choose spots of extreme beauty,
however solitary, for their life of seclusion, peace, and praise.
LETTER XII.
Art at Florence.—Cosimo Rosselli.—Ghirlandajo.—Beato Fra
Angelico.—Poccetti.—Later Florentine School.
JANUARY, 1843.
Florence contains a multitude of various paintings, which to describe,
or even to classify, would demand a volume, and would require a
knowledge of the art, the elements even of which I do not possess. I
have not the remotest pretension to being a connoisseur; nor do I say,
as some have done, “I do not know what is called good, but I know what
pleases me”—giving it to be understood, by these words, that they have
an untaught instinct, transcending culture of the student. I believe, in
all matters of art, good taste results from natural powers joined to
familiarity with the best productions. To read sublime poetry, to hear
excellent music, to view the finest pictures, the most admirable
statues, and harmonious and stately architecture, is the best school in
which to learn to appreciate what approaches nearest to perfection in
each.
M. Rio satisfactorily proves that the modern art of painting resulted
from the piety of the age in which it had birth. The adoration of
images—or, if that expression be too strong, the having recourse to
images for the purpose of concentrating, vivifying, and exalting the
faith of the worshippers—created a demand (to use a phrase of the day)
for pictures on religious subjects. At first this was satisfied by
paintings of the Byzantine school, to which custom gave sanctity. But
when men of eminent piety, gifted with pictorial powers, turned their
talents to representing bodily to the eye, the Saviour of the world, the
chaste sinless mother of God, or saints, who through their faith form a
portion of the hierarchy of heaven, and are admitted by the Judge to
mediate for their fellow-creatures, they depicted all that their souls
could conceive of sublime and holy in the face of man, seeking to
present
“Of good, wise, just, the perfect shape.”[19]
It is with extreme delight that I have viewed some of the works of the
elder Florentine painters, who excelled in pourtraying the human
countenance lighted up by the nobler passions. Simplicity and innocence;
rapt enthusiasm, or dignified repose, characterise their various
productions. It has been remarked that Shakspeare’s personages speak the
very words which we may imagine that _our noble selves_ would say under
the suggestions of certain passions, dispositions, and circumstances. So
it may be said that every figure painted by these higher artists looks
an individual chosen among our species for nobility of bearing and
beauty of countenance, and that their attitude and look strictly belong
to them. There is nothing theatrical nor affected, which is the
Charybdis—nor anything constrained or inane, which may be termed the
Scylla of the art.
Among the compositions eminent for the conjunction of the truth of
nature and ideal beauty, is the fresco of Cosimo Rosselli, in the church
of Saint Ambrosio. The subject is the translation of the miraculous
chalice to the episcopal palace. It is replete with figures of various
aspect, but all expressive of the sentiment of worship and admiration
proper to the occasion. There is a group of women in particular, which,
if such lived and assembled in the churches of Florence, show that
personal beauty and graceful dignity then existed among the sex in a
degree unparalleled elsewhere. But these evidently are not mere
portraits; and the painter, though accustomed to associate with a race
occupied by nobler thoughts and desires than now for the most part
harbour in the brain and heart of women, yet idealised his actual
experiences.
There is another picture of this age, which to see, is to feel the
happiness which the soul receives from objects presented to the eye,
that kindle and elevate the imagination. It represents the Adoration of
the Magi, by Ghirlandajo, in the chapel of an hospital in the Piazza
della Annunziata. There is one of the Kings standing on one side of the
Virgin, which might (as the Apollo Belvidere is said to have done),
create a passion in a woman’s heart. Where on earth find a man so full
of majesty, gentleness, and feeling? There is a charming accessory to
this picture. In the back-ground is represented the Murder of the
Innocents, in all its terror; but immediately in the foreground, on each
side of the Virgin, kneel two children—the souls of the Innocents who
died for Christ, and are redeemed by him. The attitude of these babes,
especially of one, has that inexpressible charm of innocence which words
cannot convey, and which since the creation of man, the pencil has
seldom been able to depict.
Led by the admiration which this picture excited, I visited every other
in Florence by Ghirlandajo; they mostly bear the stamp of the power I
have mentioned. Vasari, albeit of a different school, praises him
highly, but chiefly for the naturalness and truth with which he
pourtrayed the feelings; and speaks of the wonder excited by those
effects, and the pleasure they produced in the beholders. Describing one
of the paintings in a chapel of the Church of the Santa Trinità, at
Florence, representing the Death of St. Francis, and the grief of the
monks, he says, “there is one friar who kisses his hand; and it is not
possible, in painting, better to pourtray the expression; and there is
besides a bishop, with spectacles on, who is singing vespers, not
hearing whom is the only testimony that it is a mere painting.”
Lanzi speaks of his perfection of outline, grace of attitude, truth of
ideas, and of his facility and rare diligence. He was the master of
Michael Angelo; and, it is said, envying the talents his pupil
displayed, contrived that he should quit painting for sculpture. But
this, I have no doubt, is a calumny. He is one of the most prolific
among the early Florentine painters; but, among his many pictures, I
liked none so well as the Adoration of the Magi I before mentioned, and
the Life of St. Francis, in a chapel dedicated to this Saint, in the
Church of the Santa Trinità.
The Beato Fra Angelico surpasses all his contemporaries in the celestial
sweetness he infuses into the countenances of his saints and angels. We
may believe ourselves regarding the blessed in the kingdom of heaven, as
we look at these creations of a mind cradled in love, charity, and
devotion. Fra Giovanni, of Fiesole, known as the blessed Fra Angelico,
presents in his life the very type of a Christian ecclesiastic. He gave
himself wholly up to piety and good works. His humility was such, that
when Pope Nicholas V. desired to make him Archbishop of Florence, he
represented to his Holiness that he did not feel himself formed to
govern the many, and implored him to name another more worthy in his
stead. “It appears, from this holy man,” says Vasari, “that the monks of
his time did not desire to obtain those burthensome honours which they
did not think that they could worthily fulfil, and were ready to yield
them to others whom they judged more capable—as did this truly angelic
father, who spent his life in the service of God, and in benefiting the
world and his neighbour; and what more can be desired by man than by
living holily to attain the kingdom of heaven, and acting worthily to
acquire eternal fame on earth.” Fra Angelico was no lazy priest—besides
his works elsewhere, Florence abounds with lovely images whose serene
and blessed faces breathe the virtues of their author. The delicacy and
softness for which he is remarkable never degenerates into insipidity.
His pure taste made him conceive the highest beauty, his faith gave him
a foretaste of beatitude, and he adorned with these attributes the
beings whom alone he consented to represent, the saints and angels of
Paradise.[20]
We had a curious scene in the sacristy of the church of Santa Maria
Novella, whither we went to hunt for one of the works of this angelic
artist; the reliquaries mentioned by M. Rio; consisting of two tablets
painted with a series of miniatures, representing the Life of Jesus
Christ; the Last Judgment, in which the beatitude of the elect appears
in all its living ecstasy, and St. Thomas Aquinas and Albert the Great,
surrounded by their disciples. For a long time the keys could not be
found of the closet in which these reliquaries were deposited; and a
most active hunt after them was made. At length they came to light, and
the tablets were brought out. The Dominican, who took every pains to
find them for us, had lately arrived from Rome, and had never seen them.
His almost childish delight, as he regarded the inexpressible loveliness
of these exquisite miniatures, was highly amusing. Whenever you have to
do with an Italian, you do not encounter the doltish ignorance of an
English clown, nor the dogged sullenness of a German. He takes pleasure
in your pleasure, and interests himself in the objects which are
exciting your interest, in a manner at once gratifying to us and
honourable to himself.
Of a later age is Poccetti, unnamed by Vasari, because, when he wrote,
he had not painted the pictures which render him one of the most
admirable fresco painters in the world: Florence is full of his works,
and every one may be visited with pleasure and profit, for he depicts
Nature in her truth and yet in her elegance;—if that word denotes the
power of displaying in the demeanour and attitude, and countenances of
men, their souls defecated of every meaner quality—dignified through
unaffected self-forgetfulness—animated by charity—beaming with
faith.—One of his most renowned works is a series of frescos in the
cloister of the convent of the Santissima Annunziata: they represent the
conversion, holy life, and death, of seven Florentine gentlemen, who
dedicated themselves to religion under the name of Servi di Maria. The
aspect and bearing of these holy men mark them as gentlemen in the best
sense of the word. Men, “generous, brave, and gentle;” and, in addition,
animated by earnest benevolence towards their fellow-creatures, and
lively faith towards the divinity. Perhaps, however, the most admirable
of his works is the cupola of a chapel, belonging to the church and
convent of Santa Maria degli Angioli. It is painted in fresco, and
represents the Saints of the Old and New Testament; the more beautiful
portion is the congregation of female saints—Saint Cecilia, the
musician; Saint Clara, the nun; Saint Catherine, the bride of Christ,
&c. The foreshortening is admirable, the spirit and grace of the
attitudes worthy of the highest masters of the art.[21]
Such is the spirit that animates the earlier school of Florence. But as
painting became more of an art, and grew to represent domestic scenes
and portraits, artists broke from the confinement of mere religious
subjects, or treated them in a mundane manner. Then it was that their
imagination so degenerated, that they had recourse to portraits to
represent Christ, the Virgin, and the Saints; some of them even fell so
far from the ideal of sinless chastity, as to paint their mistresses and
women of unworthy life; offering to the worship of the pious, the image
of mere physical beauty, without the superior grandeur of moral
excellence.
I must confess, that any rules (except the immutable laws of moral
rectitude) that tend to limit the objects on which man is to exercise
his faculty of the imagination, appear to me contrary to the scope of
our creation. We are so far from being all born possessed of equal
powers of mind, that since the world began there has been scarcely a
hundred among us capable of the higher flights of the intellect. How few
possess, in any degree, the capacity of becoming painters, and far fewer
are those who are able to rise to an exalted order of art. We ought to
know what the highest is,—that those who feel the power should endeavour
to elevate themselves to it; but beauty may be found elsewhere, and must
not be rejected. Bigotry is ever to be eschewed in all that pertains to
man; to confine painters to one class of pictures, is to turn some who
would be great, if allowed to originate subjects of a lower grade, into
tame copyists, and humble, lifeless imitators of the thoughts of others.
As well insist that all poets should write hymns and heroic poetry, as
that painters should confine the pencil to the delineation of the
conceptions of religious mysticism.
The genuine school of Christian idealism is, for the present, come to an
end. And I confess, as far as I may be allowed to judge, that it strikes
me that the Germans of the present day, who are endeavouring to revive
it, fall into the same mistake as our sculptors, who employ themselves
in imitating the ancients;—they are good copyists, but are never
original. And what appears to prove this is, that the Germans are not
content with endeavouring to reproduce that composed and severe
expression which the earlier painters yet knew how to ally to vitality
in its highest sense, but they return to the dry colouring and meagre
composition, which is the chief defect of the infancy of painting.
Still, there can be no question that in poetry, music, or the plastic
arts, the ideal must rank above the merely imitative. Those painters who
can embody ideas conceived in their purest and most elevated
contemplations, far removed from vulgar and trivial reality, are the
greatest. Artists, however, are men formed by nature with the peculiar
eye to see and represent form and colour; and it is not strange that the
majority among them should turn to the study of these, and view in the
perfection of representing the one or the other, the aim of their
labours. Thus the study of nature succeeded to the ideal; art fell lower
afterwards, and became the copyist of art; and ancient statues grew to
be the models from which modern painters strove to gain inspiration,
till the uniformity, stiffness, and even deformity thus produced,
induced others, who perceived these faults and their cause, to have
again recourse to nature.
But these remarks tend beyond the limits of my knowledge, or even powers
of observation. I have mentioned pictures not much visited except by the
curious, just to shew the way towards, not to guide you (for I cannot),
in your search after pictorial excellence: nor will I long detain you in
the more beaten road of the public galleries.
LETTER XIII.
The Gallery.—Palazzo Pitti.—Le Belle Arti.—Portrait of Dante.—The
Churches.
With slow steps my feet almost unwillingly first moved to the collection
in the Reali Uffizi. As I entered the Tribune I felt a crowd of
associations rise up around me, gifted with painful vitality. I was long
lost in tears. But novelty seems all in all to us weak mortals; and when
I revisited these rooms, these saddest ghosts were laid; the affliction
calmed, and my mind was free to receive new impressions.
The Tribune is adorned with the selected _chefs-d’œuvre_ of the best
artists of every school, in addition to some of the finest ancient
sculpture in the world. The matchless statue of the Queen of Beauty
reigns over the whole—Venus, majestic in her bending softness, which
once to see does not reveal its perfection. There is here one of the
most beautiful of Raphael’s Madonnas—one of the eight which M. Rio
mentions as among the _chefs-d’œuvre_ that Raphael executed in the short
interval of two years, during which he especially dedicated himself to
multiplying representations of the Virgin, for whom from childhood he
had felt an especial devotion.[22]
Here is the master-piece of Andrea del Sarto, a painter of very high,
though not the highest, merit. He wants warmth of colouring, fire of
expression, and variety of invention; while he has been named _Andrea
senza Errori_, from the purity of his outlines, the graceful decorum of
his personages, and the faultless completeness of every portion of his
pictures.
Perfection in drawing, of which Michael Angelo was the great master, is
the leading merit of the subsequent Florentine school. It has not the
glowing colouring of the Venetian, nor possesses artists to compare with
Raphael, Correggio, or Leonardo da Vinci. Michael Angelo was its most
glorious example—a man whom I do not dare criticize; whom I will wait to
mention till I have seen the Sistine Chapel, at Rome; to whose majestic
powers of conception every connoisseur bears testimony, while still
there is something of extravagant—something which is not absolute
beauty—in most of his works at Florence. The glorious Medicean
monuments,—
“Where the gigantic shapes of Night and Day,
Turned into stone, rest everlastingly;
Yet still are breathing.”[23]
—in spite of the magic art which makes them for ever sit and sleep, yet
jar with the sense of harmony in form. His love of the naked was carried
to a curious excess. In the Tribune, is a Holy Family, into which he has
introduced a variety of naked figures in different attitudes, that have
not the smallest connection with the subject of the picture, but intrude
impertinently to mar its effect.
A charming Madonna of Correggio, kneeling beside the divine infant,
adorns the Tribune; there is also the portrait termed the Fornarina of
Raphael; certainly it is not the Fornarina, for it does not at all
resemble her undoubted portraits, and it has been doubted whether the
picture be by Raphael. From the Tribune, which, as a focus, collects the
rarest and brightest rays of art, branch off several rooms, divided into
schools. One of the most interesting is that containing the portraits of
painters, by themselves. There is a stately chamber, dedicated to the
Niobe and her children, whose maternal, remediless grief sheds a solemn
sadness around. The Florentine school possesses specimens of its worst
style, the inane, expressionless nudities of Vasari and his imitators.
In the room of bronzes is the model of the Perseus of Benvenuto Cellini,
and there is something more spirited and graceful in his attitude than
in the larger bronze in the Piazza. There is the model of the glorious
statue of John of Bologna, which Shakspeare we might think had seen when
he spoke of the “herald Mercury;” and a David of Donatello, neither
imitated from ancient sculpture, nor conceived under their inspiration.
There is all the verve of an original idea; the youthful hero is neither
Mars nor Hercules; he is the inspired Hebrew shepherd boy, who derived
his victory from his faith. The galleries which run round three sides of
the square, from which open the various rooms, are hung with many
pictures, and adorned by a series of the busts of the Roman Emperors,
and by a number of statues. Just below the cornice is a range of highly
interesting portraits. Paul Jovius had made a vast collection of
original portraits of all the illustrious personages of his time, and
placed them in the palace of the Conte Giovio at Como. Cosimo I. sent a
painter, celebrated for his portraits, Cristofaro dell’ Altissimo, to
make copies, and these are here hung up.
With the exception of the Tribune, the collection in the Pitti Palace
exceeds that of the gallery. There are here pictures from every school;
and by going often, and selecting beforehand the master whose works I
wished to see, I have spent many a morning with delight. Once or twice I
have gone merely to refresh my eyes with a marine view—a sunset by
Salvator Rosa; it is a picture all calm, all softness, all glowing
beauty; and, during the misty and darker days of this _unsouthern_
winter, I have gone—as I would in England—to warm my heart and
imagination by the golden hues of a sunnier and purer atmosphere.
The gallery of the Belle Arti is rich in paintings of the olden times,
when the soul worked more than the hand; when the artist sought, in the
first place, to conceive the sublime, and the glorious endeavour bore
him aloft among the angels and saints, whose blissful ecstasies he was
enabled to represent. Why did not some among these great artists portray
the other passions that ennoble our nature? We have portraits of great
men, worthy of them, it is true; but the ideal of the warrior who would
die for his country—nay, I may say, of the lover who loves unto the
death—the representation of such men and women as Milton and Shakspeare
have embodied in verse, is not to be found in the works of these
painters; or only found, because among their groups of worshippers at
some miracle, we see the power of great actions sit upon the brow, and
add majesty to the gesture of some among them. When they portrayed
earthly love, they betook themselves to mythology, and depicted passion,
without the touch of tender fear which must ever mingle with, and
chasten the affection we feel one for another. As far as I remember,
there is no picture such as would idealise Ferruccio Ferruccini or
Bayard—nor can I recollect the representation of mutual and tender love
in any picture by a great artist, with one exception—that called the
Three Ages of Man, by Titian—the original of which is in the Bridgwater
collection; and there is a fine copy in Palazzo Manfrin, at Venice. The
expression of the lover’s face seems to say, “I love a creature who is
mortal, and for whose safety I fear; yet in her life I live—without her
I die;” and she catches the light of tenderness from his eyes, and the
two souls seem fused in one commingling glance; but there is nothing to
shock the most bashful mind—love is evidently hallowed by that enduring
affection which is proof against adversity, and looks beyond the grave.
One of the most interesting paintings in the world has been lately
discovered at Florence; the portrait of Dante, by his friend Giotto.
Vasari mentions that Giotto was employed to paint the walls of the
chapel of the Palace of the Podesta at Florence, and that he introduced
into his picture a portrait of his contemporary and dear friend, Dante
Alighieri, in addition to other renowned citizens of the time. This
palace has been turned to the unworthy use of a public prison, and the
desecrated chapel was whitewashed, and divided into cells. These have
now been demolished, and the whitewash is in process of being removed.
Almost at the first the portrait of Dante was discovered: he makes one
in a solemn procession, and holds a flower in his hand. Before it
vanishes all the preconceived notions of the crabbed severity of his
physiognomy, which have originated in portraits taken later in his life.
We see here the lover of Beatrice. His lip is proud—for proud, every
contemporary asserts that he was—and he himself confesses it in the
_Purgatorio_; but there is sensibility, gentleness and love; the
countenance breathes the spirit of the Vita Nuova.[24]
I often visit the various churches of Florence. The old paintings to be
found in them attract me; but you must not imagine that the interior of
these Florentine cathedrals and churches is to be compared to our Gothic
edifices. The space within a large building of this sort often defies
the talent of the architect: the Greek temples had but small interior
shrines. Their rows of columns may be said to bear resemblance to the
trunks of trees; while the capital, and architrave, and roof, does not
imitate the shadowy boughs, though their purpose is the same. Gothic
architecture, on the contrary, resembles the overarching branches, and
imparts the same solemn tranquillity as the aspect of a venerable avenue
or darksome glade. The Italian architects seem not to have known well
what to do with the vast space enclosed by the majestic walls of their
edifices. They afforded glorious room for the painter; but where not
adorned by him, they are bare, presenting no image of beauty, and
inspiring no solemn feeling. The pictures and sculpture we find are,
however, sources of ever new delight; it is here that we may study the
infancy and progress of the art—here also, alas! we may perceive its
degeneracy—till, last and worst of all, we see raising to the walls, on
which inimitable frescoes are fading away, daubs that——I am not fond of
ill-natured criticism, so will say no more.
Let us turn, rather, to the gates of the Batistero, worthy of Paradise.
Here we view all that man can achieve of beautiful in sculpture, when
his conceptions rise to the height of grace, majesty, and simplicity.
Look at these, and a certain feeling of exalted delight will enter at
your eyes and penetrate your heart, which is the praise to which a
painter or a sculptor aspires. Nor forget when you visit the church of
Santa Croce, to look at some fast-fading frescoes, on the loggie of a
palace, on the right hand of the piazza. The perfect taste exhibited in
the ease and dignity of attitude and gesture of the figures will well
reward you for careful examination.
LETTER XIV.
The Carbonari.
Of late years there has been a spirit in Italy tending towards
improvement; this, perhaps, is less outwardly developed in Florence than
elsewhere, yet here also it exists. Politically and materially
considered, Tuscany is looked upon as the best governed and happiest
Italian state, but in some respects this very circumstance has kept back
its inhabitants. The foreign power that rules Lombardy exciting
undisguised hatred, and the misrule of the Popes being beyond all
question quite intolerable—the people of those states are in avowed
opposition to government, while in Tuscany there is little to complain
of, beyond the torpedo influence of a system of things that
undeviatingly tends towards the deterioration.
The reign of Leopold I. was the golden age of Florence. He was grandduke
at a time when a good sovereign was the dearest wish of a people, and
the notion of governing themselves was not looked upon even as
desirable. The French came next, and the tendency of their government
was always to destroy the nationality of any people subdued by them. But
this had a certain good effect in Italy. The curse of that country is
its divisions,—while the other nations of Europe, in the middle ages,
became divided into feudal tenures, and possessed by nobles, who, unable
to maintain their independence, at last became mere courtiers of an
absolute monarch,—Italy was divided into municipal republics, or small
states,—the mutual rivalry and quarrels of which were the fatal causes
that France and Spain disputed alternately, making Italy their field of
battle, and Italian met Italian in opposing fight; and Pisa was willing
to abase Florence; and Bologna gloried in the misfortunes of
Ferrara:—the union of the whole of northern Italy under the French was
the first circumstance that checked a spirit so inimical to all
prosperity,—all improvement.
When the French were driven from Italy the peninsula became politically
Austrian. The Austrian cabinet directed all the councils, and guided
every act of the various states. If Ferdinand contrived to maintain a
more beneficent internal government, it was only because the Tuscans
shewed no inclination to join in the revolutionary movement. But while
Austria substantially ruled the whole, it was well aware of the benefit
to be derived from disunion, and it stirred up the spirit of discord by
a curious contrivance;—a tub was thrown to the whale;—the government
ordered the institute of Milan to occupy itself in the reform of the
National Dictionary, and hence arose a fierce battle between the Della
Crusca Academy and the authors of the “Proposta” on the score of
language. Did the Italians speak Tuscan, or Italian? such was the mighty
question that engrossed the learned of Italy; it was never started among
two or three men without exciting the most violent party feeling, and
for many years it set Tuscan against Lombard. Monti, by no means a pure
political character, is accused of undertaking this war to please the
Austrians, with his eyes open to the end in view. His son-in-law,
Perticari, who shewed himself very earnest in the discussion, was too
much honoured and loved, his memory is too entirely reverenced, for him
to be open to the same accusation. For seven years the battle raged,
exciting a virulence of party and municipal feeling, quite inexplicable
out of Italy. It ended at last, as the question of big-endians and
small-endians terminated in Liliput, by every one breaking his egg at
whichever end he pleased;—the Lombards came to the conclusion that the
Tuscans might like their language best if they chose—and they must
choose, for it is not only the purest and the most idiomatic, but it is
the only language at once spoken and written, except, indeed, the Roman;
but that is very inferior in strength and vivacity.
Other influences were at work in Italy to turn the Italians from such
puerile contests. The sect of the Carbonari had spread throughout the
peninsula, and the hope of throwing off a foreign yoke and achieving
more liberal institutions animated every Italian heart.
Colletta, in speaking of the Carbonari, considers this sect to be
derived from the Freemasons of Germany—transported into their country by
the Neapolitan exiles of 1799, on their return. I have heard Italians
well versed in the secrets of Carbonarism deny this. They say that the
deeply religious and mystic spirit of the sect at its commencement,
proves its Neapolitan origin, and that it was founded by men,
Neapolitans themselves, who knew how to adapt their doctrines and their
rites to the temperament of a people, at once superstitious and lovers
of the marvellous.
The hopes of political liberty which all nations entertained when the
armies of the allies quailed before those of republican France, found an
echo in Naples; while Ferdinand and his queen, who before the French
Revolution had shown an inclination to imitate Joseph and Leopold of
Austria, in reforming the laws of their kingdom, taking sudden fright,
indulged in such acts of arbitrary power as incited rather than
repressed the desire for change. Many Neapolitans, therefore, welcomed
the French with enthusiasm, and rejoiced in the flight of their
sovereign. The liberators, as they delighted to call themselves, soon,
however, showed the cloven foot, and appeared in their true light, of
invaders and spoilers. The hearts of all real lovers of their country
were alienated from them; and if Ferdinand, on his return, during
Napoleon’s expedition to Egypt, when the French were driven from Italy,
had shewn himself moderate and forgiving, he had acquired the affection
of all his subjects. But both he and his queen seemed to be driven mad
by hatred and terror of the new doctrine of a people’s _right_ to be
well governed. Executions—the most barbarous imprisonments—persecutions
that, blinded by fury, rather attacked a friend than forgave an enemy,
followed their restoration. All the constitutionalists or republicans
fled—some to France, Germany, or Switzerland, some to the wild and
pathless mountains of the Abruzzi and the Calabrias.
When the French returned, the situation of the exiles was not mended;
and many among them continued to dwell in unknown and savage retreats,
among the inaccessible mountains and solitary valleys of those regions.
They lived without any bond to unite them together, yet not so isolated
but that they frequently met, and communicated to each other their hopes
and projects. More than the Bourbon who had persecuted them, they hated
the usurpation of the stranger. The most earnest desire of their hearts
was to drive the French from their country, while some among them,
looking beyond that time, revolved the means of strengthening their
party, so that a republic might be instituted; or, at any rate, if
Ferdinand returned, that he should be forced to concede just and free
institutions to his people.
Among the refugees of Calabria, who were not to be subdued by
persecution and adversity, was a young man of high courage, strong
understanding, and gifted with wonderful powers of persuasion. Capo
Bianco had first appeared as the bold leader of the militia of his
native place (in Calabria), and had won the love, respect, and blind
obedience of his followers. He possessed all the qualities belonging to
the head and founder of a sect. I am told that he was handsome in
person, and courteous in manners, but of a stern and inflexible
disposition; severe towards delinquents, gentle and kind to the
inoffensive, and to his friends. He added enthusiasm to these qualities,
or he would never have erected himself into the founder of a sect. He
abhorred the name of king—not because he had been persecuted by his
sovereign, but because the power of royalty was detestable in his
eyes—so that not one among his followers ever dared name before him
Napoleon or Ferdinand; Austrian or French. He would consent only to
republican institutions for his country; he desired the same government
to prevail all over Italy, and argued warmly in favour of Italian union
and independence. Such was Capo Bianco, as he is represented by the
friends who survived him: he was the founder of the most celebrated sect
of modern times, and died on the scaffold, a martyr to the cause he
advocated.
Capo Bianco had taken shelter in a spot, to which he gave the strength
of a rocky fortress, among the most rugged fastnesses of the hither
Calabria; he there defied the power of his enemies. Nor did he remain
shut up: he frequently called together and appeared among his faithful
adherents; and, communicating his bold projects, and warming them by his
persuasive eloquence, he induced them to believe that the hour was come
when they might unite with the population of their country, to throw off
the detested yoke of the French usurpation.
The Carbonari, who have survived a time now almost forgotten, relate
how, in the silence of a dark night, Capo Bianco assembled his most
attached friends near a poor hut, situated in the depth of a thick
forest, and there laid the first stone of the edifice of his sect. He
explained its principles and its spirit, and caused them to swear a
fearful secrecy on the cross. From this focus the new association
spread, guarded by tremendous oaths, and by menaces of a dreadful
vengeance to be taken upon traitors; by all the precaution, resolution
and terror, that its originator could devise. He gave his adherents the
name of Carbonari, because the society was founded in a district
principally inhabited by charcoal burners; and men who followed that
trade were among the first, appertaining to the lower classes, who were
initiated into the secrets of the sect. They, descending from the
mountains for the purposes of traffic, carried with them and propagated,
wherever they went, the tenets of their founder.
Capo Bianco understood the disposition of his countrymen, and gave a
religious and mystic colouring to his society. Striking rites were
established; the initiation was terrible; the lessons taught often
apparently abstruse; the end was single—to overturn monarchy in all its
forms, and erect republics on the ruin of thrones. To attain this among
a people pious to superstition, it was necessary to mingle mystic tenets
with political opinions; in short, to erect and disseminate a _political
religion_; and thus, not long ago, Carbonarism was professed, and found
proselytes among the mountains of Corsica and Sardinia. The laws of the
Carbonari were, they declared, founded on the equality of the gospel,
and on the traditions of Freemasonry. The initiated swore to take
terrible vengeance for the Lamb, sacrificed by the Wolves. The religion
of Christ was the lamb; kings were typified in the wolves. They said
that Jesus, who was the Word of God, had been the first who proclaimed
upon earth the abolition of ancient servitude, and taught brotherhood
and equality among men. He was therefore crucified by the wolves of his
age, and died an illustrious victim of tyranny. The Carbonari swore to
vindicate the death of Christ, and to exterminate the race of wolves,
that is of kings, who inherited the guilt and infamy of the assassins of
the Son of God. To strike the vulgar eye, fearful representations were
made in their ceremonies, apt to excite the imaginations of a southern
people of a highly religious temperament, and the proselytes pronounced
tremendous oaths upon the cross and the dagger. The initiation was
accompanied by various circumstances calculated to test the moral and
physical courage of the novices; and the slightest sign of shrinking,
caused them to be irrevocably rejected.
The Carbonari had, like the Freemasons, distinctive grades in their
society; they recognised each other by mysterious signs, and called
themselves by a secret name—that of “Buoni Cugini,” or good cousins.
They took an oath to succour, at their need, every other Carbonaro, and
to defend the honour of their women. They swore, if ever they themselves
became traitors, to consent that their bodies should be torn to pieces,
burnt, and the ashes cast to the winds; that their name should be
cursed, and become a warning to all the Carbonari scattered over the
face of the earth.
Carbonarism took deep root and spread rapidly. At one time, Murat was
induced to look upon it as a means for civilising the wild Calabrians,
and to regard it with favour. But the sect hated the French too much for
this to continue. Ferdinand, meanwhile, in his retreat at Naples, spared
no endeavour to disturb the government of the invader, and, if possible,
to drive him from the kingdom. Banditti were enrolled; a crusade
preached by the churchmen among the ignorant peasantry; and a civil war
ensued, at the horrors of which the heart sickens. He heard of the
growing power of the Carbonari, and had recourse to them.
Already, indeed, led by Capo Bianco, the Carbonari had assembled in arms
in the neighbourhood of Catanzaro; they scoured the country, attacked
the towns, drove out the partisans of the French, and, raising a cry
that the reign of Joachim had come to an end, they hoisted the
tri-coloured flag of the sect, and set up wherever they could republican
institutions. Become strong in the places of which they had possessed
themselves, they sent letters and emissaries to every _vendita_,
inciting the sectaries to raise the standard of liberty and come to
their aid. Capo Bianco was the soul of all, and inflamed their zeal by
his eloquence. “My Italian brothers,” he cried, “you are the slaves of
the French. You have changed masters, but not your state. Your new
rulers,—prouder, more insolent, and more rapacious than those of
old,—give you no repose, and you lavish without advantage your
possessions, your own and your children’s lives! Will you remain
slaves—the scorn and mock of the stranger, who heaps wrongs upon you—the
victims of the insolence and rapine of a lawless soldiery?” It were long
to recount all the arguments of the chief. He concluded by telling them
that if they joined his forces, they would command victory, and Italy,
liberated, would acquire greater splendour and power than she had ever
before enjoyed. “The destiny of our unfortunate country,” he concluded,
“is in your hands; and posterity will either bless or curse you for your
deeds.”
While this was going on at one place, Ferdinand had given it in charge
to Prince Moliterno, who was at the head of the royal forces in
Calabria, to treat with other leaders of the sect, and invite them to
espouse his cause. The Prince had ever professed republican principles;
and even then, while heading an army in the name of Ferdinand, liberty
and the union and independence of Italy were the watchwords he adopted.
He endeavoured to persuade the chiefs of the sect that, by using their
influence to drive out Murat, they would acquire such power as would
force Ferdinand on his restoration to give his people a constitution,
as, indeed, he had passed his royal word to do. Many of the Carbonari,
although at that time the society was the mark of persecution of the
French Government, shrunk from alliance with a sovereign, whom they knew
to be in his heart a despot; while others among them gave ear to his
promises, and joined the royalists. Both parties, royalists and
Carbonari, while they thought it necessary to unite to drive out the
French, fostered the secret hope that the victory once gained over the
stranger, they could easily get rid of their confederate. Capo Bianco,
however, never yielded, nor gave ear to the emissaries of the King. “You
mistake,” he said to those of his partisans who took the other course;
“and whether the royalists are victorious or defeated, you sharpen the
sword that will destroy you; and build the scaffold on which I and my
partisans will inevitably perish.”
Calabria was convulsed by these various parties; every portion of it was
in arms; and its rivers ran red with blood. Then, as is usually the case
in countries which are the prey of civil war, the evil was increased by
the crimes of ferocious and lawless men, who collected in bands and
ravaged the country, intent only on booty, and ever ready to destroy.
For two years Calabria could be said to belong neither to the French,
nor to Ferdinand, nor to the Carbonari: each had the upper hand by
turns, and were, therefore, unable to clear the country of the brigands
that infested it. This state of things could not continue, and the
French Government resolved by extraordinary and terrible measures to
root out the banditti, and to include the widespread and powerful sect
of the Carbonari in the destruction. The atrocious and sanguinary
methods by which General Manhes succeeded in extirpating the brigands is
matter of history. Colletta recounts it in his usual graphic and
vigorous manner. In his pages[25] you will find related also how Capo
Bianco was deceived, betrayed, and executed, to the shame of the French
General, Iannelli, who laid the snare by which he was entrapped. He died
with heroic firmness; intrepid and calm, he willingly gave his life for
the country and cause which he devotedly loved. Colletta, though no
friend to the Carbonari, and accused of being a partisan of the French,
yet reprobates the conduct of Murat towards the sect. “The violence and
severity exercised towards the brigands,” he says, “ought not to have
been turned against the Carbonari, for the bandits were guilty of
crimes—the sect demanded laws; the brigands were the refuse of
society—the Carbonari were honourable and honest men. Carbonarism
degenerated afterwards—but was then innocent; it had been invited and
approved by Government, and its rites and tenets were civilised and
beneficent. Many friends of Joachim begged him to disarm Carbonarism by
mild and judicious measures; but anger, which was powerful in him,
prevailed, and kept him firm in his evil counsels.”
During and after the fall of Murat and the return of the Bourbon
dynasty, Carbonarism, which had never been destroyed, spread; and while
the restored king assumed at once despotic power, the sect, finding
every promise of freedom for Italy broken, were the more zealous to
acquire partisans, and to labour for the union and independence of their
unfortunate country.
Do not think that I advocate any secret society: the principle is had.
The crown of every virtuous act and feeling is, not to fear the light of
day. But it must be remembered with what fearful odds the Italians have
to contend; they have not only openly against them the whole fabric of
their various governments, backed by an overpowering foreign army; but a
secret society is spread throughout the country, the friend of existing
institutions;—the confessional is an engine of mighty power, diffused
through every portion of every city, the most populous; entering every
hut, the most retired; acting on the fears of the timid and the
credulity of the superstitious; pandering to the bad passions of the
wicked and awakening the scruples of the pious. Every priest bids his
penitents confess, not only their participation in any act or thought
inimical to the church or to the government—not only to denounce father,
husband, or child, who might trust to them the secret of their lives—but
to reveal every little circumstance that may tend to discover the lovers
of liberty. Can it be wondered that men who wished to regenerate their
country in the face of so penetrating, so almost omnipotent a power,
should cloak themselves in impenetrable secrecy, and strive to check the
influence by counter-terrors,—equally awful?
Fearful deeds were the result of the laws of the society; the
individuals that composed it, knowing themselves to be supported by
numerous companions, and sheltered from detection by the secrecy that
veiled their name, lost their moral sense. The act, commanded by a power
to which they had sworn obedience, ceased to be a crime, and
assassination was no longer looked on as a murder, but as an execution;
numbers of Carbonari, suspected or really guilty of treason to their
oaths, were assassinated all over Italy, especially during the latter
days of the society; and volumes might be filled with the history of
these tragedies. If any man to whom the lot fell to execute the sentence
of the rest, shrunk from his task, he was considered a traitor, and
condemned to death.[26] Such was Carbonarism, at the time when it shook
kings on their thrones, and made the sovereigns of Italy tremble.
Calabria and the Abruzzi swarmed with sectarians; the society was
rapidly propagated throughout the kingdom of Naples, whence it spread to
Romagna, Piedmont, and Lombardy; _Vendite_[27] were even established in
fair and tranquil Tuscany. Every _Vendita_ was a permanent
conspiracy,—every Carbonaro an enemy to the reigning authority;—yet even
sovereigns were their accomplices, since they had made use of the
society to overthrow the dominion of the French in Italy.
The early Carbonari were men who were actuated by deep-rooted love of
their country, and detestation of the vice, ignorance, and slavery into
which Italy had fallen; they entertained the belief that means terrible
and unflinching could alone regenerate a people sunk in superstition and
slavery. The triumph of the Carbonari was the proclamation of the
constitutional government at Naples. But even then the sect was no
longer the same. It had transgressed against the great and permanent
moral laws by which society ought to be governed; it had been guilty of
crimes—now it sunk into feebleness. Its results fell miserably short of
its proud promise; for its work had been undertaken by men who were not
sufficiently prepared,—who did not look to the future;—who were often
swayed by violent and capricious passions, and whose principles were
rooted in scepticism. The pure patriotism of its originators became
tainted by the personal ambition of their followers. At the very height
of its success it was ignominiously vanquished. Unable, from whatever
cause, to resist the Austrian invasion of Naples, in 1820–21, the
constitution they had erected was overthrown, despotism reestablished,
and the chiefs of the Carbonari either fled, or died on the
scaffold;—the name became the mark for persecution.
Still the spirit of the sect is not conquered; all the outbreaks in the
Peninsula may be traced to its influence; and the different governments
of Italy have vainly had recourse to every means for its extermination.
They were unsparing in bribes to traitors; they suborned spies; they
sowed dissension in its councils, and became possessed of all its
secrets. On this account, not long ago, the society was reformed, and
became merged in other secret associations, among which that named _La
Giovane Italia_, is principal. The heads of this sect are, for the most
part, exiled beyond the Alps; but, even in banishment, they maintain
their influence, and machinate risings: above all, they sedulously keep
awake the spirit of national union. These new societies can never be as
powerful as the Carbonari were—they are but a shadow of that mighty
influence; but, if they have less power, they have committed no crimes;
and work by spreading knowledge and civilisation, instead of striking
terror.
It is to be regretted, that the patriots of Italy have recourse to
darkness and secrecy to carry on the regeneration of their country: for
falsehood is the offspring of mystery, and integrity is destroyed by a
system that hides itself from the light of day. The Italians must do
away with oaths that cannot bind the traitor; and the dagger, which
makes a murderer of him whose intent is virtuous. They must sacrifice
the formula of union, and be content with disseminating its spirit.
Could they teach inflexible truth, could they inspire military courage,
did veneration for just and equal laws spring from their lessons, Italy
were nearer the goal it pants to attain.
Meanwhile a certain good has arisen from a sect which, however founded
in love for their country, has been polluted by many crimes. Carbonarism
cannot be denied the praise of having co-operated to destroy the
anti-social municipal prejudices, and the narrow spirit of local
attachment, which was long a serious obstacle to the union of a country,
divided as Italy is into many states, and subject to the stranger. The
Carbonari first taught the Italians to consider themselves as forming a
nation. It is to be hoped they will never forget the lesson. When the
Roman considers himself, in his heart, the countryman of the
Milanese—when the Tuscan looks upon Naples as also his country—then the
power of the Austrian will receive a blow, which it has hitherto warded
off, from which it will never recover.
LETTER XV.
Tuscany.
FEBRUARY, 1843.
Nothing is more difficult than for a foreigner to give a correct account
of the state of a country—its laws, manners, and customs;—the first
often so different in their operation from what outwardly appears; the
latter, never fully understood, Proteus-like, assume a thousand
contradictory appearances, and elude investigation. A stranger can only
glance at the surface of things—often deceptive—and put down the results
of conversations, which, after all, if carefully examined, by no means
convey the whole truth, even if they are free from some bias, however
imperceptible, either in speaker or hearer, the result of which is a
false impression—a false view.
An English person, accustomed to the gigantic fortunes and well-ordered
luxury,—to the squalid penury, hard labour and famine,—which mark the
opposite orders of society in his own country, is struck by the
appearance of ease and equality that reigns in Tuscany, and especially
at Florence. There is poverty of course—but penury cannot be said to
exist; there is work—but there is also rest: nay, there is no lack of
enjoyment for the poor—while the nobility, for the most part, scarcely
rise above the middling orders; bankers and foreigners being those who
make most figure in society, and that, except on particular and
infrequent occasions, on no magnificent scale.
Many reasons may be assigned for this equality. During the flourishing
days of the republic of Florence, a blow was given to the nobility of
the city and surrounding country, from which it never recovered. Those
nobles who still preserved their titles and fortunes, were obliged to
conceal all pride in the former, in order to preserve the influence
naturally resulting from the latter. The Medici were merchants; and when
an Austrian prince succeeded to the extinct family, no change was
operated. On the contrary, it was, I believe, one of them, Leopold I.,
who abolished the law of primogeniture in Tuscany. It is true, that the
usual result of the prohibition against entails in subdividing estates,
is frequently eluded. A father possesses absolute power over his
property, with the exception of a tenth or twelfth, which is called the
_quota legitima_, which must descend to his children, and be divided
among them in equal portions. The same law appertains even to the
mother’s dowry—which becomes her husband’s property. A man may,
therefore, accumulate and leave the whole of his possessions to his
eldest son, with the exception of the above-named _quota_; and, when
this has been done for some generations, large fortunes are preserved.
But it seldom is: and as a man has absolute propriety in his estates, a
spendthrift can alienate the whole for ever. The nobles of Tuscany being
for the most part without pride of order, have readily yielded to the
spirit of their country, which absorbs them in the democracy. At the
same time, the feeling of accumulation being extinct, no barrier exists
to prevent the dissipation of property: in the hands of a young heir,
extravagance and play (the bane of Italy), soon bring to an end the
fortunes of an ancient name. Thus, I am assured, many of the noblest
families in Tuscany are reduced to poverty: the capital of the country
has fallen into the hands of bankers, the majority of whom are of Jewish
origin. A number of illustrious names, consecrated in the pages of
history, have almost disappeared. They only mark the walls of palaces,
empty of the impoverished descendants of their former possessors.
This absence of accumulated riches, of course, checks the arts of
luxury, mechanical improvements, and all progress in the framework of
society; it multiplies the numbers of those who are just raised above
poverty; while the benignant nature of the climate, and the abstemious
habits of the Italians, prevent the poor from suffering want. The
country is, for the most part, divided into small farms (_podere_),
cultivated by the family of the countryman (_contadino_) who holds
them—he giving his labour, the crops, and tools—the owner the land,
dwellings, and substantial repairs; the profits are divided, and the
rent, for the most part, paid in kind—a circumstance which aids the
farmer, and limits the fortune of the owner. The country people labour
hard—very hard, and live poorly, but they do not suffer want; and if
there are no farmers so rich as with us, there is no absolute
agricultural distress.
In Florence itself the common people are well to do. They are, perhaps,
the least agreeable people to deal with in Italy; self-opinionated,
independent, and lazy, they can often scarcely be brought to work at
all; and, when they do, it is in their own way and at their own time.
They love their ease, and they enjoy it: they are full of humour and
intelligence, though their conceit too often acts as a drawback on the
latter. I speak especially of the Florentines, as they are represented
to me; for conceit is not a usual fault among the Italians.
As I have said, an English person, accustomed to heart-piercing accounts
of suffering, hard labour, and starvation among our poor, gladly hails a
sort of golden age in this happy country. We must look on the state of
society from a wholly different point of view—we must think of the
hunger of the mind; of the nobler aspirations of the soul, held in check
and blighted—of the tendency of man to improve, here held down—of the
peculiar and surpassing gifts of genius appertaining to this people, who
are crushed and trod under foot by the jealousy of government—to
understand, with how dead and intolerable a weight King Log hangs round
the necks of those among them, who regret the generous passions and
civic virtues of bygone times. The Florentine reads of Filippo Strozzi,
of Ferruccio Ferruccini, of Michael Angelo. He remembers the pure and
sacred spirit that Savanarola lighted up among the free and religious
citizens; he thinks of the slavery that followed, when genius and valour
left the land indignant, and
“For deeds of violence
Done in broad day; and more than half redeemed
By many a great and generous sacrifice of self to others,”
what has come? The poet speaks of—
“the unpledged bowl,
The stab of the stiletto.”[28]
But those days, too, are gone; there has come such life as the flocks
lead on the mountain sides—such life as the idle, graceful fallow-deer
may spend, from spring-tide to rainy autumn, under the noble trees of
some abundant park; but where is the soul of man? In the hands of those
who teach him to fast and tell his beads—to bend the neck to the yoke—to
obey the church, not God.
Nor is this all; especially among the rich; far—far from it; for men,
unless tamed by labour, can never lead the innocent lives of the beasts
of the field: if darker crimes are unfrequent, yet vice flourishes, rank
and unchecked: the sense of honour is destroyed; the nobler affections
are crushed; mental culture is looked on with jealousy, and dies
blighted. In the young may be found gleams of inextinguishable genius—a
yearning for better things, which terrifies the parents, who see in such
the seeds of discontent and ruin: they prefer for their sons the safer
course of intrigue, play, idleness—the war of the passions, rather than
the aspirations of virtue.
_To do nothing_ has been long the motto of the Tuscan government; had it
been strictly observed, still much might be said against it. Leopold I.
was a good sovereign, a clever and liberal man; Ferdinand, who succeeded
to him, suffered many vicissitudes of fortune during the period of the
empire of Napoleon; but he was not, like his namesake of Naples, driven
by adversity to cruelty and arbitrary violence. When he was restored to
his throne, still it was his wish to keep his people happy and
contented. It is his praise, that if authority sheathed its sword and
veiled its terrors, nor even used the wholesome restraint of the law to
punish crime, it acted simply as a torpedo on the energies of the land,
nor used any concealed weapons. Ferdinand constantly and resolutely
refused to institute a _secret police_ in Tuscany. It was a story I
remember, told at the time, during the revolutionary period of 1821,
that the Austrian minister at Florence presented a list of sixty
Carbonari to the Grand Duke, and begged that they might be arrested. “I
do not know whether these men are Carbonari,” said Ferdinand; “but I am
sure, if I imprison them, I shall make them such,” and rejected the
list. His successor, Leopold II., has not had the wisdom to pursue the
same course. The bane of Italy is the absence of truth, of honour, of
straightforwardness; the vices opposite to these nobler virtues have now
the additional culture which must ensue from the circulation of a system
of _secret police_, of spies, of traitors.
Yet still the government is mild. In 31–32, the throne of Leopold II.
was shaken by several conspiracies; and the revolutionary spirit of
Romagna, which tended to unite all Italy in one bond, had numerous
proselytes in Tuscany. But for a traitor, it is supposed, that on one
occasion the person of the Grand Duke would have fallen into the hands
of the conspirators: at the eleventh hour the leader took fright, and
discovered all. On this, and on other occasions, the arrests were not
numerous; the sentences (to us to whom treason and the gallows are quick
following cause and effect,) mild; and these even, after a few months,
softened. Leopold wishes his people to be quiet and happy—he hates
violence: to pay a traitor to betray, and so to crush a conspiracy
noiselessly, appears to him wise and judicious policy. In all respects
he is averse to strong measures. For many years no capital punishment
has been inflicted in Tuscany; a fact, which of itself demands our
admiration, and must be replete with good effects.
“All this is true,” said an Italian to me; “and yet I, who wish my
countrymen to cultivate manly habits of thought and action, regard our
state as almost worse than any other. Tyranny is, with us, a serpent hid
among flowers; and I, for one, sympathise with the sentiment of a
Florentine poet—_odio il tiranno che col sonno uccide_. There are other
evils besides those which press upon the _material_ part of our nature,
and the new generation in Tuscany feels wrongs of another description.
The better spirits of our country pine for the intellectual food of
which they are deprived. Thus they tend towards a new and better order
of things, the more difficult to realise, because a timid and absurd
policy endeavours to throw every obstacle in the way to its attainment.”
LETTER XVI.
Italian Literature.—Manzoni.—Niccolini.—Colletta.—Amari.
Italian literature claims, at present, a very high rank in Europe. If
the writers are less numerous, yet in genius they equal, and in moral
taste they surpass, France and England. In these countries everybody
reads, and there is a great demand for books of amusement. M. de Custine
remarks, that the French write now for “_les concierges et les
forçats_,” the ignorant and depraved; we write for the frivolous. The
uneducated and idle in Italy do not read at all; and an Italian author
writes for readers whom he respects, or wishes to instruct: I speak of
the lighter literature. In the higher walks we are lamentably deficient,
while France boasts of admirable historians. The Italians possess modern
histories to compete with France.
There has been a great revolution in Italian poetry of late years; and
it has, to a great extent, returned to the nature and character that
marked its outset. When poetry first assumed a form in the Peninsula,
Europe was still, if not in a barbarous state, at least in the very
infancy of civilisation; and Italy alone, among European nations, taught
arts, science, and letters. The character of the youth of modern
European civilisation, with all its defects and all its charms, is
indelibly impressed on the literature of that age. The poetry of the
first great Italian poets sprang from the complicated feelings which a
new æra awoke in them. When you read their best productions, you feel
that they are animated by the energy proper to the young; and even when
they appear to guide themselves by ancient rules, the true soul of
poetry, the youth of the spirit, breaks its way through every obstacle.
The first Italian poets never obeyed, but on the contrary resisted,
Aristotelian rules. Dante, the greatest of all—Petrarch and Ariosto,
abandoned themselves to the genuine impulse of their minds, and were
great;—great, because free. The history of Italian poetry confirms the
truth, that the poet follows the real and the sublimest scope of art
when he keeps in mind the character of his country and of his age. The
highest Italian poetry is truly national.
The poets who followed were, with few exceptions, imitators; they bowed
to the rules of Aristotle, and produced no great works. Since the fall
of the republic of Florence, poetry and eloquence, which ought to have
waited on the changes and advancement of civilisation, and to have
harmonised with the thoughts and manners of the country, failed to do
so. Italian painting left no path untried so to arrive at perfection,
and sought originality by a thousand different roads; while poets were
afraid of novelty. This is not strange. The creations of genius and the
inventions of the imagination are derived from, and depend on, the moral
culture of the intellect, and this culture was shackled. After the
sixteenth century Italy never enjoyed political liberty, and the
intellect of the country was unable to develope itself with freedom. On
this account the Italians ceased to contemplate man and nature in an
original manner: they were imitators of the ancients, and in the sequel,
imitators of imitators, their literature even became influenced by that
of the French. No attempt was made to enlarge its limits or to renovate
its spirit; for such an attempt, from political reasons, would have been
dangerous. Governments who are not strengthened by public opinion,
always shackle the free exercise of the intellectual faculties. Writers
both in prose and verse, thus grew to aim at grace of diction and beauty
of imagery, unsustained by daring and original thought, or even by
variety of invention, which is more nearly allied to the enjoyment of
freedom than is usually supposed. Yet, notwithstanding these obstacles,
Italian poetry of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth
centuries, possesses high merit; and such, so to speak, is its exterior
beauty, that, had it greater intrinsic power, it would surpass every
other in the world.
Towards the end of the eighteenth century the dawn of a reform in every
branch of human knowledge may be perceived. Every one felt the need of
having recourse to the real source of inspiration, the hopes and fears
which form the national spirit of the age; among others Alfieri rose.
There can be no doubt that he was the writer who best knew how to echo
the passions and hopes of his contemporaries. I pass over the names of
the great writers who, on every subject, shed lustre over Italy at that
time, and come at once to the authors of the present day, who sprung up
at the close of the wars of the French empire, and may be said to be the
offspring of a bitter contest that arose at that time among the literary
men of Italy: and even among these, I shall confine myself to the two
who possess the highest and most durable influence, Manzoni and
Niccolini; men who, in common with other Italian writers of the present
day, reject letters as a tribute to frivolity, or means to fortune;
consecrating them to the advancement of the great interests of their
fellow-creatures, desiring to make them, as Lord Bacon expresses
himself, “a rich storehouse for the glory of the creator, and the relief
of man’s estate.”
I have mentioned in another letter how, under Monti’s auspices, a great
war of words began in Italy: about the same period another battle raged
between what was called the classic and romantic schools. It began in
1818, when Berchet, a poet of merit, descended suddenly into the arena,
throwing, by way of challenge, a translation of the Leonora of Burgher,
accompanied by an essay, discarding the old models and planting a new
banner, beneath the shadow of which the flower of the Italian youth
eagerly crowded to contend—displaying the more enthusiasm, because under
this literary discussion was hid the hope of regenerating the political
opinions of Italy. The classists were not slow in meeting the attack;
and when they found their authority, which had been respected for
centuries, was in danger of being overthrown, they hurried to the
rescue. Monti fought with them. Angry epithets, ridicule, abuse, were
bandied about by both parties in the ardour of fight. Book succeeded to
book; pamphlets and articles poured furiously down, each breathing the
ire of an earlier and more uncivilised age. The Romanticists wished to
banish the mythology—to make poetry patriotic—that is, founded on
national faith, chronicles, and sympathies. They added example to
precept; Berchet published a volume of odes which met with eminent
success; the subjects were Italian, and breathed great force of passion
and feeling. Grossi, the rival, or rather, as he calls himself, the
pupil of Manzoni, commenced with “Ildegonda,” a tale in verse, founded
on a Milanese story, which was received with immense applause. Manzoni
published his “Carmagnola;” Pellico his “Francesca da Rimini” and
“Eufemio da Messina.” Pellico, afterwards so sadly celebrated for his
misfortunes, was at this time tutor to the sons of Count Porro. He
projected founding a periodical work which should serve as a common link
between the writers of every state in Italy. Porro and Gonfalonieri
seconded him, and hence arose a periodical publication named “Il
Conciliatore” (the Conciliator). Gioga, Romagnosi, Manzoni, Grossi,
Berchet, and Montani contributed to its success, without mentioning the
political contributions of Gonfalonieri, Porro, Pecchio, Arrivabene, and
many others, who were then secretly conspiring against the government,
and preparing the ill-starred revolution of 1820–21. The first number of
the “Conciliatore” was published Thursday, 3rd September, 1818—it came
to an end in 1820. From its birth the Austrian government had decreed
its extinction; but its short life was yet glorious, since it excited
the public mind to free discussion, and gave an impetus to letters.
Manzoni rose into notice as the poet of this party. His sacred hymns and
his tragedy of “Carmagnola” appeared at the time when the literary war
raged hottest. His poems were received with enthusiasm. “Carmagnola” and
“Adelchi” were hailed as national and romantic dramas; their fame spread
into Germany and France. Goëthe speaks of them as making “a serious and
profound impression, such as great pictures of human nature must always
create.” “Let the poet,” he says, “continue to disdain the feeble and
vulgar portions of human passion, and attempt only such high arguments
as excite deep and generous emotions.”
To us these tragedies appear, though eminently beautiful as poems, to be
failures as dramas. It is not enough that passions and events are
developed, we desire character also: they have not succeeded even on the
Italian stage, on which several of Alfieri’s have kept their place. In
the “Carmagnola” the audience are at a loss on whom to expend their
sympathy. A vague and uncertain tone keeps us in suspense—not that
suspense arising from the mingled blame and admiration excited by the
hero, which is the true foundation of dramatic interest, but caused by a
sense that the writer has no determined object. The “Adelchi” is, in
parts, more interesting; but even in that we find no real hero. Our
sympathy is most excited by Ermengarda; but she is entirely episodical.
These tragedies, however, breathe a spirit that renders them dear to
every Italian. They have for their subject national events, which are
treated in a powerful and original manner. Alfieri makes his Lombard
princesses express themselves like Grecian heroines: Manzoni imbues
himself with the spirit of the times; and his personages speak and feel
in his dramas, as his creative imagination taught him that they did
during life. More particularly this is found in the “Adelchi,” where the
veil is for the first time lifted from the intrigues of the Popes, who
contrived the overthrow of the Longo Bardi, and the successful invasion
of Charlemagne, not in the interests of Christianity, but in that of
their own temporal power; and the vain struggle of the falling Lombards,
with the insolence of the invader and the hypocrisy of the priest, is
finely drawn. It is his odes, however, that give high rank to Manzoni as
a poet. In these, his diction is exquisitely finished, and his
conceptions rise to the sublime. No reader can fail of being carried
away by the pathos and fire of the chorus in Carmagnola, describing the
horrors of the wars of invasion in Italy, which became civil contests,
as the various states adhered to one or other of the foreign powers, who
poured down from the Alps for their destruction. The “Cinque Maggio” is,
out of his own country, the most popular of Manzoni’s odes, but this
chorus and the sacred hymns obtain the greatest meed of praise in Italy.
The “Promessi Sposi” followed. This, to a certain degree, is an
imitation of the romances of Walter Scott: it rises above in grandeur of
description and in unity and nobility of purpose, though in
inexhaustible fecundity of character, the Scotch writer surpasses the
Italian. The historian Ripamonti suggested his subjects. The account of
the Innominato is to be found in his pages, as well as that of the
errors of a high-born nun—of a sedition, a famine, a pestilence—of the
character and life of Federigo Borromeo; but these, though suggested by
history, are treated with a poetic fire, an originality of idea, and a
vitality, which belongs entirely to Manzoni himself. His tale is
sustained by a moral, or rather religious scope. He desires in his
romance to prove that society, both civil and political, is diseased,
and that Catholicism must be the remedy. Manzoni is a devout Catholic.
He paints, with peculiar fervour, the merits and uses of a pious clergy;
and personifying it under the names of Father Cristofero and Cardinal
Borromeo, he shows the beneficial influence it may obtain over the
people and the nobility, of whom Renzo and Lucia, the Innominato and Don
Rodrigo, are the representatives. It is not the vulgar notion of
bringing forward the Pope, with his army of priests and monks, as the
regenerators of society, at which he aims; it is the Christian spirit of
resignation and self-denial that he wishes to revive, and render the
master-feeling of the world. Manzoni is eminently pious and
resigned—this is the internal spirit; in form he adheres to ancient
Catholicism, which he regards as the final tendency of humanity.
Manzoni was born at Milan in 1784. I have heard that his father was a
man totally without instruction; while his mother, the daughter of the
Marchese Beccaria, author of the well-known work, “Dei delitti e delle
Pene,” was an accomplished and active-minded woman. Manzoni spent many
of his early years on the Lake of Como, at the very spot where he places
the scene of his romance. In his youth the Latin poets occupied his
attention; he read Virgil and Tibullus with delight—while in Italian he
studied the works of the _cinquecentiste_: so that I have heard that his
early unpublished verses are conceived in the spirit of those writers.
But he soon broke away from such fetters. He read and admired Dante,
with the deep-felt enthusiasm a poet naturally experiences for that
sublime writer. At the beginning of the present century Manzoni visited
France, and lived for some years with his mother in Paris. In 1808 he
returned to Milan, and soon after, chiefly induced by the instigations
of his relations, he married a Protestant lady, the daughter of Blondel,
a banker of Geneva. They visited Rome, where the lady became a convert
to Catholicism; and, as I am told, converted also her husband, who
heretofore had been sceptical or careless on religious subjects—but who,
from that hour, became an ardent and devout Catholic. He passes the
greater portion of the year at his villa, five miles from Milan; he sees
little society, being by disposition excessively shy. In 1831 he had the
misfortune to lose his wife, whom he fondly loved and entirely trusted.
I never had the happiness of seeing him: he is, I am told, of middle
stature, of gentle aspect, resembling the portraits of Petrarch—and
suffers somewhat from nervousness. He is profoundly versed in history,
political economy, and agriculture; and it is said is now occupied on a
history of Italian literature and a philosophical work. In his tastes
with regard to poetry not Italian, he admires Schiller and Shakspeare;
but, unlike almost every other foreigner, the scepticism of Lord Byron
renders his poetry distasteful to him. His soul is filled with love of
the beautiful, the elevated, and the pure. These qualities shine forth
particularly in his odes, which, since Petrarch, are the most perfect
lyrics in the language; and among them, the “Inni Sacri” are
distinguished for the exquisite finish and poetic fire that adorns the
fervent piety which they breathe.
It would be vain to attempt to say even a few words of the swarm of
romance writers that have tried to follow in his steps, and who all
deserve the same praise of writing to instruct and elevate, and not, as
is too usual with writers of fiction, to amuse, and even corrupt. Out of
Italy, Azeglio ranks highest. Like all Italian writers of the day, he is
animated by a patriotic feeling. The desire of destroying the prejudices
that separate state from state, made him, who is a Piedmontese, choose
for his heroes Neapolitans and Florentines. In his first novel, “Ettore
Fieramosca,” he impresses on his readers the loveliness of the feminine
character, depicting the purest struggles between passion and duty. In
“Niccoli de’ Lapi,” a burning love of country, joined to a piety at war
with the grosser superstitions of Rome, adorns his venerable hero. The
Tuscans generally do not like his style, and prefer that of Grossi.
Tommaso Grossi is the intimate friend of Manzoni, to whom he dedicated
his popular romance of “Marco Visconti,” calling him by the endearing
name of “Master.” He commenced his literary career by the publication of
two beautiful tales in verse, “Ildegonda,” and the “Fuggitiva;” in this
species of composition there is no one to compare with him, and
“Ildegonda,” in the estimation of his countrymen, is quite inimitable. A
Florentine, Guerrazzi, has published two romances, “L’Assedio di
Firenze,” and “La Battaglia di Benevento,” popular in his own country,
from the ardent, the almost frantic love of liberty which inspires their
author. This is a spirit that ever finds a clear echo in hearts
palpitating with the sense of wrong, and with the aspiration to
independence. He is eloquent and passionate in his style, and has happy
touches of situation and character which show him to be a man of
genius—but he is diffuse, exaggerated, and sometimes incoherent.
A greater man than these, and in the eyes of his countrymen, equal to
Manzoni, is the Florentine, Gian. Battista Niccolini. This poet, it is
true, is not as celebrated as the author of the “Promessi Sposi” on this
side of the Alps, but in Italy he has attained an equal, and indeed, in
some respects, a higher reputation. Niccolini is a tragic and lyric
poet, and a great prose writer. He commenced his career, as a dramatist,
by tragedies on Greek and mythological subjects. His mind full of the
verses of Dante, Tasso, and Ariosto, he reproduced on the stage, garbed
in simple and sublime poetry, the theatre of the Greeks. His
“Polixena”—his “Ino e Temisto,” and his “Œdipus,” might be said to be
written on the model set by Alfieri, and equally liberal in sentiment.
They were acted, and the beauty of the verses insured their success.
Niccolini soon, however, became aware that his works did not meet the
wants of modern society, and that he ought no longer to remain in the
ways trodden by his masters; but that the time had arrived when to cease
imitating the ancients. He resolved to seek the reputation of an
original poet, and to create a new theatre. The “Foscarini,” a national
subject, in which he paints, in the liveliest and blackest colours, the
dark tyranny of the Venetian aristocracy, had a success on the stage
previously unexampled in Italy. The enthusiasm spread among every rank
of society; country people, farmers and labourers from the environs of
Florence, were seen mingled with the lower class of citizens, besieging
the avenues of the theatre for hours before the opening of the doors.
Animated by this success, Niccolini composed the “Sicilian Vespers,”
which is, in fact, a protest in favour of Italy.[29] This drama was
received with transports of enthusiasm. The French Secretary of
Legation, M. de la Noue, had the folly to complain to the Tuscan
government of certain expressions levelled against the French nation.
The Austrian Minister laughed at his application, and saw through the
artifice. “_Vous ne voyez pas_,” he said, “_que si l’addresse est à
vous, le contenu est pour moi_.” An interesting and sad incident
occurred on the first representation of this play. The mother of
Niccolini, an aged woman, insisted on being present—the immense success
and triumph of her son were too much for her—she was carried dying out
of the theatre, and only survived two days.
The style of Niccolini’s tragedies is looked upon by his countrymen as a
perfect model for the romantic drama. It is elevated and yet natural.
The poet rises to the height of his argument; his versification is
harmonious yet severe—his imagery rich and choice; his tone is majestic,
and through all there glows an ineffable love of his art. Niccolini is
celebrated also as a lyric poet; but as far as I have read, he falls
very short of Manzoni. As a prose writer he has as yet only published
his speeches delivered in the Accademia delle belle Arti. They justify
his reputation for research, and may be pointed out as models of style
and eloquence; he proves himself in them to be an original thinker, and
capable of understanding and judging the age in which he lives.
Niccolini joins to his intellectual greatness a character that makes him
the darling of his native city. Devoid of vanity, of pure and exemplary
life, he passes his days at Florence, surrounded by friends who respect
and love him. He is at present busily occupied by an arduous work, the
“History of the House of Swabia.”
Italy, from the earliest times, has been renowned for its historians.
From Dino Compagni and Villani until Botta, Colletta, and Amari, the
Italians appear to inherit the art of narrating events, and describing
men and countries, as well as of deducing philosophical conclusions from
the experience of past ages.
Colletta’s “History of the Kingdom of Naples, from the year 1734 till
the year 1825,” is a remarkable work, as not being the production of an
author who spent his life among books, but of a man who bore a
distinguished part in the political and military affairs of his time,
and who was somewhat advanced in years when, exiled from his country, he
dedicated himself to the study of his native language and the
composition of his history.
The first publications of Colletta consisted of a “Narrative of the
Revolution of Naples in 1820,” and the “History of the Death of Murat.”
The vigour of his style, the truth that reigned in his narrative, and
the warmth of enthusiasm that animated his pen, attracted attention, and
received applause. To a certain degree an adherent of the French rule in
Naples, though fully aware of its faults and its injustice, he, in the
account of the death of Murat, undertook, with just indignation, to
defend the illustrious partizans of the fallen sovereign, whom the
minister, Medici, falsely accused of having ensnared and betrayed him;
throwing the blame where it was due, on the rashness of the victim and
the baseness of his enemies. This narration is incorporated in his
history, and forms one of its most striking passages. It seems to me one
of the finest pieces of writing in the world—full of a mournful dignity,
that renders its pathos touching, and gives grandeur to its scorn.
A few pages are prefixed to his history, written, I believe, by his
friend Count Gino Capponi, which gives an account of his life. While yet
a mere boy, he was imprisoned by Ferdinand on a slight suspicion of
liberalism, and with difficulty escaped with his life. He, though his
name is omitted by French writers, accompanied the soldiers of Murat in
their attack upon Capri, and by his gallantry and sagacity mainly
contributed to its success. Many important posts, both civil and
military, were entrusted to him by Murat, and, on his return, by
Ferdinand, and he acquitted himself in all with reputation. He acted at
once a prudent, firm, and patriotic part, during the Neapolitan
revolution. But though Ferdinand employed, frequently consulted, and
often followed his advice, this did not save him after the Austrian
invasion. He was first imprisoned at Brünn, in Moravia, at the foot of
the Castle of Spielburg, of infamous renown; afterwards, as his health
failed, he was allowed to transfer himself to Tuscany. During his
severer imprisonment and milder exile, ever ambitious of a noble fame,
he meditated his future work. First, he applied himself to the study of
his native tongue, forming his style on that of Tacitus; and then, armed
with the strength of pictorial and vigorous language, he dedicated
himself to the compilation of his history.
An eye witness of many of the events which he narrates, and frequently a
prominent actor in them, he strives to be impartial both to friends and
enemies. He has not, however, escaped the blame of undue bias. He
expresses his opinions at times with too much passion, displaying
excessive severity against his rivals or opponents in his military
career. This, however, is not much; and, with very slight drawbacks, he
may be esteemed worthy of the reader’s confidence. He knew the men whose
character he draws, and these individual portraits give value to the
work they contribute to adorn. Among them may be named, in especial,
that of the infamous Canosa, and the youthful hero, Emanuel de Deo. Even
more admirable are his striking descriptions, after the manner of
Tacitus. If you shrink from undertaking the whole work, read the
accounts of the earthquake in Calabria in 1783—of the executions of
1799—of the death of the unfortunate Murat—of the tragical fate of the
Vardarelli—and the character of the reign of Ferdinand, at the
conclusion. It will be difficult to find finer passages in any history.
He came to Florence in 1823, and died on 11th November, 1831. The
interval was spent in composing his work, and rendered happy by his
intimate friendship with two Italians, esteemed as the cleverest men of
their time, Count Gino Capponi and Valeriani, translator of Tacitus.
These friends assisted him with their counsels and criticisms—some
Italians go so far as to consider Gino Capponi the writer of the
history. But others, who associated with Colletta and his friends at
Florence, have assured me that this supposition is entirely erroneous.
Quite lately, another historical work has appeared, the production of a
young Sicilian, Michele Amari, who promises, from his talents, his
industry, and the admirable spirit of his book, to add another
illustrious name to Italy.
The Sicilian Vespers was a tremendous event, which astonished and
confounded the nations, and even in Italy was ill understood by
contemporary historians. It was supposed to be the result of a
conspiracy formed by Giovanni da Procida, under the auspices of Don
Pedro, King of Arragon, who reaped the fruits. Amari, on consulting the
archives of Sicily, found reason at first to suspect the truth of, and
afterwards entirely to reject, this explanation of an event, which, in
this light, could only be regarded as a cruel massacre—but which, from
the documents he adduces, he proves to have resulted, not from a
treacherous conspiracy, but from the sudden impulse of a people
maltreated and insulted to desperation; whose only defence was the
knife, whose only safety rested in utterly rooting out their oppressors.
Fired with generous sympathy for a people who, against a fearful odds,
resolved to liberate themselves from a barbarous foreign oppression,
Amari relates the events of the war that followed the massacre with
glowing eloquence. The history of the siege of Messina may take place
beside the noble resistance of Numantia and Saragossa, with the more
cheering result that it was successful. This portion of his work, and
the subsequent chapters that describe the last war and death of Don
Pedro of Arragon, are admirably written. You will scarcely find in any
historian a more animated and graphic narration than that which tells
how Don Pedro, deserted by all, hated by all, proudly and sternly, and
at last successfully, stood his ground against his numerous and
triumphant foes.
It is the work of a young man, and of a Sicilian, who had to learn and
form the language in which he writes. The style wants elegance; the
construction of the history is imperfect, and, at times, rambling; but
it has the first and best merit of a work of genius—it is written from
the heart. The enthusiasm of the author carries the reader along with
him; you forget the imperfections in the justness of his reflections,
and the sincerity of his convictions; you excuse the absence of
methodical order as you are carried away by the interest which he throws
over the facts he narrates.[30]
LETTER XVII.
Voyage to Rome.
MARCH 20.
I left England, as you know, with very vague ideas of whither I should
go. I did not dare entertain a hope that I should visit Rome. But,
“Thought by thought, and step by step led on,”
We have reached what Dr. Johnson says is the aim of every man’s desire.
My companions dreaded a long _veturino_ journey, whose leisure is a
false lure, since you always arrive too late, and set out too early, to
see anything in the towns where you stop. I consented to go by sea, and
Heaven rewarded the act of self-sacrifice.
We left Florence at twelve at night, in one of the most uncomfortable
_veturino_ carriages I ever had the ill fortune to enter. The moon was
near its full, and its bright snow-like glare almost blinded my friends,
who rode outside, and prevented them from sleeping. The morning dawned
golden and still; and, although it was March, we anticipated a calm
voyage. So it proved. We embarked on board the “Castor,” a small, but
well-built and quick steamer, and dropped down towards Elba. The view
from the sea near Leghorn is not sufficiently praised. The Ligurian Alps
“Towards the North appeared,
Thro’ mist, a heaven: sustaining bulwark, reared
Between the east and west.”
The sun went down beneath the sea, and the full moon rose at the same
moment from behind the promontory of Piombino—hazy at first,—but as she
rose higher, assuming her place as radiant Queen of Night. We passed
between the island of Elba, whose dark and distinct outline rose out of
the calm water, and the shadowy form of distant Corsica; as we
proceeded, other and other islands appeared studding the tranquil deep,
and varying its sublime monotony. It was very difficult to consent to
shut one’s eyes on so very fair a scene.
At sunrise we were on deck again, and the steamer, with that sort of
pride which a boat always seems to exhibit when it reaches its bourne,
entered the harbour of Civita Vecchia. We were detained for _pratique_
till eight o’clock, when the Governor got up, and for three hours we had
full leisure to contemplate the growth of the morning on the sea, and to
feel tired of conjectures about the towers and buildings on shore. As
soon as we landed, and had breakfasted, and were refreshed, we set off
in a separate diligence for the Eternal City.
The road for some miles bordered the sea. The shore is varied by little
bays, inlets, and promontories—every five miles is a watch-tower,—the
Maremma is spread around, deadly in its influence on man, but in
appearance, a wild, verdant, varied pasture land, with here and there a
grove of trees, and broken into hill and dale: the waves sparkled on our
right; the land stretched out pleasant to the eye on the left; mountains
showed themselves on the horizon. No one can look on this country as
merely so much earth—every clod is a sacred relic—every stone is an
object of curiosity—every name we hear satisfies some desire or awakens
some cherished association. And thus, in a sort of trance of delight, we
were whirled along, till the old walls appeared. We entered by the
Janiculum, and skirted the Place of St. Peter’s; then the pleasant spell
was snapped, as we had to turn our thoughts to custom-houses, hotels,
and all the worry of arrival.
Evening advanced; but what ailed the Romans? they were all looking up at
the sky—it was an epidemic—in crowds or singly, not an eye looked
straightforward; all were looking at the heavens;—at a turn in the
street we looked too, and saw in the south a long trail of glowing
light; we were the more surprised, as we had perceived nothing of the
sort the previous night at sea. It was a comet, of course;—does it shine
in your more northern hemisphere? here, it loses itself among the stars
of Orion, while the nucleus is below the visible horizon;—it is bright,
yet the stars shine through its web-like texture, which, composed of
thin beams, is stretched out, and you may see delicate sea-weeds—or
aquatic plants in a stream, through a large space of the heavens.
LETTER XVIII.
Raffaelle at Rome.
APRIL 5.
The multitude of pictures and statues at Rome is such, that it is quite
impossible to give the most cursory account of the Galleries. I have
been more struck even than I expected, by what I have seen; the limits
of man’s power appear enlarged to the uttermost verge of all that the
imagination can conceive of beautiful and great.
The admirable proportion of the temple-like chambers in which the finest
relics of ancient statuary are placed—the snatches of views that you
catch, from open windows, of the papal gardens and the country around
the city, renders a visit to the Vatican a step out of everyday life
into a world adorned by the works of the highest genius of all countries
and all times. It is a great pity that they are not arranged in a manner
to instruct the spectator as to the age and schools to which they
belong—the collection at the Vatican greatly needs to be regulated by
enlightened criticism—but here, everything is done from paltry motives:
a man, who in some way can command patronage, writes a catalogue of all
the statues, and changes their numbers and places, to make it necessary
that you should buy his book; so that those who go with the elaborate
and learned works of German critics in their hands, find every reference
a mistake, and get hopelessly embroiled.
It is said that all the works of ancient Grecian sculpture bear the
character of divine repose; and that those statues which are in
attitudes of action, are the works of Greeks, indeed, but executed when
Greece was a province, at the command of Roman masters. Among such, is
the Apollo Belvidere, which is not adorned by the faultless perfection
of Athenian art—yet who can criticise? As I entered the compartment in
which he stands, a divine presence seemed to fill the chamber. The
godlike archer is stepping forward; his gesture and look breathe the
eagerness and gladness of victory. In some sort, this statue is the
ideal of a youthful hero—but he is not human—there is no trace of the
chivalrous feeling, that even in triumph honours the fallen. He is above
fear and above pity.
From room to room the eye is so fed by sights of beauty, “that the sense
aches at them;” truly the limbs unwillingly fail. From the halls of the
statues you go through long galleries filled with funereal urns, ancient
maps, and old tapestry worked from Raffaelle’s cartoons, into rooms
where the paintings are. It is managed so, that when you have passed
through all, you quit the rooms by the loggie of Raffaelle, and the
Swiss on guard does not permit you to return;—there is no great harm in
this—as it would be nearly impossible to walk the whole way back again.
Visitors ought, nevertheless, to be allowed to enter by this door at
choice, that they may at once reach the pictures without the extra
labour of traversing the extensive galleries that lead to them. Of the
oil paintings we see here, the San Geronimo by Domenichino is perhaps
the finest. Of the Transfiguration I have before spoken: as a
composition, it is esteemed the grandest picture in the world; but I
turn from it to others (to the Madonna di Foligno, for instance) of an
earlier date, in which there is a more heavenly grace; an expression of
celestial and pure beauty, an emanation of the immortal soul, superior
to any perfection of colouring or grouping.
But it is among the frescos of Raffaelle that I have lingered longest
with the greatest delight. These were the first works of this matchless
painter, when called to Rome. He had been soliciting leave to be
associated with Leonardo da Vinci and Michael Angelo in painting the
halls of the Palazzo Vecchio, at Florence, when Pope Julius II. called
him to Rome, and gave him in charge to adorn the walls of the Vatican.
At this time Michael Angelo was, I will not say, his rival; but, as he
painted the Sistine Chapel while Raffaelle was engaged upon the Vatican,
a passion of generous emulation rose in the heart of the latter that
spurred him on to work with indefatigable ardour. As Lanzi tells us, the
subjects chosen for these halls elevated his imagination. They were not
scenes from old mythology, “but the mysteries of the noblest science—the
most august circumstances pertaining to religion, and military deeds
whose result established peace and faith in the world.” None better than
Raffaelle could achieve this work; for of all men he had firmest hold of
“that golden chain which is let down from Heaven, and with a divine
enthusiasm ravishes our souls, made to the image of God, and stirs us up
to comprehend the innate and incorruptible beauty to which we were once
created.”[31]
He began by the figures of Theology, Philosophy, Poetry, and
Jurisprudence, on the arched roof of one of the rooms. The figures of
Theology and Poetry, particularly the latter, are in the highest style
of mystic art. The picture named the Dispute of the Sacrament—if that be
the name of a picture which is, after all, nameless—covers one of the
walls. There is an assemblage of all the doctors of the church, and
among them Raffaelle boldly placed Dante, with his laurel crown, and,
still more boldly, Savanarola, who ten years before had been publicly
burned at Florence as a heretic.[32] Above these groups, heaven opens,
and the Trinity and the Angels are congregated. By the lovers of the
mystic school, this picture is preferred to every other; yet I was more
struck by that which represents the Vision driving Heliodorus from the
Temple. The story, as told in the Apocrypha,[33] is fitted to excite the
imagination. Through the relation of Simon, Seleucus sent Heliodorus,
his treasurer, to seize on the wealth of the Temple, laid up by Onias,
the High Priest, for the relief of widows and fatherless children. When
Heliodorus entered the Temple to execute the king’s command, “there was
no small agony throughout the whole city. Then, whoso looked the high
priest in the face, it would have wounded his heart; for his
countenance, and the changing of his colour, declared the inward agony
of his mind.” The whole city flocked, transported by indignation and
grief. “And all, holding up their hands to heaven, made supplication.”
Heliodorus, nevertheless, persisted; but when he presented himself at
the treasury, “the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of all power, caused
a great apparition, so that all that presumed to come in with him were
astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and were sore afraid.”
It is deemed the triumph of art to adorn the real with something grander
than meets the ordinary gaze; but to paint the superhuman, and convey to
the eyes the image of that which surpasses the might of visible objects,
and can scarcely be conceived by the strongest effort of the
imagination, is that which Raffaelle only could achieve. In this fresco
the vision of a “horse with a terrible rider” fills the beholder with
awe—the one shakes terror from his looks, while the horse may be seen to
neigh and breathe destruction around. The figures of the two youths,
“notable in strength, and excellent in beauty,” who are driving the
spoiler with scourges from the Temple, are divine in swiftness and
might. Celestial indignation animates their gestures, and motion was
never painted so real, so impetuous, so uncontrollable.
This was among the latter works of Raffaelle. Whether it be, as M. Rio
argues, that falling from that high devotional state of mind which
inspired his younger works, he could no longer rise to ideal perfection,
or that the remains of antique art at Rome, and the simple and majestic
pencil of Michael Angelo, in the Sistine Chapel, giving larger scope to
his ideas of composition, he began a new style, and the powers of man
being limited, the attaining something new, however excellent,
occasioned him to lose a portion of that which he before possessed;
there can be no doubt that his manner entirely changed. I am not always
disposed to regret this alteration. It has been the cause of a variety
in excellence; for if we miss in his latter pictures the portraiture of
innocence, and divine love, represented in the Madonnas and saints of
his first style, we have something else, which no one but Raffaelle
could give. To understand me, let me ask you to call to mind the Madonna
di Foligno in the Vatican, and the Descent from the Cross in the Palazzo
Borghese. The first beams, with an adorable and beatified sweetness, all
purity and love. In the second, do you remember, besides the many other
pity-striking figures, the St. John? He is holding one end of the cloth
which enfolds his dead master’s body. The expression of agony proper to
the beloved disciple, struggles with the exertion of strength
necessitated by the act on which he is employed; the resolution to
perform the rites due to the dead, is mingled with yearning veneration
for the corpse of him whom he passionately adored. These pictures are
the triumph of Christian art. Then recollect the frescos of the history
of Psyche in the Farnesina, and the youthful and nymph-like loveliness
of the Galatea—these are specimens of his last style—and form your own
opinion as to his improvement or otherwise. Whichever way you incline,
there is one conclusion to which you must necessarily come, that
Raffaelle in both styles, the Christian and the Pagan, is superior to
every other painter—“high actions and high passions best describing.”
Day after day, often accompanied by our accomplished friend, whose taste
and knowledge are invaluable, we visit the galleries of Rome. In one
small chamber of the Barberini palace are three gems of art; and in
these, expression appeared triumphant over skill, to the disadvantage of
Raffaelle. A portrait of the Fornarina is contrasted with that of
Beatrice Cenci, by Guido. In vain I was told to compare the exquisite
finish, the faultless painting of cheek and lip, of the
disagreeable-looking beauty, with the comparatively imperfect touches of
Guido’s pencil. The innocent, tearful face of the young and lovely girl,
whose look expresses the self-pity which must have swelled in her heart,
as she thought, how she, from very horror of crime, was become a
murderess, put to shame the dark eyes and pencilled brows of her, whose
passion was devoid of tenderness. It is gratifying to see the work of an
English painter in a Roman church. The picture by Mr. Severn in the
Cathedral of San Paolo fuori delle Mura, is a beautiful composition, and
shews to great advantage. It is the first work of a Protestant artist
admitted into a Roman church. The high esteem in which Mr. Severn was
held in Rome ensured him this distinction.
I have visited with great pleasure the studios of modern statuaries.
They are mostly now employed in portraying or idealizing a Capuan
peasant-woman, la Grazia, whose beauty is of an expressive, mobile, and
grand cast. The best representation of her is as Hagar in the desert.
The angel of the day of judgment, by Tenerani, is very fine; and Mr.
Gibson’s studio contains statues admirably executed in that classic
taste which he so successfully cultivates.
LETTER XIX.
Ruins of Rome.—The Holy Week.—Music and Illuminations.
TRINITÀ DE’ MONTI, APRIL.
“What are the pleasures that I enjoy at Rome?” you ask. They are so
many, that my mind is brimful of a sort of glowing satisfaction, mingled
with tearful associations. Besides all that Rome itself affords of
delightful to the eye and imagination, I revisit it as the bourne of a
pious pilgrimage. The treasures of my youth lie buried here.
The sky is bright—the air impregnated with the soft odours of spring—we
take our books and wile away the morning among the ruins of the Baths of
Caracalla, or the Coliseum. From the shattered walls of the former, the
view over the city and the Campagna is very beautiful. The Palatine is
near at hand, and majestic ruins guide the eye to where the golden
palace spreads its vast extent. These ruins, chiefly piles of
brick—remnants of massive walls or lofty archways—may not be beautiful
in themselves; but overgrown with parasites and flowering shrubs, they
are grouped in so picturesque a manner among broken ground and dark
gigantic trees—the many towers of the city gathering near—the distant
hills on the clear horizon, with clouds just resting in scattered
clusters on the tops, and the sky above, deeply blue—that the whole
scene is delightful to _feel_, as well as look at.
There is one view from the Coliseum that I am never tired of
contemplating. Ascending to the second range of arches, and looking from
the verge towards the tomb of Cestius—in the foreground is the Temple of
Venus, the Palatine Mount, and the ruins of the Forum—the country,
varied by woods and hills and ruins, is spread beyond—the tomb of
Cestius, gleaming at a distance, is a resting place for the eye—and
various trees seem placed expressly to give the scene the air of a
landscape sitting for its picture—all grace and smiles and radiance.
The Forum used to be, long, long ago, before I ever saw it, a broken
space of ground, with an avenue through the Campo Vacino leading to the
Coliseum, with triumphal arches and tall columns half-buried in the
soil. Now the excavations are considerable. I have heard painters lament
that the picturesque beauty has been spoilt; but as its appearance, such
as time and neglect had left it, is changed, it is as well to complete
the task of excavation. Much has been done since I was here last, and
workmen are in constant employ. I wish you could see the chief among
them. Imagine an Indian file of fifty old men in the last stage of
decrepitude, grey-headed, bent-shouldered, and feeble-legged, each
rolling a small wheelbarrow, creeping along so slow, and yet that
extreme slowness appearing an exertion for them.
From the Forum we ascended the hill of the Capitol, and, with some
trouble, got the custode, and mounted the tower of the Campidoglio. We
looked round, and fancied how, from this height, the patricians and
consuls of Old Rome watched the advance of marauding parties that wound
out from the ravines of the hills, or whose spears and helmets glittered
above the brow of the Janicular hill; and the cry of the Sabines, or
fiercer and more terrible, of the Gauls, made the populace gather in the
Forum below, and give their names to be inscribed as soldiers for
instant fight. The Tiber glitters in the distance, and Soracte rising
from out the plain,
“Heaves like a long-swept wave, about to break,
And on the curl hangs pausing.”[34]
I never look at the ridge of Sant’ Oreste, (as it is now called,) but
these lines, which so admirably paint it, come into my mind.
I scarcely know what view of Rome to prefer. That from the ruined Baths
of Caracalla, or from the verge of the Coliseum, or the panorama of the
Capitol, or from the porch of the Lateran, which commands a different
landscape.—You see nothing of the city, for your back is turned on it;
you are on a height, the Campagna at your feet, spanned by a number of
ruined aqueducts, whose grandeur and extent impress the mind, more than
any other object, with a sense of Roman greatness. From the Lateran down
to the Coliseum, nearly a mile, and in the adjoining space, was the most
magnificent quarter of the old city. Now it is occupied by _Poderi_,
divided by high walls, with here and there a ruin—a toppling wall or
broken arch. When Pope Gregory VII. called in Robert Guiscard to drive
Henry III. from his capital, the Saracens of Sicily, under the command
of the Norman, sacked Rome, and this portion of the city was burned and
levelled with the soil. So utter was the desolation, that the survivors
found it more convenient to build nearly a new town at a distance, than
to attempt to restore their homes among the smoking ruins of palaces,
temples, and baths, which lay a black heap, till they crumbled away—and
trees and flowers sprung up, and the peasantry came with the plough, and
sowed seed and reaped corn.
We spent half a day rambling over the Palatine—the Contadino, our guide,
told us that every July and August, the mal’ aria reigned, and his
sunken cheeks spoke of his having been a victim. He asked us if we had
the mal’ aria in England.—“Che bel paese,” he said with a sigh on
hearing our negative.
Often, as at Venice, we leave our home without any definite object, and
wander about the deserted part of Rome—that which once was the centre of
its magnificence. Thus we viewed the Church of Santa Maria degli Angeli,
built by Michael Angelo, with materials, columns and marbles, remnants
of the Baths of Diocletian; it is one of the most striking and majestic
of the Roman churches. Thus we found ourselves at the foot of the
Capitol, and an inscription led us to visit the Mamertine prisons, a
spot held sacred since St. Peter and other Christian martyrs were
confined there. It is indubitably the oldest relic of the ancient
republic, and the monument of its cruel and arrogant disdain for human
life and suffering, impresses one painfully. How much of that has there
ever been all over the world—and now! I used to pride myself on English
humanity; but the boast is quenched in shame, since I read, last winter,
the accounts of the cruelties practised in the Affghan war. We were
injured, and, therefore, we revenge; such also was the tenet of old
Rome.
The galleries of the Capitol often entice us. Here are some of the
finest statues in the world. The Amazon, in whom a severe and martial
expression is allied to feminine grace, and a something womanly softens
the countenance in spite of sternness. The Venus of the Capitol is the
only Queen of Beauty that can at all compete with the Goddess of the
Tribune. The Cupid and Psyche is less tender and innocent than the
Florentine group, but there is a passionate love in the caress that
makes the marble appear tremulous with emotion.
APRIL 20.
Holy Week is over. The ceremonies of the Church strike me as less
majestic than when I was last here; perhaps this is to be attributed to
the chief part being filled by another actor. Pius VII. was a venerable
and dignified old man. Pope Gregory, shutting his eyes as he is carried
round St. Peter’s, because the motion of the chair makes him sea-sick,
by no means excites respect. If I ever revisit Rome during the Holy
Week, I shall not seek for tickets for the ceremonies; it will be quite
enough to enter the Cathedral for half an hour while they were going on.
But a thousand times over I would go to listen to the Miserere in the
Sistine Chapel; that spot made sacred by the most sublime works of
Michael Angelo. I do not allude to the Last Judgment—which I do not
admire—but to the paintings on the roof, which have that simple grandeur
that Michael Angelo alone could confer on a single figure, making it
complete in itself—enthroned in majesty—reigning over the souls of men.
The music, not only of the Miserere, but of the Lamentations, is solemn,
pathetic, religious—the soul is rapt—carried away into another state of
being. Strange that grief, and laments, and the humble petition of
repentance, should fill us with delight—a delight that awakens these
very emotions in the heart—and calls tears into the eyes, and yet which
is dearer than any pleasure. It is one of the mysteries of our nature,
that the feelings which most torture and subdue, yet, if
idealized—elevated by the imagination—married harmoniously to sound or
colour—turn those pains to happiness; inspiring adoration; and a
tremulous but ardent aspiration for immortality. Such seems the sentient
link between our heavenly and terrestrial nature; and thus, in Paradise,
as Dante tells,—glory beatifies the sight, and seraphic harmony wraps
the saints in bliss.
Another sight of this week, is the washing of the feet of the pilgrims.
The ladies of Rome belong to a sisterhood who perform this service on
Good Friday for the female pilgrims. The hospital of the Pelegrini was
crowded; we could hardly make our way. In my life I never saw so much
female beauty as among the sisterhood—their faces so perfect in contour;
so lovely in expression; so noble, and so soft, that the recollection
will haunt my memory for ever.
I went to mass at the Church of the Jesuits—as usual glittering with
ornaments, precious stones, wax-lights, and all manner of finery. The
music was in the same style—well suited for the Opera-house; it would
there have enchanted; but it wanted that solemn, religious descant,
which awed the spirit in the Sistine Chapel.
The illumination of St. Peter’s terminated the sights of the week—that
and the fire-works of the Castel Sant’ Angelo.—There is more of creation
in the first of these sights than in any other in the world. It is but a
dim, and scant, and human imitation of the third verse of the first
chapter of Genesis; but it _is_ an imitation of the most sublime act of
divine power; and though bearing but a very weak resemblance to what we
imagine of the moment when, on a word, light disclosed the glories of
creation, yet, there is darkness, and radiance sudden and dazzling
bursts forth, and—it is very fine.
It is curious to see all these solemnities—many of them doubtless of
Pagan origin—dear to the people, and therefore preserved and
christianised by the Popes—and to reflect, that such, for many, many
centuries, was the chief link fostered by religion between man and the
Divinity. We have obliterated all this among ourselves. No doubt the
impulse of piety in the heart is a truer and purer oblation; but
Catholics reason that these are aids and supports to enable weak
humanity—a creature half matter, half soul—to sustain itself in its
pious ecstacies. Besides, God created in us not only the sense of, but
also in some degree the power of creating the beautiful; and is it not
well to dedicate to divine worship the glorious gifts which were
bestowed for the purpose of raising the soul from earth and linking it
to Heaven?
LETTER XX.
The Pontifical States.
MAY 3.
“Wherever the Catholic religion is established, I have uniformly
observed indolence, with its concomitants, dirt and beggary, to prevail;
and the more Catholic is the place, the more they abound.”[35] These are
the words of a clever writer, well acquainted with Rome, _àpropos_ of
Rome. It must be added, that wherever the Catholic religion prevails,
great works of charity subsist. During the time of Catholicism,
charitable institutions, as is well known, abounded all over England—in
some few obscure corners such still survive, where the old may find a
peaceful refuge—not in crowded receptacles, where they are looked on as
useless burthens on a heavily-taxed parish—but in decent almshouses,
bordering grassy enclosures, near gardens that supply their table;
peaceful nooks, where the aged may converse with nature, and find the
way to the grave soothed by that calm so dear to declining years.[36]
Jesus Christ so forcibly recommended the poor to all who professed his
religion, that, in common with all other Christians, every good Catholic
considers works of charity to be his paramount duty. One of the most
enlightened, Pascal, gave a touching proof of this, when, on his
death-bed, he only admitted his pains to be soothed by careful nursing,
on condition that two paupers in the same state should receive the same
attentions in an adjoining apartment. The poor were to him objects of
real and tender affection.
As eleemosynary charity is an essential portion of Catholicism, we may
expect that it should flourish in the capital of the Catholic world.
There are many beggars, but there is no absolute want, at Rome. Beggary
is a condition, and it becomes a matter of favour to be allowed to beg.
Plates of metal are given to such as are permitted, and fastened to the
arm of poor deformed objects, who are to be found in every corner of the
city, asking alms. Many convents distribute food regularly at different
hours, when all who ask may have. There is, besides, a house of
industry, I hear, carried on on excellent principles. There are, to the
destruction of the savings of the poor, state lotteries all over Italy.
It was considered that this demoralising gambling ought not to be kept
up in the capital of the head of the church: but it was argued that a
love of putting in the lottery could not be rooted out, and while
Naples, Tuscany, and Venice had lotteries, the Romans would send their
money to those states, if they could not be indulged at home. A Roman
lottery therefore exists, and the proceeds go to keep up a house of
industry. Here a number of young people are taught various trades. Young
men are apprenticed, and girls receive dowries, while the old people
have a home that smoothes their passage to the grave. Besides these
conventual aids and government institutions, there are many
confraternities of citizens whose bond of duty is charity to the sick
and poor. People of all classes of society belong to them, and meet on
an equal footing. The city is divided into several quarters, and the
various confraternities have each one assigned to them, which they visit
and relieve.
Several of the persons I know remained in Rome during the visitation of
the cholera in 1837, and they still vividly remember the horror of the
time.
It was a conviction, a superstition, nourished by the church, that this
fatal epidemic would spare the Holy City, and the arguments urged to
prove its exemption were absurd, and yet horrible to hear. When the
great heats of August set in, and a few cases began to be mentioned, the
government, grown frantic through mingled terror and folly, thought only
of convincing the people that Rome would be spared. The pest might be
said to have been welcomed by illuminations and processions, and its
virulence propagated and fixed by the poor people being encouraged to go
about barefoot, while their last coin was drained from them to buy oil
for lamps to burn in the churches. The stench and heat in these edifices
became of itself pestilential, for the summer was more sultry even than
usual, and the crowds that filled them were tremendous. Groups of
persons were to be seen in the streets and churches, standing barefoot
before the Madonnas and crucifixes, expecting to see the images open
their eyes and shed blood, both of which miracles, it was averred, had
taken place. But this absurd buffoonery sunk into insignificance
compared with the dreadful ideas purposely put into the people’s minds
about poison; in the early stage of the epidemic, several persons fell
victims to the frenzy thus occasioned.
In the middle of August the most splendid illuminations had place all
over Rome,—a thanksgiving to God for sparing the city. On the 15th, the
Pope set out in procession to accompany a famous black Madonna from the
Church of Santa Maria Maggiore to St. Peter’s. Thrice he was stopped by
storms. People crowded in to join from all the towns and villages in a
circuit of many miles. The vast concourse, the excitement of the
procession, and the violent rains to which they were exposed, barefoot
and bareheaded, tended only to exasperate the power of the epidemic. On
that day many persons died: the illusion vanished—it was admitted that
the cholera was in Rome. Strangers and nobles fled, and for two months
the most fearful scenes had place. The dead-cart went all night—people
fell down in the streets, convulsed by the frightful spasms of that
terrible disease; 15,000 persons (about one in ten of the whole
population, 150,000) died at Rome.
The Pope shut himself up in the Quirinal. Every one who entered the
palace was obliged to undergo fumigation—a thing abhorrent to the
Romans, who detest every kind of perfume. An imperative order was issued
that the cardinals, the heads of government, and various _employés_,
should not quit the city—but it was very ill obeyed—government was
indeed paralysed, and great fears were entertained, especially at first,
of the violence of the ignorant and wretchedly misguided people. “If you
were to imagine the _devil insane_,” wrote an English gentleman, “it
might give you some notion of the state of things, and they already talk
of sending for some Austrian troops.” As the epidemic pursued its
course, the people grew at first familiar with it, and then cowed. Their
state was most horrible. I have heard, from one who was on the spot,
that it was greatly to be doubted whether all who were borne nightly in
the dead-carts to hideous, unhonoured sepulture, really died of cholera.
There was reason to believe that many were victims of a virulent typhus,
brought on by acts of superstition and excessive fear—and, worse still,
that numbers died of starvation. The administrators of government having
for the most part fled or shut themselves up—a strict cordon being drawn
round the city, and the neighbourhood struck with inconceivable
panic—food grew scarce, and the poor wretches who had spent their last
in propitiating Heaven by lamps and candles, without money and without
succour, died of want.
Yet there was not absent many redeeming touches in the dark picture of
the times. The regular clergy fulfilled their duties unshrinkingly; and
the conduct of the Jesuits was particularly admirable. They visited
every corner of the city, watching by death-beds with unwearied zeal.
They were seen taking, with gentle care, babes from the sides of their
mothers, who lay dead in the streets, wrapping them tenderly in their
black gowns, and carrying them to places appointed for their refuge. The
confraternities also did not desert their post. A Roman told me he was
one of three brothers; they removed their aged father to a safe place,
at a distance from contagion, and remained themselves: they were
employed at different quarters of the city. “I never felt happier,” said
my informant; “our father was in safety; we had no fears for ourselves.
All day we were busied among the sick, and when we met in the evening,
it was with light hearts; the employment gave us something to do and to
think about; the dangers we might be supposed to run, endeared us to
each other. I remember now with regret the sort of exhilaration with
which we met, thanked God for our preservation, and then again went to
our task, not only without fear, but with a feeling of gladness superior
to every other happiness.” The few English, also, who remained,
displayed unshrinking courage. Lord C——, in particular, a Catholic
nobleman, acted with a heroism that shamed the Cardinals and heads of
the state. He earnestly strove to prove how erroneous was the fear of
contagion; the succour he brought, and the example he displayed, were of
the utmost utility, and saved many, many lives.
The country round Rome, each town and village within its cordon, was
left pretty much to itself. No disturbances occurred, and the people
showed themselves much more capable than could have been supposed, of
self-government. One English family took refuge at Olèvano, a small
town, some fifteen miles from Rome. They went thither without the
intention of remaining; they took very little money with them, and could
get nothing from Rome: the people of this little place showed them a
kindness at once singular and touching. They not only provided them with
provisions, but exerted themselves to please and amuse them. Each day
some little fête was given by the mere country people for their
diversion; so that they seemed, like the personages of the Decameron, to
have escaped from a city of the pest, to enjoy the innocent pleasures of
life with the greater zest.
Such is the amiable and courteous disposition of this people, except
when their violent passions urge them to crimes, which they scarcely
look on as wicked; for they are taught (for heresy, read any sin against
the ordinances of the church)
“Il gran peccato è l’eresia! che gli altri
Pesan men d’una piuma, e se ne vanno
Con un segno di croce.”[37]
Where men’s wants are few and easily supplied, where a benignant climate
clothes the earth in abundance, and nature is the indulgent mother
instead of the stern overseer of our species, men have leisure, and, if
they are idle, they become vicious. The air of Rome inspires lassitude,
and renders the inhabitants inert. The Romans who live in the healthy
parts of the city are all inclined to grow fat; their language,
unidiomatic, and, so to speak, long-winded in its expressions, is
pronounced with a grace of accent, a slow and melodious emphasis, that
renders it more agreeable than any other Italian to the ears of
strangers, and is strangely in harmony with the dreamy contentment of
their minds. Accustomed to receive and to gain by foreigners, they are
courteous, amiable, and ready to serve; there is among them an air of
easy indolence, which, though it militates against our notions of manly
energy, yet is never brutalized into stupidity. The women are among the
most beautiful of the Italians. You feel as if all lived under a spell;
and so they do; for, troubled and unquiet as is the rest of the papal
dominions, Rome and its immediate neighbourhood remains in a sort of
hazy apathy. The Pope appreciates highly their passive submission, and
does all he can to keep them from communicating with the discontented
districts. For this reason he is opposed to the construction of
railroads; that, as he says, his revolutionary subjects of the East may
not corrupt his obedient children of the West.
To the outward eye, the papal government pays a slight tribute to the
increased demands of the times. There is more decency in the lives of
the clergy; there is more done for the poor. But it is not eleemosynary
charity that is needed—it is the spirit of improvement, just laws and an
upright administration—none of these exist; and even scientific
knowledge, encouraged in other parts of the peninsula, is forbidden.
Meanwhile, penal laws are slight, and seldom enforced. There is, some
fifteen miles from the city, a miserable collection of huts, in the
middle of a tract of country, the peculiar haunt of mal’ aria; it is
called Campo Morto, and is an asylum of the Church. All criminals, who
fear being taken, fly hither. The spot, consecrated as an asylum, is
watched by soldiers. The fugitive who once enters the fatal bounds,
never dares leave them. Three years is the extent to which a man can
drag out existence in this pestilential atmosphere. So here the hardened
criminal comes to die, in his desire to escape from death. He is soon
struck by fever, grows feeble and emaciated; and at his appointed hour
is gathered to the grave.
The papal government is considered the worst in Italy; and the temporal
rule of the Church is looked upon as the chief source of the nation’s
misfortunes. This is no novel assertion. You may remember Dante’s
apostrophe:—
“Ahi, Costantin, di quanto mal fu matre,
Non la tua conversion, ma quella dote,
Che da te prese il primo ricco patre.”
In the middle ages the temporal power of the Popes urged them on to many
acts of unjustifiable aggression; yet, as the faith of nations in those
days made them strong, the people were, for the most part, their
friends; kings, their enemies—and often they made the latter tremble on
their thrones, while they showed themselves the protectors of the
former. The Popes were then Guelphs, and watched over civil liberty,
till attachment to temporal riches turned them into Ghibellines, and led
them to support the pretensions of sovereigns to absolute power.
Savanorola denounced this unholy alliance as subversive of the purity,
and even existence, of the Church. As faith decayed, and reform grew
imminent, the compact between the head of a religion that preached
equality, and the sovereigns who aimed at despotism, was sealed: while
as the revenues of the Church, so lately swollen by tributes from all
the Christian world, decreased, the pontiffs clung more tenaciously to
the few miles of territory which they claimed as their own.[38]
Before the first French Revolution, English travellers denounced the
temporal rule of the Popes as corrupt and odious; it subsists now as it
did then—only things are worse—partly, because all that does not improve
must deteriorate; partly, that the uses and end of government are better
understood, and abuses become more torturing and intolerable; and
partly, because the checks and restraints which time and custom opposed
to their tyranny are now all swept away.
The Pope and his prelates, alone, are invested with political,
legislative, and administrative authority, and constitute the State.
From education and from system they are despotic, and repel every
liberal notion, every social progress. The people pay and obey: all the
offices, all the employments, great and small, are in the hands of the
clergy. From the Pope to the lowest priestly magistrate, all live on the
public revenues, whence springs a system of clients, which existing
principally in Rome, yet extends over the whole of the papal dominions,
and creates a crowd of dependants devoted to the clergy. Corruption is
the mainspring of the State, which rests on the cupidity which the
absence of all incentive to, or compensation for, honest labour
inspires: yet nearly all are poor, and poorest is the Head of the whole;
who, shrinking from all improvement, fearful if the closed valves were
opened, he should admit in one rushing stream, with industry and
knowledge, rebellion, yet finds that the fresh burthens which his
necessities cause him to impose on the people fail to increase his
revenue.
The Romans, themselves, submit without repining, their state has
existed, such as it is, for centuries; the abode of the Pope and
concourse of strangers enrich—the Church ceremonies amuse them. But out
of Rome the cry has been loud, and will be repeated again and again. The
Marches bordering the Adriatic, Romagna and the four legations, (four
cities, each governed by a Cardinal legate), suffer evils comparatively
new to them; and the memory of better days incites them to endeavour to
recover their former independence. These states formed, it is true, a
portion of the pontifical dominions before the French revolution; but
they existed then on a different footing, and enjoyed privileges of
which they are now deprived. Bologna in especial considers herself
aggrieved.
During the reign of Pope Nicholas V., driven by the political
necessities of the times, Bologna placed itself under the protection of
the papal government. The city engaged to pay an annual tribute, and to
acknowledge the sovereignty of the Pontiff, while he, on the other hand,
guaranteed its independence, and a representative senate to rule the
state. Such was its position till the French invasion of 1796. The
Congress of Vienna, in 1814, among its other misdeeds, made over the
four legations to the Pope. They became a part of the patrimony of St.
Peter; their municipal rights were abolished, and, contrary to every
stipulation, they were reduced to the same condition as the ancient
subjects of the Pope. At first the Pontiffs thought it necessary to take
some steps to reconcile them to the loss of their ancient privileges.
They promised them laws in accordance with the improved notions of the
times; and that the code of Napoleon should continue in force. These
promises were never fulfilled, and a farrago of laws was imposed
impossible to be understood, and for ever changing; as each new Pope,
supported by his infallibility, makes new ones at pleasure, while the
corrupt mode in which they are administered increases the vexation of
the people. A diminution of their burthens was also promised, but they
continued as high as ever, without those attendant circumstances, that,
in the time of the French, compensated for heavy taxations. Money was
then spent in constructing roads and other useful public works; now the
whole treasure is employed to pension the clergy, and to support in
splendour the state and luxury of the Cardinals.
LETTER XXI.
Insurrection of 1831.—Occupation of Ancona by the French.
If a revolutionary spark is lighted up any where in Europe, the fire
bursts forth in Italy. The misgovernment above mentioned is the cause
that latterly Romagna has been the centre of these insurrectionary
movements, but there has never been sufficient union or strength to
secure success. When the French revolution of 1830 occurred, the
surviving Carbonari and the heads of other secret societies believed
that the moment was propitious to their designs. The government of
Louis-Philippe, desirous of drawing away from France the storm that
brooded over her from Russia and Austria, excited two unfortunate
enslaved countries, Poland and Italy, to rebel. It proclaimed the
principle of non-intervention. Marshal Soult exclaimed in the Chamber of
Peers:—“The principle of non-intervention shall henceforth be ours; but
on condition that it shall be respected by others.” These solemn
declarations satisfied the Italian conspirators. Central Italy, that is,
the northern pontifical states in chief, with the duchy of Modena, was
to be the focus of their movement, and the chiefs believed that they
would be strong enough, at least in Romagna, to cope with the armies of
their sovereign, if Austria were not permitted to pour its tens of
thousands beyond the boundaries of Lombardy.
I have asked Italians for some account of the troubles of those times.
“I fear,” was the reply, “that it will be difficult to tell any thing
worthy to be recorded. Horrible disasters, acts of incredible bravery,
admirable instances of self-devotion, were found side by side with
atrocious crimes; but all so scattered and individual, that it is
scarcely possible to group the events together so as to form a
narrative.”
Discontent, particularly among the upper classes, was general all over
Italy; yet few were willing to risk life and fortune for a cause of
which they despaired. The actual revolt was therefore confined to the
heads of the secret societies—many of them in exile, and a few thousand
young men. The want of talent in some, and of honesty in others among
the leaders, led to every disaster. They roused and gathered together
bands of ardent youths, holding out to them false hopes of a judicious
and wellregulated insurrection, aided by the power of France. Five
thousand lads, chiefly of good birth, taken from their boyish studies,
withdrawn from the caresses of their mothers, from the pleasures of
their homes, without experience, without forethought, who had scarcely
reached the threshold of life—rash and untaught, embarked on the
difficult and dangerous path of revolt. Their only tie in common was the
desire of driving the stranger from their country. They had none to
counsel, none to encourage, none to lead; they entrusted the conduct of
their attempt to men who, either from timidity or treachery, hung back
when they ought to have shewn boldness, and neutralised the small power
of aggression which they possessed. They were confronted by a hundred
thousand Imperialists, veteran soldiers, supported by all the material
of war.
The result was such as might have been expected. As soon as
Louis-Philippe felt secure on his throne, he was eager to see an end put
to the commotions excited by the revolution of thirty. He deserted the
Italian cause. The leaders had no boldness, no military skill—the youths
whom they commanded showed bravery, but were too inefficient, few, and
ill-armed, to cope with a large, disciplined, and veteran army. The end
was defeat and surrender; then came the violation of treaties, death,
and exile. It would strike with pity the coldest heart to draw but a
slight sketch of the various misery that befel individuals. Many a
domestic drama of harrowing tragic interest convulsed families, deprived
of their noblest offspring; and whether the bereaved parents were base
enough to disclaim and cast them forth, or whether they mourned in
bitterness over their fate, the misery was the same. It is not yet
ended: England and France still swarm with unfortunate exiles—the better
portion of the insurgents, who sigh to return to their country, but who
will not in hardship and banishment, make those sacrifices of principle
which would at once restore them to rank and wealth.
The occupation of Ancona by the French is an event quite distinct from
the insurrection of Romagna, though our vague recollections confuse them
together. Abandoned by the French, hemmed in by an Austrian army, the
insurgents had surrendered, and the pontifical flag again waved over the
citadel of Ancona. Still Romagna was full of commotions, occasioned by
their desire for some amelioration of the laws. The five Powers of
Europe interfered to prevail on the Pope to yield in some degree to the
desires of his subjects. His answer was an edict that overthrew all
hope, and confirmed the worst abuses—the superiority of the
ecclesiastical courts over the civil, the minor punishments for the
clergy compared with the laity, and the continuation of the Inquisition.
To enforce these edicts the Pope, helped by Austria, transacted a loan,
and declared his intention of sending troops to occupy the four
legations.
The account of this military occupation is one of the most frightful
passages of modern history. The papal regiments were recruited from the
prisons, and formed of bands of San Fedisti—the name of troops half
brigands, half soldiers, formed by the priests in opposition to the
Carbonari, whose frightful history you may find in the pages of Coletta.
This soldiery committed every excess: whether they met with resistance,
or, hoping to disarm their ferocity, they were welcomed in the towns as
friends, the result was the same—outrage, rapine, massacre. The spirit
of the people was roused, and Cardinal Albani’s army, stained by
multiplied acts of barbarity, no longer sufficed for the mastery of the
whole of Romagna. Succour was requested from Austria, and promptly
afforded. Six thousand Austrians, dragging with them the five thousand
brigands rather than troops, under the pay of the Head of the Catholic
Church, entered Bologna a second time. The severest discipline was
enjoined to the German soldiers, and strictly observed. Prince
Metternich was praised for his interference; the result showed his
secret intentions. The Italian populace compared the discipline and
moderation of the Germans with the recent excesses of the papal
soldiery, and it was hoped that an impression would be made of the
preference that ought to be given to the Austrian over the pontifical
sway, which hereafter might serve the former in good stead.
When the Pope declared his intention of a military occupation of the
discontented provinces, the five Powers, whose ambassadors had just been
urging milder measures, with one exception only, approved. England,
represented by Sir George Seymour, expressed dissent, and her minister
withdrew from the councils of the other diplomatic agents. On the other
hand, France expressed her approbation in emphatic terms. The second
occupation of Bologna by the Austrians, and the dexterity shown by
Prince Metternich, however, made a deep impression on Casimir Perrier,
then Minister for Foreign Affairs. This was a step in advance made by
the Austrian under cover of friendship; but if Romagna was to be lost to
the Pope, he saw no reason why the French should not divide the spoil,
and he suddenly resolved to occupy Ancona. A ship and two frigates
received orders to sail for that city, and carry thither eleven hundred
men, under the command of a naval captain Gallois, and of Colonel
Combes. General Cubières was named commander-in-chief of the expedition.
He set out for Rome, by way of Leghorn, for the purpose of communicating
with the Pope with regard to this seizure of one of his principal
cities. The French government calculated that General Cubières would
have time to see the Pope, and obtain his consent, and reach Ancona
before Captain Gallois and Colonel Combes could arrive; but contrary
winds delayed Cubières, while on the other hand, the little French fleet
doubled the coasts of Italy with an expedition that could not be
foreseen, and which indeed excited general surprise; so that when
Cubières arrived at Rome he found the French ambassador in a violent
rage; the tidings of the occupation of Ancona having reached Rome a few
hours before; the Pontiff also was inexpressibly indignant.
Ancona was taken in the night of the 22–23d February, 1832. On their
arrival, Colonel Combes and Captain Gallois did not find Cubières. He
held the instructions of government, without which, strictly speaking,
they could not commence the attack. They did not, however, hesitate to
assume the responsibility of the assault—a resolution which they
regarded due to the honour of their flag. The fleet cast anchor three
miles distant from the city. A portion of the French soldiers
disembarked without impediment, and in a short time, by a hurried march,
they arrived under the walls. The gates were closed; the papal troops
would not open them. The sappers of the 66th regt. broke one open with
furious blows of the axe, and were aided in the work by some of the
populace. The French dispersed themselves quickly in the city, disarming
the posts. Colonel Lazzarini was made prisoner in his bed before he
awoke; and thus, by a _coup-de-main_, the French possessed themselves of
the city. At daybreak the rest of the troops were disembarked. Colonel
Combes, at the head of a battalion, marched against the citadel. The
pontifical troops, frightened, yielded immediately; the French were
received as friends into the fortress, and the tri-coloured flag was
hoisted. The people of Ancona co-operated actively with the French, and
not a drop of blood was shed; the inhabitants looked on the occupation
as the beginning of liberty, and rejoicing and gladness everywhere
prevailed. The Italian tricolor floated in all the streets, and over
every square. The French raised the cry of _Vive la liberté!_ which was
responded to by the Italians with tumults of joy. The governor of the
province and the commandant of the piazza were made prisoners, but
afterwards set at liberty; they left Ancona. The state prisons were
thrown open, and several chiefs of the insurgents liberated. The city
was that night illuminated, and the theatres resounded with patriotic
songs. A staff officer got upon a bench in one of the principal cafés,
and brandishing a naked sword, declared that the regiment occupying
Ancona was merely a vanguard, which announced the liberty of Italy.
All Europe was astonished by this event. Austria, in its first movement
of surprise, demanded categorical explanations; at the same time that
the general of the Austrian troops stationed at Bologna, published a
proclamation, in which he declared that the French had occupied Ancona
through the same motives, and for the same ends, which had guided the
Austrians in Romagna. The Pope gave immediate orders that his troops
should retire from Ancona, and that the provincial government should be
removed to Osimo: but this anger on the part of the Vatican was of short
duration; it listened to the declarations and protestations of the
French government, which had in truth no notion of favouring Italian
liberty, but intended simply to check Austria, or at least obtain a part
of the spoils, if the Pope lost Romagna. Sad were the conditions upon
which the French were permitted to prolong their sojourn at Ancona. The
part they filled afterwards redounded to their shame in the eyes of the
Italians. They averred that the French soldiers, until the evacuation,
only served as sbirri of the papal power. And while the government of
France held language openly that made Europe believe that Ancona, while
in their possession, was a place of refuge for the liberals, it by its
acts proved to the various cabinets, that its views were in unison with
those of Austria, Prussia, and Russia. A few years ago Ancona was made
over again to the Pontiff, the French saving their credit by having the
reputation of obtaining in exchange the pardon of some of the exiles of
Lombardy; which, in fact, Austria only wanted a pretext and a fair
occasion to grant.
At present the spirit of revolt is checked, but not quelled in the
pontifical states. A volcanic fire smoulders near the surface, ready at
every moment to burst forth in a flame. The whole of the country before
disturbed, the Marches, Romagna, the four legations, together with the
population of the mountains, are bound together by secret associations,
and wait impatiently for the favourable moment when to break their
chains. These secret societies, unfortunately, are bad means for seeking
a good result; and it is to be feared that the country will never attain
a high moral tone and a true feeling of independence, till the means
used by their leaders are changed.
Secret associations ought to be particularly eschewed by the Italians,
as tending to foster their principal defect—their cunning. The violence
of their passions, which they are so little taught to control, is the
source of much crime and unhappiness; but under better laws they would
be checked. The cowardice of which they are accused, I regard as a
mistake: mingled with other soldiers the Italians are as brave as
they—it is the want of leaders which has occasioned this low estimation
of their courage. No troops will hold together who have not confidence
in their generals. In all instances of their defeat it seems evident
that their disasters were not occasioned by cowardice in the soldiers,
but absence of military skill among those in command.
The habit of deception is the worst fault of the Italians; accustomed to
look on the dark side of human nature and to disbelieve in its virtues,
they are ever awake to ward off covert injury by astuteness; while the
purer virtues, stainless honour and unspotted truth, belong to few (yet
to a few they do belong), among them.
The evil has been fostered by the bad use to which the confessional has
been put during troubled times;[39] by the institution of a secret
police by the governments, and by the spread of secret societies. For
what is held mysterious, concealed by oaths, and carried on in the dark,
must use falsehood as a shield, and terror as a weapon.
Little good, I am afraid, has been operated by these associations on the
character of the people; and the real interests of the country must
result from the improvement of the moral sense. Meanwhile, they occasion
frequent and partial insurrections, that keep the sovereigns in alarm,
but do not advance their cause. It cannot be expected that Italy should
be able to liberate itself in a time of lethargic peace like the
present. And the attempts of the few who, from time to time, are driven
by indignation and shame to take up arms, are but the occasion of tears
and grief. They form a band of hidden and obscure victims, which each
year that power devours that holds them in slavery. It may even be
doubted whether an European commotion would give an occasion favourable
to Italy. We must not forget that the people are demoralised and
degenerate. The present affords no glimmering light by which we may
perceive how the regeneration of Italy will be effected. It is one of
the secrets of futurity at which it is vain to guess. Yet the hour must
and will come. For there are noble spirits who live only in this hope;
and every man of courage and genius throughout the country—and several
such exist—consecrates his moral and intellectual faculties to this end
only.
LETTER XXII.
Sorrento.—Capri.—Pompeii.
SORRENTO, JUNE 1.
It seems to me as if I had never before visited Italy—as if now, for the
first time, the charm of the country was revealed to me. At every moment
the senses, lapped in delight, whisper—this is Paradise. Here I find the
secret of Italian poetry: not of Dante; he belonged to Etruria and
Cisalpine Gaul: Tuscany and Lombardy are beautiful—they are an improved
France, an abundant, sunshiny England—but here only do we find another
earth and sky. Here the poets of Italy tasted the sweets of those
enchanted gardens which they describe in their poems—and we wonder at
their bright imaginations; but they drew only from reality—the reality
of Sorrento. Call to mind those stanzas of Tasso, those passages of
Berni and Ariosto, which have most vividly transported you into gardens
of delight, and in them you will find the best description of the charms
of this spot. I had visited Naples before, but that was in winter—and
beautiful as I thought it, I did not then guess what this land is in all
the glory of its summer dress.
Here is the house in which Tasso was born—what wonder that the gardens
of Armida convey to the mind the feeling that the poet had been carried
away by enchantment to an Elysium, whose balmy atmosphere hung about
him, and he wrote under its influence.—So indeed was it—here is the
radiance, here the delights which he describes—here he passed his
childhood; the fragrance of these bowers, the glory of this sky, haunted
him in the dark cell of the convent of St. Anna.
I know not whether I should prefer the view of the bay which his house
(now occupied as an hotel) commands, to our own from the Cocumella—the
scene from his windows is certainly completer; situated more in the bend
of the bay, turned northwards towards Vesuvius, he looked upon a circle
of mountain crags, embracing the sea; our view is more turned to the
west—it is less picturesque—perhaps more sublime.
The portion of the bay that belongs to Sorrento is singularly formed.
For the most part, steep cliffs rise from the water, with here and there
a break, where there intervenes a short space of sands, hedged round by
cliffs. The cliffs are perforated with caverns, some open to the air,
and clothed with luxuriant vegetation; others scooped deep in the face
of the rock. Many of them have been enlarged, and openings made for
ventilation, and passages cut down to the sands, and up to the gardens
above. Every house almost has one of these _calate_ or descents, down
from the heights above to the beach; some cut in the face of the
cliffs—corkscrew galleries—some communicating with the caverns; most of
them are walled up to prevent smuggling. I believe when the family to
whom the house belongs resides on the spot, at their request the
_calata_ belonging to them is opened. One of the royal family had been
staying at or near the Cocumella; the passage was opened for their
convenience, and the keys were left at our inn; so we had full command
of the descent from the garden of our house. Our _calata_ is considered
one of the best; it opens into a huge double cavern, which tradition or
imagination has appropriated to Polyphemus. It is large enough for him
and his flock, and within is an inner cave, where the giant-shepherd
stored his cheeses, and against whose rough surface the luckless
voyagers clung, hoping to escape: the rock he flung to sink the vessel
of Ulysses still lies a furlong from the mouth of the cavern. In the
morning nothing can be cooler than the sands shaded by the cliff; later
in the day the sun descending to set behind Ischia, strikes on the rocks
and beach, and they become burningly hot.
P—— has got a nice sailing-boat over from Naples; too small, but still a
wonderfully safe, good boat, considering its size, and we have a
_marinaro_ also from Naples, to whom it belongs; he takes care of it all
day, and sleeps in it at night. He is a young fellow, and certainly
never shows any signs of timidity, but considers his little skiff
charmed from danger within the bay; beyond, the seas are far heavier;
his father _ha timore_ and will not let him venture. He tries to
persuade us to go with him to Ischia and Capri. I am shy of this—the
boat is so small; but P—— and his friend often sail some miles from
shore, and run down to Castelamare; and on calm days I go on exploring
expeditions into the frequent and strange caves of the coast, or stretch
across to the Temple of Neptune, and roam about the ruin-strewed shore.
These caverns are mysterious recesses, which the fancy is excited to
people with a thousand fairy tales. As I have said, some are like ours
of the Cocumella, scooped out in the face of the rock—others, narrow
clefts in the rock, open to the sky. Into the strangest you enter by
narrow passages, just large enough to let the boat pass; they are
covered at top, and paved by the waves, which play flickering with a
turquoise tint quite peculiar and very beautiful.[40]
The plain of Sorrento, which is spread on the top of the cliffs that
overlook the sea, is shut in all round by a belt of hills—intersected
here and there by narrow ravines—clefts, as it were, in the soil,
thickly clothed with various trees and underwood. The plain itself is
planted with orange trees. These gardens being shut in by high walls,
the walks near us are not at all agreeable; therefore, when we leave our
terrace, and our beach, and our cavern, it is in a boat or on mules—the
rides are delightful. To Capo del Monte, which those who live nearer to
Sorrento than ourselves can reach by a walk, and therefore to live
nearer has advantages—but I like our greater retirement better; or to
the Calmaldoli, or to the Conti delle Fontanelle, a height whence we
command a view of the Gulf of Salerno, the rocks of the Syrens, and the
long line of coast that runs southward, on which Pæstum is situated; and
of Capri rising abrupt and dark. I can only compare the difference
between these enchanting scenes and those of other countries which have
heretofore delighted me, by saying, that in all others it was like
seeing a lovely countenance behind a dusky veil; here the veil is
withdrawn, and the senses ache with the effulgent beauty which is
revealed.
JUNE 3.
To-day we visited Capri. The winds here are so regular, that with the
exception of a scirocco which will sometimes intervene, you know exactly
in summer-time on what you may depend. At noon the Ponente rises—a west
wind, brisk and fresh, which crisps the sea into sparkling waves, that
dance beneath the sun. This wind goes on increasing till about five or
six in the afternoon, and then dies away; at about nine or ten an air
comes off from Vesuvius—a land wind, in fact—which lasts till morning.
Thus to go to Capri, it was necessary to set out early to profit by this
breeze, which wafted us southward to the island. I do not know anything
more striking than the manner in which, as we stretch out from our bay,
the island of Capri, with its two peaks and beetling cliffs, rises upon
us. As we ran down towards it, headland after headland opened, and
disclosed the bays between. In two hours we reached the island, and ran
into the little bay in which the town of Capri is situated. We then
transferred ourselves to two small boats, for the purpose of visiting
the Grotto Azzurro. We were rowed under the high, dark, bare,
perpendicular cliffs, and with anxious curiosity I looked for the
opening to the grotto. The mountains grew higher, the precipices more
abrupt and black, as we rowed slowly in the deep calm water beneath
their shadow. At length we came to a small opening; it was necessary to
sit at the bottom of the boat, as it shot through the narrow, low,
covered entrance; within, the strangest sight is revealed: we entered a
large cavern, formed by the sea; the hue resembles that which I
mentioned as belonging to the caves of the Sorrentine coast; only here
it is brighter—a turquoise, milky, pellucid, living azure. The white
roof and walls of the cave reflect the tints, and the shimmering motion
of the waves being also mirrored on the rock, the effect is more
fairy-like and strange than can be conceived. This cave was discovered
by two Englishmen, who went to swim under the cliffs, and penetrated by
chance its narrow opening. It deserves the renown it has gained. I
cannot explain from what effect of the laws of light this singular and
beautiful hue proceeds. Partly it is the natural azure of the waves of
this bright sea, which, entering, reflects the snow-white cavern, and is
turned as it were into transparent milk; another cause may be, that the
walls of the cavern do not reach deeper than the surface of the water;
they just touch it—and the sea flows beneath. The water is icy cold, and
the adventure would be perilous; but a good swimmer might be excited to
dive beneath the paving water, strike out under the cave, and seek for
wonders beyond.
After lingering some time in this favourite grotto of the Nereids, which
they have, since the creation till the present time, kept sacred from
our intrusion, we returned to Capri, and hired donkeys for our ascent to
the palace of Tiberius, which is situated on the summit of one of the
mountain-peaks of the island. We had several guides; the woman that
accompanied me attracted me by her extreme beauty. She had that noble
contour of countenance that I so particularly admire; a beauty at once
full of dignity and expression. The sun burnt bright above, and the way
was fatiguing. We clambered up through vineyards that clothe the
mountains’ sides, and _podere_, or small farms, sown with grain, and
prolific in the huge prickly pear, which grow as giants. We reached at
last the remains of the palace of Tiberius; a part of the walls and many
portions of mosaic pavement remain, as well as the relics of a way down
to the sea, of very solid yet elaborate workmanship. The view from the
summit, where a portion of the ruins has been turned into a little
church, is more grand than anything I ever saw, The Bay of Naples on one
side; that of Salerno on the other; with the coast on which Pæstum is
situated, bounding the eastern horizon. There is a peculiarity in the
way in which the steep promontories of the southern Italian coast abut
into the sea, and in the hues of ocean, as it embraces the rocky shores,
which those who have not visited the South cannot conceive; which I
never saw till I came here, but which satisfies the mind that this is
beauty; that here, God has let fall upon earth the mantle of glory which
otherwise is gathered up among the angels!
We had brought provisions with us, and dined on the sort of platform at
the summit; and here, in one of the ruined chambers, where the mosaic
pavement is entire, the peasants danced the Tarantella. On mainland,
this dance is forbidden, at least, for the two sexes to dance it
together;—why, I cannot guess: as far as we saw, it is more decent than
the waltz. The couples _set_ and turn round each other, but without
touching even each other’s hands, for these are occupied by the
castanets. Two or three of the women were handsome; but none so
attractive as the woman who was my guide.
As we descended, I talked to her. The wretched lot of these poor people
is very sad. In England we see and read of the squalid condition of the
poor; and when it is contrasted with the luxury of the rich, we feel
deeply, “That there is something rotten in the state.” But while we are
aware that our climate fearfully increases the sufferings of the poor,
we know that to keep out cold and hunger is costly, and the suffering
does not appear so causeless and arbitrary as in this fairy island;
here, where the sun in all his splendour kisses earth, which, well
cultivated and fertile, yields plenty; and where, moreover, the sea is
abundant in fish; the heart rebels yet more vehemently against the
hungry poverty of the hard-working peasants. Fish and meat they never
touch: all that is caught of the former is taken to Naples. Maccaroni
they get on festivals: at other times, they live on vegetables—nothing
so wholesome as the potato—the prickly pear chiefly. The better off
among them indulge now and then in _polenta_, the flour of Indian corn
made into porridge. They have no milk; weak sour wine, or water, is
their drink. One result of this bad fare is the mortality among the
children. My Juno-looking guide had had four children: one only
survived. Poor little fellow! he ran beside his mother; and she looked
on him with anxious fondness, for his complexion and figure all spoke
disease.
To suffer is a different thing under this sky. They have had food, they
work hard; but Nature is their friend; they are not pinched with cold
nor racked by rheumatic pains. Thus my poor woman, in whom I grew
interested, had nothing morose—scarcely anything plaintive—about her.
“_Sono sempre allegra_,” she said. “I am gay—we ought to be gay.”
“_Siamo come Dio vuole._” “We live as God pleases, and must not
complain. My heart aches when I remember my poor children now in
Paradise; I cry when I think of them; and that little fellow,” and she
cast an anxious, maternal glance on him—“he is not well” (heaven knows,
he was not). “_Ma, allegra, Signora_”—“the Virgin will help us;” and she
began, in a sweet voice, to sing a plaintive hymn to the Virgin. Poor
people! their religion is hung round with falsehood; but it is a great,
a real comfort, to them. Sickness and all evil comes from God, and must
be home, therefore, with patience; and the great duty is to be gay under
all, and to serve God with a cheerful, as well as a pure, heart. I
should have liked to have tried, at least, to have done some real good
to this woman, whose countenance, and voice, and conversation, gave her
distinction. Nothing could be more simple and unpretending than her
talk; but it had a stamp of heart, joined to that touch of the
imaginative, peculiar to the Italian peasantry.
English tourists get very angry at the perpetual demands made on their
purses during their excursions. “_Dammi qualche co’_,” salutes our ear
too often. But, poor people, who can wonder! I have told you how they
fare. At Sorrento oranges are the staple of the place—that and hewn
stones; the poor man who has a mule considers himself comparatively well
off; he and his mule carrying oranges and stones, support his family.
They often work all night, lading the boats going to Naples with
oranges, and by day they labour at the quarries. The nobles do not
reside on their estates, and there is no help for the poor; there are
many convents, but none among them are charitably disposed, so that,
except the archbishop, there is not a single individual or community
that turns a pitying eye on the ill-paid, over-worked labourers of the
soil; while the abundant riches that flow from this soil and from their
ceaseless industry, are drained away to Naples. The people are
particularly handsome; even the old are good-looking: they say there is
something in the soil and air particularly good for health and
comeliness. I have seen no _hags_. Old women, with happy-looking faces,
graced by the placid picturesque beauty of age, sit at their doors
spinning. No one can talk to them without perceiving latent, under
ignorance and superstition, great natural abilities, and that heartfelt
piety which springs (as our higher virtues do,) from the imagination
which warms and colours their faith. Poor people! how I long for a fairy
wand which would make them proprietors of the earth which they till, but
must not reap. How sad a thing is human society: yet it is comforting,
even where we find the laws by which it is said to be held together—but
which ought rather to be likened to an iron yoke, pressing it down and
depriving it of its native strength and elasticity—yet, I say, it warms
my heart when I find the individuals that compose a population, poor,
humble, ignorant, misguided, yet endowed with some of the brightest
gifts of our nature, and hearing in their faces the stamp of
intelligence and feeling. I never lived among a people I liked so well
as these Sorrentines. I hope I am not deceived: but Mr. Cooper, who
sojourned here a few months, and Mrs. Starke, who lived here for years,
evidently regard them with more liking and esteem than the poorer
classes usually inspire.
JUNE 15TH.
Our way of life is regular enough, as in hot countries it always must
be. The mornings are cool and pleasant: my bed-room window, with a
balcony, looks on the northern mountains; and the first opening of my
eyes is upon orange gardens, shadowy groves, and green mountain-tops,
with peeps of the sea between. At noon, when the sea-breeze rises, my
friends sail; sometimes, when the breeze is not too _stiff_, I join
them, and we stretch out till the whole of Capri opens on us. When I am
not there they venture further, and they bathe: the sea is so inviting,
that they spend an hour or two in the water. We dine (and our cook being
good and the viands excellent, we dine well) at two. At four or five we
either betake ourselves to the boat, and cross the bay to the Temple of
Neptune, which is at the point of the first headland—or the mules come
to the door, and we take various rides; or, if we at times repeat the
same, its beauty always seems new. We are shut out from walks in the
immediate vicinity—as to trudge between high stone walls is not
pleasant; but in our excursions we find plenty of occasion to clamber up
and down the steep mountain-paths. The hills are bright with the broom
in full flower, and the myrtle begins to show its stars among its
bright-pointed leaves. On the plains, which are often found near the
summits of the hills—the rocky crags rising higher round as a hedge and
shelter, wheat is sown, and flourishes. One of our favourite rides is to
the other side of the promontory, where a natural arch once stood,
resembling the Presbisch Thor of the Saxon Switzerland; it is now broken
and ruined. Once, going there, my friends thought that they could easily
reach the sands beneath and bathe, or find a boat to take them to the
rocks of the Syrens; but after a rough precipitous descent of some
length, they found the way grow on them: they were apparently as far off
as ever from the sea, and they returned.
I spend the evenings on our terrace. The nights here are wonderful; and
I am never weary of observing the loveliness of the skies. Twenty-four
o’clock, a moveable hour which is fixed for half an hour after sunset,
never, in this climate, falls later than half-past eight. By that time
it is night; but the extreme purity of the atmosphere gives to darkness
a sort of brilliancy, such as a black shining object has. The sea is
dark and bright at the same time; the high coast around does not assume
that gigantic, misty appearance, hills do in the North during dusk, but
they stand out as well defined as by day. If there be a moon, we see it
floating in mid-air. We perceive at once that it is not a shining shape,
plastered, as it were, against the sky; but a ball which, all bright, or
partly dusky, hangs pendant. Its light is painfully bright; the extreme
glittering whiteness fatigues the eye more than daylight. In the North,
we often repine that we have not two moons, so always to enjoy the use
of our eyes in the absence of the sun; in the South, the interlunar
nights are an agreeable change, at times almost a relief. By the
moonlight we can perceive the smoke ascend from the crater of Vesuvius;
if she desert the night, a lambent flame shoots up at intervals. I may
have wearied you by my various accounts of the evening hours which, to a
lover of nature, are so enchanting. In other places a sense of
tenderness, a softening influence, has fallen on my heart at that time;
but here, the glory of absolute immeasurable beauty mantles all things
at all times.
JUNE 20.
——Yet not so. Lo! a scirocco comes to blot the scene. Nothing can be
stranger than this scirocco: at its first breath, the sea grows dull,
leaden, slate-coloured—all its transparency is gone. The view of the
opposite shore is hidden in mist. The near mountains wear a deeper
green, but have lost all brightness and cast wierd shadows on the dull
waters. This wind coming from the south-east is with us a land wind. It
rolls huge waves on the beach of Naples; but beneath our cliffs the sea
is calm—such a calm!—it looks so treacherous, that even if you did not
hear of the true state of things, you would hesitate to trust yourself
to it. At a short distance from the shore the wind plays wild pranks;
here and there it seizes the water as a whirlwind, and you see circles
emerge from a centre, spread round and fade away. P—— went out in his
boat about a hundred yards from our cavern; even there, though in
apparent calm, the skiff was whirled round, and nothing but letting go
the sheet on the instant prevented her from being capsized.
The heat is excessive. Every one appears to be seized with feverish
illness: nobody wishes to eat or move. The early setting and late rising
of the sun in this high latitude, making the nights long, gives the
earth and atmosphere time to cool; and it is thus that the heat of
summer is often not so oppressive as in the North; otherwise it would be
intolerable. Imagine our Dresden length of day with a Neapolitan
temperature: no one could bear it and live. But our nights are cool; our
early mornings even chill, and thus nature is refreshed: only, this does
not occur during the periods of scirocco; then, night and day, the heat
lies like a heavy garment round our limbs. Fortunately, three days is
its utmost, one or two its usual, extent; it vanishes as it came, no one
knows how. Nature and our human spirits come forth as after an eclipse;
the world revived looks up and resumes its natural healthy appearance.
JUNE 23.
We have visited Pompeii. A greater extent of the city has been dug out
and laid open since I was there before, so that it has now much more the
appearance of a town of the dead. You may ramble about and lose yourself
in the many streets. Bulwer, too, has peopled its silence. I have been
reading his hook, and I have felt on visiting the place much more as if
_really_ it had been once full of stirring life, now that he has
attributed names and possessors to its houses, passengers to its
streets. Such is the power of the imagination. It can not only give “a
local habitation and a name” to the airy creations of the fancy and the
abstract ideas of the mind, but it can put a soul into stones, and hang
the vivid interest of our passions and our hopes upon objects otherwise
vacant of name or sympathy. Not indeed that Pompeii could be such, but
the account of its “Last Days” has cast over it a more familiar garb,
and peopled its desert streets with associations that greatly add to
their interest.
LETTER XXIII.
Excursion to Amalfi.
JULY 10TH.
I have always had a great desire to penetrate into the south of Italy,
which I believe to be the most beautiful country in the world; joining
the rich aspect of culture to the graces of nature,
“In all her wildness, all her majesty,
As in that elder time, ere man was made.”[41]
If I were a man, I know of no enterprise that would please my
imagination more than seeking, in this district, for the traces of lost
wealth, science, and civilisation. These blessings flourished in this
neighbourhood at two distinct periods, apparently widely separated from
each other; yet, if examined, we might find that the link had never been
broken. Magna Grecia was the mother of many philosophers, and the
richest portion of ancient Italy; and there is nothing violent in the
supposition, that Amalfi, hemmed in by mountains, and Salerno, almost
equally sheltered, should have preserved and extended, rather than
originated, the trade and science which rendered them famous at a time
when, all around, every effort of human enterprise was merged in
offensive and defensive wars.
Amalfi was the first republic of modern Italy. As the power of the Roman
Empire waxed weak, and the transplanting of the seat of empire to
Constantinople, placed Italy in the novel position of a distant
neglected province, frequently invaded by barbarians, the fabric of
national government fell to pieces, while municipal communities
remained. Two of these, from their happy position on the sea, and the
great traffic there carried on by means of the Mediterranean, were
eminently prosperous. One in the north, Venice, acquired power, and
preserved its independence for centuries; the other in the south,
Amalfi, was swallowed up by the kingdom of Naples, after having been
pillaged by the Pisans in 1137—for thus early did municipal rivalry, the
bane of Italy, begin to divide and ravage the peninsula. It seems to me
that sound knowledge of the results of political institutions might be
gathered from studying the state of society in a town whose citizens
were, when free, intelligent and courageous—whose maritime laws,
instituted at a time (the ninth century) when Europe was sunk in
barbarism, has served as a basis for every subsequent commercial
code—who covered the sea with their ships—who almost discovered the
mariner’s compass. What are they now?
Their intelligence, their capacities, I am sure remain; their affections
also must warm their hearts as kindly; must we not seek in their
political history for the causes wherefore superstition and vice have
replaced ardour for science and the virtues of industrious and brave
citizens?
Though I could not fulfil in any way a favourite design of visiting
Calabria, yet we have crept on as far as Amalfi. It had been my idea to
spend a month in this town, when I could have told you more of the
present state of its inhabitants. I was not able to do this; so, can
only mention the impression made by the visit of a day.[42]
We had secured a boat to be ready for us at the Marinella, on the other
side of the promontory, and set out on mules for the Scaricatojo, the
name given to the descent from the mountain that overhangs the eastern
sea. We reached the height which we had often before visited, whence a
view is commanded of the two seas. To the west the Bay of Naples,
landlocked, as we looked on it, by the islands of Ischia and Procida,
and the promontory of Misenum; while, more to the north, the shining
edifices of the city of Naples are distinctly visible, and in the depth
of the bay, Vesuvius rises up immediately from the shore. On the other
side, the eye plunged down from the height of the myrtle-clothed
mountain on which we stood, to the sea far below, gleaming at the foot
of the precipices—vexing itself against the rocks of the Syrens:
eastward, the coast that runs in a long line to the south; the lowlands
on which Pæstum is situated, with the back-ground of lofty mountains,
was this day—as it almost always is—hidden in mist.
The descent of the Scaricatojo is very steep, and long and fatiguing. At
first we made light of it; but as we went on under a burning sun, the
path grew more craggy and precipitous: sometimes it was formed only of a
rough sort of steps cut in the mountain side, or constructed of
shattered masses of rock; or of zigzags, which grew shorter, more
numerous, more precipitous, and more slippery, till we despaired of ever
reaching the beach.
But all things human end; and at last—most agreeable change!—we were
seated in a boat beneath the lofty inaccessible hills that rise almost
sheer from the water, with here and there a little break, where a brief
space of beach intervenes, and a town or village rises beside it. The
voyage was not quite as agreeable as it might have been, for there was a
swell of the sea, and our little boat was deeply laden with people. We
were glad to see Amalfi open on us. Salvator Rosa best represents the
peculiar beauty of the southern Italian coast; its steep promontories,
the varied breaks of its mountainous shores, all green with
forest-trees, adorned by isolated ruins, and clothed with a radiance
which is the peculiar gift of the atmosphere of this clime; encircled by
the lucid transparency of the tideless sea—for it was here that he often
retreated, leading, some have said, a bandit’s life,[43] but most surely
a lover and studier of nature; his landscapes are so many exquisite
views taken from this part of the country. Look at them, wherever you
can, and learn in what its loveliness consists. The landing-place of the
town is open, busy, and cheerful. There is a Capuchin convent most
beautifully situated near the sea; it was secularised by the French, and
long served for an hotel. The mother of the present King of Naples often
visited Amalfi, and slept at this inn. The expelled monks gathered round
her, and led her to consider it a matter of conscience that they should
be reinstated. She obtained this favour from her son before she died;
the Capuchins are come back; and travellers are turned out from what may
be fairly named the _most_ beautiful inn in the world. The present
house, however, is by no means bad, and overlooks the Marina. We
obtained good rooms and a tolerable dinner, being waited on by three
sons of the host—handy little fellows, from ten to fifteen, who
performed their duties promptly and quietly.
As soon as we had rested and were refreshed, we wished, though still
much fatigued, to see something of the place. We visited the cathedral,
an ancient edifice, built upon the site of a pagan temple, and rambled
about the town, which is busy. Though fallen from the commercial
prosperity it enjoyed twelve centuries ago, Amalfi carries on
considerable traffic, and its citizens are well to do. There is a large
manufacture of maccaroni, another of paper, another for working the iron
of Elba. Every one can find work, living is cheap, and want is happily
unknown.
The paper-mills are picturesquely situated in a ravine, shut in by lofty
mountains, beside a cascade; it was not so far but that we might visit
them during the evening. Two donkeys were brought to carry us thither.
Accustomed to the excellent mules of Sorrento, we were not prepared for
the poor little creatures, with things on their backs which it was
ridiculous to call saddles. However, I and a young lady who accompanied
me mounted. If you have the book, look at the vignette to “Italy” of
Amalfi; you will perceive its situation, and how just behind the town
the mountains are cloven and divided by a deep ravine—our way led up
this narrow pass, down which sped a torrent, whose “inland murmur,” or
rather dashing, was grateful to our ears, long accustomed only to the
roaring of the surges of the sea.
The scene was wholly different from anything near Sorrento. The valley
and the mountain sides were beautifully green and fresh—grassy uplands
shone between groves of forest-trees, and villages with their churches
here and there peeped out—while the torrent dashed over the rocks,
sparkling and foaming—and dressing its banks, which grew higher and more
rocky as we ascended the pass, in luxuriant and bright verdure. Our
first visit was to a paper-mill, whence a view of the ravine is
commanded—and then we clambered up the hill-side to the road above.
Golden evening gave a refreshing coolness to the air, and picturesque
shadows to the hills. It was a scene,—an hour,—when Nature imparts a
quick and living enjoyment akin to the transports of love and the
ecstacy of music—it touches a chord whose vibration is happiness. Faint
from excessive weariness, yet with regret I consented to return. Night
with her stars gathered round us, and with much difficulty our poor
little stumbling animals carried us back to the town.
This same evening we wished to prepare for our excursion on the morrow;
the plan of which was to visit Ravello, and then to descend the mountain
to the sea-shore—take boat, and sail to Salerno, and after dinner to
drive back to Sorrento.
Our evening’s experience showed that the poor little asses were not fit
for such an expedition—we must have recourse to the other alternative,
_portantini_,—arm-chairs placed on poles, borne by two men; we required
three, for the three ladies of the party. P——, and his friend, were to
walk.
We were told —— but, remember, I consider all that we heard as very
problematical as regards truth—we had no time to learn the real state of
things, and I relate the story more to show the sort of wild excuses the
Italians make when they want to carry a point profitable to
themselves—losing to us. We were told that the bearers of the
_portantini_ all belonged to a village, Vettici, some miles up the
mountain—that when these were wanted they were sent for the previous
evening—locked up all night at Amalfi, to prevent them from being
enticed away, I don’t why or by whom. We were told that we had arrived
too late to get these men; that we must engage some of the
town’s-people. We ought to have four bearers to each chair; thirty men
came forward to claim the employment—and the _polizia_ begged us to
choose twelve from among them. My friends went to the _polizia_ for this
purpose—the scene was highly comic. Thirty men vociferating, insisting,
supplicating—eager. Among these was the master of the boat who was to
take us to Salerno, and his three sons—they were evidently respectable
men, and at once selected—but among the rest who could choose? My
friends could only laugh; they pointed out a dozen as possessing the
best physiognomies.
We were to set out early, and therefore retired early. Night scarcely
veiled the sea. The quay had been busy all day, lading ships with grain;
several parties of men were still at work. It was a lively scene
compared with the quiet of the Cocumella, yet so unlike were the tiny
barks in the offing, and appearance of the men at work, lading and
unlading vessels, from anything one is accustomed to that the ancient
times of Magna Græcia, when the busy ports sent corn to Rome, occurred;
or rather, I confess, that with me another association was awakened.
When excited, the mind is apt to recur to the impressions of
childhood—like sympathetic ink exposed to fire—the covert but not
expunged pictures which the soul first received, revive and become
visible. _Les Aventures de Télémaque_ recurred to my mind. I was haunted
by the description therein given of the busy sea-ports of Tyre and
Crete. The broad luminous sea before, the jutting headlands, the not
inharmonious cries of the men at work, the frequent tread of their feet,
formed a sort of picture which it seemed to me I had seen in childhood
drawn by the pen of Fénelon. I went to sleep while it still flitted, as
it were, beneath my closed eyelids.
The morrow came, and with it our guide, our chairs, our bearers—such a
crowd. The thirty men had been disputing all night as to which among
them had been chosen; the conclusion they came to was, that they would
all go. Travellers often (I among the number) have had the whole
pleasure of an excursion marred by a struggle with guides, muleteers,
&c. It is often necessary to contest a thousand points, and to resist
exactions, and the temper gets soured, and the divine influence of
nature on the mind is marred. I was determined that I would not lose the
pleasure I might snatch during my hasty visit to the outskirts of
Calabria, by tormenting myself with these people; for being the one of
our party most conversant with Italian, the brunt of the battle must
fall upon me. I made up my mind at once that these fellows should have
their way, and I would be entertained instead of annoyed by exactions of
all kinds.
We had our guide—an erect old man, loquacious enough, with a very
amusing assumption of dignity towards the other men. We had our thirty
bearers, and in addition (recommended by the police, to keep so large a
band in order) two police-officers, with unloaded muskets and
cartouche-boxes innocent of ammunition. Eight men devoted themselves to
my chair—the best of the number, I believe; and away we went, up the
rocky path through the ravine, beside the torrent, beneath the chesnut
woods, climbing higher and higher up the mountain side, the bright
golden morning sun flinging long shadows from the hills.
The scenery is quite unlike Sorrento; as far as earth is concerned, it
is far more sublime. The mountains are loftier, and more picturesque,
parted by deeper and wider ravines, terminated in abrupter peaks, their
sides clothed by magnificent forest-trees; and when we reached a summit
and looked around—travellers visit Switzerland and speak of the sublime
works of creation among seas of ice and avalanches and towering Alps,
bare and craggy, crested with perpetual snow; there, nature is sublime,
but she shows the power and the will to harm; here she is gracious as
well as glorious; she is our friend, or rather our exalted and
munificent queen and benefactress.[44]
From the height of Ravello we gazed on a wide and various panorama of
vale and mountain, spread in picturesque and infinite variety around;
deep below was a sunny beach, shut in by steep headlands, and a placid,
widespread southern sea, basking in the noontide heat. The cathedral of
Ravello is an ancient, venerable edifice. In the sacristy were some old
paintings of what may be called the seraphic school, such as I had
admired at Florence. Saints, whose countenances show that they are
blessed; virgins, whose gentleness is full of majesty, whose humility is
that of one who, placing herself last, shall be first. Since those days
men have lost the power of portraying the passion of adoration in the
countenance. Either in venerable age or beautiful youth, what specimens
there are in the first painters of great and good beings absorbed by
grateful, joyful worship of the greatest and best of all. One of the
most charming of the pictures at Ravello was an Annunciation;—the
beaming sweetness of the angel, the chaste joy of Mary, spread a halo
over the canvas. They told us that an Englishman had wished to buy these
pictures, but the Bishop had very properly refused to commit the
sacrilege of selling them.
The unclouded sun shone hotly above; there was a breeze, however, and
the landscape showed green and fresh. Sometimes our numerous party were
clamorous among one another, disputing how their pay should be shared;
when the confusion grew high, our old guide—sovereign over all in his
own conceit—cried, “_Silenzio! silenzio!_” in an authoritative voice,
and the stream of sound was, for a moment, checked. They were all
well-behaved towards us. We asked our good-natured sbirri, with their
harmless guns, whether there were any banditti now in Calabria? All,
they assured us, was safe and quiet; or if there was any disturbance,
they were sent, and order was restored—by what means I cannot guess,
except that the aspects of these men were peculiarly placid and
peaceful.
The descent was very precipitous, much of it being down flight after
flight of steep steps, cut in the rock. It was far too warm and
fatiguing to think of walking, and rather frightful to be carried down.
However, by turning the chair, and riding backwards, we got through it
without much alarm.
The Ponente had risen as we reached the beach. The sea sparkled fresh
and free. The boat was large and commodious. The master-boatman had a
great sense of his own respectability and that of his sons, and of the
excellence of his vessel. He spoke his own praises in a sonorous voice,
keeping time to his speech with the strokes of his oar:—“Sarete contenti
di me, Signori. Io sono un’ galant’ uomo: miei figli sono galant’
uomini: la mia barca è buona e bella. Tutti i Signori forestieri sono
contenti di me.”
As soon as we had made something of an offing, the sails were set, and
we changed our marinaro’s rhapsody of self-eulogy to some national airs
sung by his sons. Their voices were good, and our navigation was
prosperous and pleasant.
We were thoroughly tired out when we arrived at Salerno, which is less
picturesquely situated than Amalfi, the shore around being low. When
Amalfi was a great commercial sea-port, the medical school of Salerno
was famous for its knowledge of the healing art. The students went to
study in Arabia and Spain; and they returned to their native town to
dispense, among crowds of rich and noble patients, the treasures of
their skill. Salerno in those days was regarded as illustrious among the
cities of modern Italy—the women were beautiful, and the men were
honest; thus Gibbon transcribes the praise of William of Apulia—
“Urbs Latii non est hac delitiosor urbe:
Frugibus, arboribus, vinoque redundat; et unde
Non tibi poma, nuces, non pulchra palatia desunt
Non species muliebris abest probitasque virorum.”
But we saw less of the remnants of this magnificence than even of
Amalfi, for we arrived fatigued; and after a few hours’ repose and
dinner, we set out in a carriage homewards. We drove through a beautiful
valley towards Castelamare, between wooded hills. There is a very pretty
hotel at Cava, where travellers often remain several weeks. I should
prefer, however, the sea-shore at Amalfi. Castelamare is a busy town on
the beach, in the very depth of the bay. Numbers of villas are scattered
over the wooded sides of the mountains and through the shady valley.
There is a good railroad to Naples: the distance, rather more than
twenty miles, is performed in about an hour and a half. Castelamare is a
more fashionable resort than Sorrento. The villas are more numerous and
more elegant; the rides more diversified; the intercourse with the
capital easier. It is not so well suited for a short stay, for the
hotels are all in the midst of a noisy town; and the villas, which let
at a high price, can only be taken for the season—six, or at least, four
months. On the other hand, for excursions on the sea, Sorrento is very
far to be preferred. Castelamare, at the depth of the bay, affords only
a small lake-like basin for boating. To view the shores, or visit the
islands, east or west, you must first reach Sorrento or Naples. In the
former, you seem happily placed, as in a centre, to diverge at will in
excursions on the water. Sorrento is in every way cheaper and more
practicable for those who are not rich.
The road from Castelamare to Sorrento, about twenty miles, is excellent,
constructed on the edge of the cliffs overhanging the sea. As we
proceeded we gladly hailed our return to a familiar scene, and welcomed
various glimpses of views which we looked on as peculiarly our own. We
passed Vico—halfway—and then turning the shoulder of a headland, rattled
down towards the populous plain of Sorrento—with its many villages, its
orange gardens and sheltering hills—and reached our quiet hotel, where
we were gladly welcomed. The Cocumella has become a home—it is a joy to
return to our terrace, to breathe the fragrance of the orange-flowers—to
see the calm sea spread out at our feet, as we look over the bay to
Naples—while above us bends a sky—in whose pure depths ship-like clouds
glide—and the moon hangs luminous, a pendant sphere of silver fire.
-----
Footnote 1:
In preparing these letters for the press, I have consulted some papers
entitled “Sketches of Bohemia and the Sclavonian Provinces of the
Austrian Empire,” by Henry Reeve, Esq., published in the 18th and 19th
vols. of the Metropolitan Magazine. They are admirably written, and it
is greatly to be regretted that they do not proceed to a greater
length, and are lost in a Magazine.
Footnote 2:
Mr. Reeve.
Footnote 3:
Life of Wallenstein, by Colonel Mitchell.
Footnote 4:
Rogers’s “Italy.”
Footnote 5:
Mr. Reeve.
Footnote 6:
Paradise Regained.
Footnote 7:
Milton. Do these lines, in the “Paradise Lost,” refer in the poet’s
mind to his first view of Florence? It seems very probable.
Footnote 8:
Wordsworth.
Footnote 9:
Addison.
Footnote 10:
On this subject only Murray’s Hand-book seems to run faulty—a lower
price for _voiture_ travelling is always named than I have found it
possible to attain. It is easy to allege that we were imposed upon. It
may be so; but it was difficult to believe this in some instances,
where the bargain was made for us by friends, natives of the country.
In the Hand-book of Italy this is the more remarkable, and I can speak
with greater certainty. I do not know how it may be with a single man
taking his place,—one among many, as it may chance,—but for a party,
like ourselves, taking a whole carriage, the expense in proportion is
far higher than he mentions.
Footnote 11:
Alison’s History of Europe.
Footnote 12:
AD SIRMIONEM PENINSULAM
Peninsularum, Sirmio, insularumque
Ocelle, quascunque in liquentibus stagnis,
Marique vasto fert uterque Neptunus;
Quam te libenter, quamque lætus inviso,
Vix mî ipse credens Thyniam, atque Bithynos
Liquisse campos, et videre te in tuto.
O quid solutis est beatius curis
Cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino
Labore fessi venimus larem ad nostrum,
Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto?
Hoc est quod unum est pro laboribus tantis.
Salve, O venusta Sirmio, atque hero gaude;
Gaudete, vosque Lariæ lacus undæ:
Ridete quidquid est domi cachinnorum.
The above translation, from the verses of Catullus, is by Mr. Leigh
Hunt.
Footnote 13:
Rogers’s “Italy.”
Footnote 14:
De la Poésie Chrétienne.
Footnote 15:
I remember an instance of the sort of interference which occurred in
Tuscany, at the University of Pisa, during the mild and comparatively
liberal reign of Ferdinand. It is well known that during the Carnival
the people promenade in particular streets (in Pisa on the Lungo
l’Arno), the gentry in their carriages, and often masked. The students
at Pisa got up a masque of an elaborate kind, I think of heathen gods
and goddesses, or some such thing. The following Carnival, the
professors, wishing to turn this play to nobler uses, combined with
the students to get up a procession of masks personating all the
illustrious men of Italian history. Government considered this a
dangerous reminiscence of past glory, and forbade it.
Footnote 16:
All the aristocracy—or as they call it, the _famiglie tribunizie_ of
Venice, consider themselves descended from old Roman families of the
Equestrian order, and the names of several seem to attest the validity
of this pretension. Padua sent a colony to the island of Rivo Alto, or
Rialto, in 421; and the command for the building of the new city was
entrusted to Alberto Faliero, Tommaso Candiano, and Cenone Daulo, or
Dandolo. Hence it appears probable that the families of Faliero,
Candiano, and Dandolo are descended from the Roman patricians who were
present at the first building of the city of Rialto. In the ninth
century the seat of Venetian government was transferred from the
island of Rialto to Eraclea, and the independence of Venice was
established. Now, before and after that epoch it may be said Venice
was the only city in Europe, which from its foundation for fourteen
centuries never submitted to a foreign yoke; and it is said that the
old Venetian families have preserved in their lineaments the primitive
character of the race whence they sprung. Dr. Edwards having examined
carefully the portraits of the series of doges, and compared them with
the countenances of their actual descendants, comes to this
conclusion.
Footnote 17:
Shelley’s “Defence of Poetry.”
Footnote 18:
“What were the turkeys a pound?” asked our guide of some peasants
returning from the fair. “Seventeen quatrini,” was the reply. It
requires a complex sum to reduce this to English value. There are five
quatrini to a crazie—eight crazie in a panl—and a panl is about 5¼_d_;
in addition, the turkeys were bought alive with their feathers on, and
the Italian pound contains only twelve ounces. This was the market
price in the country. Every edible pays a duty on entering Florence.
Footnote 19:
“Paradise Regained.”
Footnote 20:
“The compunction of man’s heart—its aspirations towards God—the rapt
ecstacy—a foretaste of celestial beatitude—all that class of profound
and exalted emotions which no artist can represent without having
previously experienced them, formed, as it were, the mysterious circle
which the genius of Fra Angelico delighted to follow, and when ended,
he recommenced with renewed delight.”—_La Poésie Chrétienne._
Footnote 21:
“The Guide-Book of Florence,” by Fantozzi, is very complete, but it
wants an index of the names of the artists, with the numbers of the
pages in which they are mentioned, cited, to enable the amateur at
once to learn where to find their various works.
Footnote 22:
The eight which M. Rio mentions as having seen himself, and as forming
the glory of Raphael, as a painter of ideal and pure beauty, are—the
Virgin, of the Duke of Alba—purchased afterwards by Mr. Coswelt, and
brought to London.—The Virgin, known under the name of La Belle
Jardinière, now in the Louvre.—The Virgin of Palazzo Tempi, now at
Munich.—The Virgin of Canigiani, at Munich.—The two in the gallery of
Florence, which, for the lovers of this style, dim the glory of every
other picture—especially that named the Madonna of the Goldfinch.—Of
this M. Rio says, “It may be boldly affirmed that Christian art never
rose to a greater height.”—The Virgin of the Colonna Palace, now at
Berlin; that of the Palazzo Gregori; and the Madonna of Pescia, known
as the Madonna del Baldachino.
Footnote 23:
Rogers’s “Italy.”
Footnote 24:
The common prints taken from this picture are very unworthy of it;
they seem to substitute sensuality for sensibility, in the lines of
the countenance. Mr. Kirkup’s drawing, made for Lord Vernon, is
excellent. Unfortunately, in removing the whitewash or plaster, a
slight injury was done to the eye in the picture. The painter employed
by the Grand Duke has restored this; but Mr. Kirkup is indignant with
the restoration; and the print, taken from his drawing, exhibits the
blemish. I confess, that to me the restoration seems judicious. The
ball of the eye alone was injured; and as the colour of Dante’s eyes
was known from other pictures, the portrait has gained in expression,
and not lost in authenticity by its being repainted.
Footnote 25:
Colletta, Storia del Reame di Napoli, dal 1735, sino al 1825. Libro
vii. cap. 53.
Footnote 26:
A young aspirant was asked, during the progress of his initiation,
whether, if commanded by the society, he would put his own father to
death. He answered, “Yes.” He was taken to a room where, by some
contrivance it seemed to him that he saw his father sitting at a table
shading his eyes with his hand. A dagger was given him: “Your father
is a traitor to the sect,” he was told, “strike!” The weapon fell from
the youth’s hand; in an instant he was blind-folded—hurried away—set
free in some distant spot—rejected from the sect, as incapable of that
devotion to the cause which was demanded of its members.
Footnote 27:
The spots where the Carbonari assembled were called _Vendite_—or
Places for Sale—in accordance with the fiction of their being sellers
of charcoal. Thus, as we should write over a shop “Charcoal sold
here;” in Italian, the phrase is, “Vendita di Carbone.” Where there
was one Vendita, there could be no other within four miles;—if another
was established within these limits, a schism ensued, and every
endeavour was made to put it down.
Footnote 28:
Rogers’s “Italy.”
Footnote 29:
In the same manner his tragedy, lately published, “_Arnaldo da
Brescia_,” is a splendid protest against the temporal dominion of the
Pope and the abuse of the power of the church.
Footnote 30:
This work was first published at Palermo about two years ago, under
the title of “Un Periodo delle Istorie Siciliane del secolo 13^{mo}.”
The manuscript was of course submitted to the censor of the press, who
permitted its publication. It acquired universal reputation, and was
enthusiastically received in the kingdom of Naples. As soon as public
attention was excited, the police of that state grew suspicious and
fearful. The book was prohibited, the remaining copies were
sequestrated, and all notice of it in newspapers and periodical works,
which had already begun to praise the author and give an account of
his book, was forbidden. The persecution did not cease here;
influenced by some sinister, and, as is supposed, personal motive, Del
Carretto, director or minister of the police, gave orders that Amari
should be dismissed from an employment he held in a government office,
and sent to Naples. Signor Amari was warned in time, and convinced
that a long and severe imprisonment awaited him at the capital, he
preferred going into voluntary exile from his country, to falling into
the hands of a cruel enemy. Signor Amari is at present living in
Paris, where he published, about a year ago, a second edition of his
work, under the amended title of “Guerra del Vespro Siciliano,” with
corrections and additions. He is at present occupied in collecting
materials for the compilation of a history of Sicily, from the
occupation of the Saracens; for which, as he must consult Arabic
documents, he is studying with unwearied ardour; he thus adds another
proof that the Italians of the present day are capable of severe
application and learned research, in addition to the frequent gift of
remarkable talents.—1844.
Footnote 31:
Plato’s Ion. Shelley’s Essays.
Footnote 32:
M. Rio.
Footnote 33:
Maccabees, ii. 3.
Footnote 34:
Childe Harold, Canto IV.
Footnote 35:
Rome in the Nineteenth Century.
Footnote 36:
The want of conventual charities, whose funds, on the Reformation,
were greedily appropriated by the laity, forced Queen Elizabeth to
institute the Poor-Laws.
Footnote 37:
Arnaldo da Brescia.
Footnote 38:
“Ahi, la vedete;
Di porpora è vestita; oro, monili,
Gemme tutta l’ aggravano; le bianche
Vesti, delizia del primier marito,
Che or sta nel cielo, ella perdè nel fango.
Però di nomi e di blasfemi è piena,
E nella fronte sua scrisse; _Mistero_.
Ahi, la sua voce a consolar gli afflitti
Non s’ ode più; tutti minaccia, e crea
Con perenni anatèmi all’ alme incerte
Ineffabili pene; gl’ infelici,
Qui lo siam tutti, nel commun dolore
Correano ad abbracisarsi, e la crudele
Di Cristo in nome gli ha divisi; i padri
Inimica coi figli, e le consorti
Dai mariti disgiunge, e pon la guerra
Fra unanimi fratelli: è del Vangelo
Interprete crudel: l’ odio s’ impara
Nel libro dell’ amor.”
· · · · ·
——“il mondo ignora
S’ ella più d’ oro o più di sangue ha sete.
Perchè salì costei dalle profonde
Viscere della terra al Campidoglio?
Fu bella e grande nelle sue prigioni.”
_Niccolini; Arnaldo da Brescia._
Footnote 39:
“—— Nelle chiese—
I più astuti del clero a udir son posti,
Gli altrui peccati, e li sommesse, arcane
Parole mormorate ai proni orecchi
Sono alla nostra libertà fatali.
Perchè nuda e tremante al lor corpetto
Ogni alma è tratta dalle sue lattèbre,
E assoluto non è chi si confessa
Se gli altri non accusa.”
_Niccolini; Arnaldo da Brescia._
Footnote 40:
Mrs. Starke lived for some years at the Cocumella, at Sorrento. Her
account of the place and scenery around, is both accurate and well
written, and for this part of Italy she is an excellent guide. Mr.
Cooper, the author of “The Spy,” has written very agreeable
“Excursions in Italy,” the most interesting portion of which regards
Sorrento.
Footnote 41:
Rogers’s Italy.
Footnote 42:
Among modern historians Sismondi and Gibbon dwelt with pleasure on the
commerce and prosperity of Amalfi. It was an oasis where the mind of
the historian reposed, fatigued by barbarous wars and innumerable acts
of cruelty. Gibbon quotes the description given by Guglielmus Apulus—
“Nulla magis locuples argento, vestibus, oro,
Pontibus innumeris; hâc plurimus urbe moratur
Nauta maris cœlique vias aperire peritus.
Huc et Alexandri diversa feruntur ab urbe
Regis, et Antiochi. Quis hæc freta plurima transit.
His Arabes, Indi, Siculi nascuntur et Afri.
Hæc gens est totum prope nobilitata per orbem
Et mercando ferens, et amans mercata referre.”
Footnote 43:
Rogers’s Italy.
Footnote 44:
“Until that moment I was not fully sensible of the vast superiority of
the Italian landscapes over all others. Switzerland astonishes, and it
even often delights; but Italian nature wins upon you until you come
to love it as a friend. I can only liken the perfection of the scene
we gazed upon this evening to a feeling almost allied to transport; to
the manner in which we dwell upon the serene expression of a beloved
and lovely countenance. Other scenes have the tints, the hues, the
outlines, the proportions, the grandeur, and even the softness of
beauty; but these have the character that marks the existence of a
soul. The effect is to pour a flood of sensations on the mind, that
are distinct from the commoner feelings of wonder that are excited by
vastness and magnificence. The _refinement_ of Italian nature appears
to distinguish it as much from that of other countries, as the quality
distinguishes the scene of sentiment and intellect from the man of
mere interests. In sublimity of a certain sort—more especially in the
sublimity of desolation, Switzerland probably has no equal on earth;
and perhaps to this may be added a certain unearthly aspect which the
glaciers assume in particular conditions of the atmosphere; but these
Italian scenes rise to a sublimity of a different kinds, which, though
it does not awe, leaves behind it a tender sensation allied to that of
love. I can conceive even an ardent admirer of nature wearying in time
of the grandeur of the Alps; but I can scarce imagine one who could
ever tire of the witchery of Italy.”—C. F. Cooper; “Excursions in
Italy.” Vol. I.; Letter XIV.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page│Changed from │Changed to
4│and trading Alstadt, and crossed│and trading Altstadt, and
│the bridge which │crossed the bridge which
11│words; schmuzig, or dirty, │words; schmutzig, or dirty,
│applied to the sheet │applied to the sheet
23│I should liked to have stayed │I should have liked to have
│some days at │stayed some days at
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last
chapter.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
● The caret (^) serves as a superscript indicator, applicable to
individual characters (like 2^d) and even entire phrases (like
1^{st}).
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMBLES IN GERMANY AND ITALY IN 1840, 1842, AND 1843, VOL. 2 OF 2 ***
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.
